Vachon Imagined

The hammer and the feather.

Two entities cut from one cloth. From one life.

My husband often says I am the hammer with my son.

I am.

I am firm when he is unaccountable for what is moving through his mind and body. Standing in line at a restaurant, laughing, jumping around, his hands flying as though his arms have received independent instructions and forgotten to consult the rest of him.

This isn’t simply about reckless abandon. It is about recognizing when it is appropriate.

We are not in the kitchen, jamming out to Skillet, Metallica, or Michael Jackson, where he can dance like the stage manager has personally summoned him. We are in a restaurant. There are other people here. There are places where certain behaviors belong and places where they do not.

This is where the hammer matters.

There are moments when the hammer has to come down.

But the hammer is not the only instrument I carry.

There are moments when I am the feather, too.

Soft. Patient. Willing to float beside him rather than direct him. Willing to recognize that what looks like defiance may be overwhelm, excitement, confusion, or simply a body that has not yet learned how to regulate itself.

The wisdom is knowing which one the moment requires.

And just like my son, I am accountable for the hammer.

I am holding it.

It is not holding me.

That distinction is everything.

The hammer cannot become an extension of my anger. It cannot become the weapon I reach for because I am frustrated, embarrassed, tired, or need control.

I have to know why I am picking it up.

I have to know when to put it down.

That is self-discipline.

That is self-control.

Control is not having no force.

It is knowing that you have force and refusing to let it have you.

The hammer and the feather belong to the same hand.

One teaches boundaries.

The other teaches grace.

One says, This matters.

The other says, You are still safe.

And my job is not to become one or the other.

My job is to know when to be both.