I wrote the following when my oldest grandson was five years old. That means I wrote this 15 years ago, and at that time, I only had two daughters-in-law.

“So, I was thinking about my daughters-in-law this morning and feeling very blessed to have two such wonderful girls married to my sons. I think about how much each girl is the perfect fit for my first two boys.

I hear lots of horrid mother-in-law/daughter-in-law stories, and they are just that—horrid. Two women loving the same man for different reasons.

I had a conversation with my five-year-old grandson, Jack, a few days ago as he was sitting at my kitchen counter, drawing volcanoes.

Jack: Amma, who do you love more—my daddy or granddaddy?

Me: Well, I love them the same, but the love is different. Your daddy is my son—my little boy all grown up. The love I have for him is a protective love. Your granddaddy is my husband, and the love I have for him is a chosen love.

Jack: Hmmmm.

He didn’t seem too impressed with my answer.

Me: You’ll understand what I mean one day when you get married and have children of your own.

Jack: Well, Amma, even when I get married, I’m going to love my mom more. I will. I just will.

Then he went back to drawing volcanoes.

His words reminded me of many conversations I had with my two boys long before they were married—back in the day when they were little guys. Yeah, they thought they would always love me more; they just would. They thought they’d always want to live with me, and they thought no girl could ever steal their hearts from me. That would be yuck.

But their perspectives changed. They learned it wasn’t yuck. Their hearts were turned—even stolen. That’s what we pray will happen in the lives of our boys.

We try, even in the middle of our sinfulness, to give our sons a model for choosing a good wife: one who will help and not hinder, one who will encourage and not discourage, one who will build and not tear down—one who will do him good all the days of his life.

Men forge manhood—but we, in our roles as wives and mothers, are the models for our sons’ future wives. We try to be what they will one day want in a wife.

If we are wise, we realize that we give them their first glimpse of womanhood. We realize that as they grow up under our tender mothering, they will one day need a tender mother for their children. We give them a picture of what to look for.

That is a sobering task.

I have often asked myself over the years if I would want my sons to choose someone like me. And I’m talking about character qualities of godliness. Would I want them to have the kind of wife that I have been for their dad?

I’m thankful for the goodness of God in bringing these girls to my sons’ attention. I’m glad my boys love these girls MORE and DIFFERENT. I am glad those girls stole my sons’ hearts. In their stealing, God gave these wonderful girls to me.

I am blessed beyond measure.

When I was young, I sometimes thought my mother favored my sister. I knew it wasn't really true but sometimes as children, we judge and see things from a childish mindset.  There are so many things you learn as you grow and mature, and especially as you walk with the Lord and let Him open your eyes to truth rather than perceived "truth."

My mother didn't make me feel less favored  – it was simply my skewed perception at times - in my immaturity...

Growing up, my sister obeyed easily. She saw jobs that needed to be done and she did them. She didn't talk back to our parents. She didn't have the same stubborn streak that I had. I looked up to her.

Because of the differences in our personalities, I now see that our parents related to us differently. And it wasn't favoritism. My sister and I had different temperaments. (As did our brothers.)

But with the two girls,  I was head strong. I had opinions.  I liked to write those opinions down especially if I couldn't share them out loud.  My sister was steady. She liked tasks. She listened.

I've come to realize that my parents valued both of our temperaments. They valued the pleasing personality of my lovely sister. But they also valued the stubborn streak I had. They did their best to shape me and mold me and help me - they worked hard to turn my stubbornness into steadfastness. I believe they succeeded.

I'm grateful for the discipline I received as a child, for the standards they helped me attain, and especially for all the times I spent alone in our living room - working out my stubbornness (as my dad often said).

There was a swivel rocker in that room. There was also a record player. When I was in there being separated from the family, my dad would let me listen to records. And I did. A lot.  I have vivid memories of sitting by the fireplace with my elbows resting on the round wooden coffee table. I loved it. Even though I couldn't be with the family during those alone times, I was ushered into a world of Elvis Presley singing hymns and Marty Robbins serenading ballads.

As I grew and we moved from that little farmhouse, I carried the love of record playing with me.  I would set the record player at night with lots of albums that would drop down and I would go to sleep being serenaded not only by Mary Robbins ballads and Elvis Presley hymns - but now the Osmond Brothers, Glen Campbell, the Carpenters, and John Denver. My sister and I shared a room and I don't ever remember her complaining about my music habit.

I think about these things sometimes - especially now that my both my mom and dad are gone.

After my dad died in 2014, my mom had a "bucket list" of sorts - she wanted to do a road trip and go to all of four of her children's homes over Christmas. She was 81 and fit as a fiddle.  And as far as her children were concerned, she had no favorites.  She was going to spend an equal amount of time with each of us.

Mine was her first stop - being south of her - my three siblings were all clustered in North Carolina.  When she arrived, it was such a lovely time with her.

That Christmas, she gave me a Crosley "old-fashioned" record player.  It was the last "tangible" Christmas gift she ever gave to me. When I opened my present from her and saw that record player, I flashed back to all those times this stubborn girl had to be alone in the living room of our little Timmonsville farmhouse, and I realized that my mom didn't favor any of us. She just related to us differently because we were different. I looked her in the eye and hugged her because I knew for certain that her love knew no bounds.  I also knew how much she knew me - an old-fashioned record player was the perfect last gift.  

My mom prayed for each of her children faithfully - I have come to know that so much more as my sister and I have had time cleaning out her house. We have seen her written prayers for us, her children, all over her house in different places.

I am forever grateful. So now I will pop on a vinyl record – sometimes Marty Robbins, sometimes Elvis Presley, and sometimes John Denver … and I think of her and my dad. And you know what?   I'm ushered right back into that little farmhouse living room room sitting at the coffee table learning lessons about taking my stubborn streak to the Lord and letting Him work it out. That same coffee table now sits in my living room along with the Crosley record player. On top of it rests a lovely old-fashioned black and white photo of Mama when she was young and one of Daddy when he was a boy - a reminder to me of their influence in my life.  I don't know if I'll always leave them there ... but for now, I like it.

Merry Christmas!

Jordan and Maureen Broggi are strong Christians who seemingly had the "perfect life" until they faced devastating tragedies. Watch their story to see how their view of God expanded in the midst of losing a child and health battles.

When my own sons became fathers, I began to see them in a new light.
 
I knew that in all probability, each of my sons would get married and have babies of their own.

When I was a young mom raising them, it seemed so far off into the future. But I am in that future now and have been for the last 18+ years - see, my oldest grandson is 18.

And now all four of my boys are daddies.

It's such a wonderful thing to see them caring for their wives – providing, protecting, defending, and now raising their own children
 
I spent a good part of my life raising daddies. I remember when these dads were little boys. I remember those days as if I am still living them. Partly because my boys trust me with their children and I get to spend time with my grandchildren. Every time I have them, it's like jumping into a time machine and traveling back into the '80s. My oldest son's little girls are little feminine replicas of their daddy. My second son’s children each have a different image of their daddy stamped into their being. There is no mistaking to whom each of these children belong.

And now with my youngest two boys having their first babies – I see them in their children as well. It's just such an overwhelming thing.
 
Yet, my memory of raising daddies is as crisp and clear as a beautiful fall day. My grandchildren just bring it into sharper focus - if that's possible.
 
I love how they remind me that I can never erase seasons of my life from my memory. I love how, when I look into their faces, oftentimes I feel as if I'm staring into the faces of my boys. It's like having time with my little robust warriors all over again - except the girls hold dolls and tufted kitties rather than sticks and random car parts. But the boys? It's ALL the same. They're boys. I love, too, how they show me that some seasons of life are so indelibly etched, it's very easy to remember and go back as if no time has passed at all.
 
As far as these grown-up daddies are concerned, I can still hear their little voices and see their little faces. And sometimes when I look into their faces today, I stare at the strong jawlines when they hold their newborns or read stories to their children. I study the broad shoulders on which their children sometimes rest or sit and obviously feel so safe and secure on daddy's shoulders.  I gaze at the big masculine hands they use to wipe a tear from a child's face and I am captured by these tall adult masculine men - yet, I also see the little boys they once were.
 
The little boys who were sometimes afraid and wandered into my room at night and climbed into our bed - on my side. I think about the "nighttime" pallet I kept tucked away, yet close enough, because they, plus the two of us, couldn't fit very well or very comfortably in our bed. My two oldest, when they were little, were always in competition as to who would wake up first during the night - because the one who wandered in first got the bed - the other one got the floor. I slept many nights during that short season of life with my arm dangling from the side of the mattress holding a little boy's hand.
 
It's so true, some memories are as crisp and clear as a beautiful fall day.
 
And sometimes when I hear their voices today, I listen intently to the deep sound that comes out. Wow. Where did those baritones come from? And I hear, "Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?"
 
I remember their little voices - the coos, the baby giggles - that grew into childhood squeals of rough boy-times and then of course, the I-sound-like-a-woman days. Oh the frustration in their voices when they answered the phone, "No ma'am, this is not Mrs. Broggi. But I'll get her for you." Indelibly etched. I always told them that "sounding like a woman" preceded "sounding like a man." I told them it was a good thing because it meant sounding like a man was coming soon – very soon. At the time, they didn't believe me.
 
Well now, they all sound like men. They act like men. They look like men. Real men. Not the sissy types. Not the wimpy types. Not the feminized kind. Not the womanizing types. Not the carousing types.  Not the domineering types. Not the lazy types. No, they are real men.
 
They are the kind of men who know and love God. The kind of men who know how to sweat and work hard. The kind of men who knew how to find and pursue good wives. The kind of men who would lay down their lives for their wives and now, their children.
 
The kind of men who also knew how to leave their mother and father and cleave to their wives. The kind who know how to provide for and protect their families.

So thankful God allowed me to raise daddies.
 
Daddies
by Edgar Guest

I would rather be the daddy
Of a romping, roguish crew,
Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie
And a little girl or two,
Than the monarch of a nation
In his high and lofty seat
Taking empty adoration
From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses
As at night to me they run,
Than to be the king who misses
All the simpler forms of fun.
When his dreary day is ending
He is dismally alone,
But when my sun is descending
There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming;
I must walk a quiet street,
But when once they see me coming
Then on joyous, flying feet
They come racing to me madly
And I catch them with a swing
And I say it proudly, gladly,
That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places,
You may boast of pomp and power,
Men may turn their eager faces
To the glory of an hour,
But give me the humble station
With its joys that long survive,
For the daddies of the nation
Are the happiest men alive.