May 4, 2005 I became a Mother. When Chase Delaney Vachon was born I was 31 years old. My husband is five years younger than I am, he then was 26 years old. We had planned for her, had not planned for the difficult journey that pregnancy was and couldn’t have planned for the challenges that giving birth brought. She was born through chaos and somehow it was exactly the entrance into the world she would demand.
I have three younger siblings from my Father’s second marriage. Respectively they are 10, 12 and 16 years younger than I am – and have lived three hours away from me almost their entire lives. I wanted to note that though I am the oldest of four siblings I was raised an only child. I had cousins but we were all six months apart down the line until the last two, but really we were all babies together. My point being – I had not grown up around babies. I knew nothing about them other than I wanted one and then I had one.
I had some limited experience with toddlers by helping one of my very best friends with her son – whom I call my nephew. My Mother and I would watch him every other weekend starting when he was about one and a half for a year or two. He was the perfect child. He went to sleep without complaint, slept through the night and woke up singing happily. He rarely fussed if ever. He spoiled me for what I thought toddlers were. I took him everywhere with me and he just agreeably went. I loved every moment I spent with him.
Chase was not as agreeable.
My husband John-Marc is the oldest of three children, each five years apart. His Mother provided childcare in her home for many years. And kids are just naturally drawn to him. He is a big kid in a lot of respects, they know a good time when they see one. He knew more about babies than I did, and he was far more confident than I was. I think Chase could smell my fear of her, like they say dogs can. I failed the sniff test the first time I held her – I was terrified and she must have known it. John-Marc (JMV) was the pack leader right away.
JMV worked only a few blocks away from our home when Chase was younger; when I was on maternity leave I would be waiting, watching out the front window for him to come walking up the road – he would barely be in the door and I would hand her to him. “Take this”. He was usually able to calm her and soothe her when I could not.
I have spent many hours crying in the bathtub feeling like I was a complete failure at mothering. To this day it is either to my bed or to the bath that I retreat when Chase and I combust (as we frequently still do). John-Marc remains the calmer, and I will admit it, the better parent.
As Chase was born by cesarean and with complications we were in hospital for almost a full week. We came home on a Saturday, the following day being Mother’s Day. This week in May has become Mother’s Week for me. This is a blog in honour of my Mother’s Week. And for anyone else who feels like they weren’t the parents they thought – or hoped – they’d be.
Every single thing I thought I wouldn’t do I have done. Once when she was a baby and wouldn’t sleep, (she fought falling asleep and never slept for long) I held her up in front of me and cried “why won’t you sleep!?”. I did not shake her but I scared myself terribly. I saw in that moment how easily it happens. Bad people shake their babies, was I a bad person? I was inconsolable. My cousin Jennifer came and sat with me until I could pull myself together. I didn’t know myself anymore.
There were other things that happened and they exhausted all my self-esteem reserves. I did not feel worthy of being her Mother. I tried to do all the right things, and the wrong things were probably far fewer than my memory punishes me with. It has taken a number of years to let go of a lot of the guilt I carried about not enjoying those years, guilt no one put upon me, I picked it up and set it in my head all on my own.
There was, and is, of course joy and laughter and happiness. We have an extraordinary life. Chase and I are made of the same combustible temperaments. Every day of the last fifteen years has had a flare up of some kind, the flash point always changing. We cool as quickly as we ignite.
For all the noise we make it’s in the quiet of the night that I know we are always going to be ok. Ever since she was small, if she was scared by a bad dream or didn’t feel well it’s my side of the bed she comes to. “Mom!” startling me awake. It’s me she asks to look at a cut or bruise, it’s me she texts for advice when she has an upset stomach, it’s me who sits with her at 3:00 in the morning when she’s anxious. It took me a long time to realize that the failed version of Mom that I held in my head is not her version of me. The fire melds us.
Chase and John-Marc have a very special bond. They enjoy many of the same things. He is willing to go along with the things he doesn’t like. They sometimes can have whole conversations in front of me that I don’t understand. I have rarely envied their relationship, I love it too much. On occasion I have thought it’d be nice if I weren’t always the lamest person in the room by her estimation. A few less eye rolls maybe.
JMV is always demonstrative, he is a loving Father and he shows it. It takes work for me. Hugs and I love you’s weren’t something that came easily. I had to actively remind myself when Chase was little to hug and kiss and I love you. It’s become automatic but it took work. We are as much our volatility as we are hugs and I love you’s now.
Chase is fifteen years old this week. They were long years that went fast. I don’t miss those younger years, but when I look at pictures of her cherubic face my heart bursts. She has always been the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. For years she would stay over at her Meme and Pepe’s (JMV’s parents) on Saturday nights. It was almost a relief when we dropped her off – handing her untameable energy to someone else for awhile – but then without fail by what would be her (attempted) bedtime I’d be standing at the door of her empty bedroom missing her. Even now when she’s staying at a friends I pass by her room and pause wistfully. I’d rather she was home fighting with me where I know she’s safe over any fleeting peace a night out might give us.
Sitcom families would have you believe that all problems can be solved in twenty-two minutes as long as there is love and humour. It might take longer that that, but it really has been love and humour that has gotten us through the last fifteen years. I will not ever write a parenting advice blog but I’ve learned a few things. The most important thing has always been that every morning is a new start. No matter how badly I thought I failed the day before, I showed up to try again. No matter her “behaviour” the night before, consequences may have to be carried over but never resentments. She’s the kid, I’m the adult.
And though she is not yet grown she is already very much the adult she will be. Her values align very much with ours, but she did not just readily digest what we fed her, she’s chewed on it all for years and has her own ways of defending them. I am so proud of who she is it is almost painful – if that makes any sense. I still struggle with past regrets, I add new ones to the list routinely – yet still she seeks me out when she needs comforting. When she needs me I am there. I will be there.
I need her too.
Observations from the Front Line: 