Ink brush and marker on 8.5" x 5.5" paper by Joe Chiappetta 2010
I drew this comic as a companion piece to a deep, yet hilarious essay that my wife just created. And for the record, my wife did not actually say what I wrote in the above comic. However, once you read her essay, you'll see how it all fits together. Please enjoy her talented writings below.
Opposites Attract: Even in a Lightning Storm
Essay by Denise Chiappetta
Many people like to ring in the new year with a bang. So do we.
My husband, Joe, loves the outdoors. So much so, that he, with the help of my 9 year old son, have built a "fort" out of fallen trees, branches and twigs in the forest preserve near our house. It really is a nice little shelter. Five trees kind of grew in a semicircle, and the guys used that as a foundation to weave branches in for walls and even have a roof over half of it. They built a fireplace out of scattered bricks found on the path and an old rusted metal something-or-other.
Today was Joe's last official day of vacation from work, and it was 50 degrees on this, the last day of December here in Chicago. Never mind the drizzle in the air. Sissies watch the weather channel. Veggie dogs and matches in hand, mud boots on, to the fort the guys were headed. What a nice idea. Father and son bonding in nature. That's great! Until... Joe looks at me and says, "Hun, why don't you come too. This is my last day of vacation and I'd really like to do something together as a family... all of us. It's so warm outside. This is the last nice day of the year. Literally. We'll start a fire and have lunch out there. I'll do the cooking (wink wink). Come on, Hun. It'll be great."
Now, I didn't really have a lot of other plans. Laundry. House cleaning. Return some phone calls. Run over to the Rec Dept. to sign my kids up for some programs. I want to be agreeable. I want to meld those family moments of togetherness around the hearth. Only, we don't have a fireplace in our house. Maybe going to the fort together is a do-able idea. It's the closest thing to a fireplace we have. The kids will have fun. Surely the drizzle will stop. I need to learn to be more optimistic in the new year. "Yes," I hear myself say. But I'm not stupid. "You and Luke go ahead and get the fire going and the food started. Anna and I will do a couple errands and meet ya there in time for lunch." Agreed.
Now, I won't bore you with the details of how 5 year old Anna and I had to walk along a narrow sidewalk next to a busy street, in the misty drizzle, while people stopped in their cars waiting for a train stared at us. I won't elaborate on my imagined fears of having a policeman pull up next to me, asking me if I was homeless, was this my daughter, and why was I taking her into the forest in the rain?? This is America after all, and we weren't doing anything illegal... right? Or picturing in my own mind's eye how I might react if I was one of the female motorists staring at us in pity. No, I held my head high, put a smile on my face, tried to see through my drizzled glasses and told Anna how great the hot dogs would taste as I hiked her over the guard rail and proceeded into the forest.
I had a "pretty" good idea where the fort was located. Anna handled it "pretty" well when her mud boot stayed stuck in the mud and her foot popped out and got slightly wet. It only took one "pretty" calm cell phone call to Dad to keep us from being "pretty" lost in the forest.
The fire is doing well as we arrive, which is a miracle, seeing as it's officially raining now. I'm practicing my "optimistic in the new year" approach to things and decide to focus on how happy my husband seems to be. He smiles over my way and says, "Hun, isn't this great?! I mean, this is the life! Isn't it beautiful? Look, I'm gonna go pee over there and then wash my hands with snow! Snow...formed into the shape of a piece of soap! Wow! For free. I love it!" Now, I'm not sure when the last time he was charged a sum of money to pee... but maybe he's talking about the water bill. I decide not to question his bliss. Nod and smile. He is pretty darn cute with the sparkly rain drops glistening on his head. My wild man. I can dig that.
Anna and I stay to the side of the fort with a "roof." It's not way too bad. We have big rocks to sit on. Our coats are puffy. She's got on her snow suit for protection. The fire is warm. She is eating mustard on her veggie dog and loving it. It's our sought-after cherished family moment.
I'm proud of myself. The sight of a mouse... (or is it a little rat?) nesting a foot away from my rock, and another darting around the other side of the fort doesn't intimidate me. If they're not in my house, they are kinda cute, I generously comment. The fort is their house, after all. I'm the intruder here. I'm really reveling in this girl scout moment when my veggie dog tumbles off my roasting stick and into the dirt. I pick it up and eat it. Without even attempting to wash it with snow!! Never one to refuse credit where credit is due (especially when it comes to myself), I say to my husband, "Look, aren't you proud of me? I'm eating my veggie dog with dirt on it. In the rain. And the snow. With the mice." He smiles and looks at me like I'm the most attractive thing on the planet... no, the universe. I'm suddenly Maid Marion to his Robin Hood. We are living a romantic life as outlaws in the forest, surrounded by our brood of followers. I knew there would be a pay off for all of this mess, I tell myself. He's happy. We're building family memories. You can't put a price on that.
Then the thunder starts. At first I think it's a plane. I take my hood down for a moment to listen more carefully. Luke optimistically comments, "That sounds like the Millennium Falcon landed in Berwyn." Joe, glowing, replies, "It's ok. Not a big deal." I feel my chest tighten. Is that pain starting on the side of my head a headache from the low barometer or a potential stress headache? I start mentally calculating how long that last veggie dog will take to cook. They're not meat after all. While we're roughing it, let's just eat that baby raw... that's my silent opinion. My coat suddenly feels wetter. "Ok, I'm about ready to get going," I chime in. Then comes the little lightning flash. "Yeah, let's go," Anna says. Never mind the impending storm. She's run out of food to eat. The whining can't be far behind. We pack it up and head out.
I find myself annoyed at Joe's slow walking pace over the bridge next to the street. He lovingly smiles back at the rest of us following behind in single file, "Look at those ducks swimming in the rain!" he comments. The kids are more resilient than I at this point. "Awesome! Cool!" they say excitedly. "Let's pick up the pace here, can we?" I impatiently reply. There's always one crabby tourist on the tour bus. Right now it's me. The rain comes down harder. My Alamo moment arrives. As we walk along the road, journeying to the parking lot (which seems even farther away than on the trip there, by the way) a car slows to a stop and pulls up next to us. A stop. On busy Cermak road. In the rain. That in itself is a rather dangerous and desperate move. I might do that for a wounded domesticated animal. Maybe. Probably not. The passenger door swings open and a woman thrusts an umbrella toward us. "Here ya go!" she generously says in pity. "No thanks," we reply. "Our car is parked right on up ahead. But thanks anyway," I say smiling. But on the inside, I'm not really smiling. I'm losing it. "Oh no, we are THOSE PEOPLE!!" I silently scream in my mind. "That poor family whose car died and can't afford a cab and have to walk home. Or who ran out of gas and have no friends or relatives to bring them more and have to schlep their kids to the gas station in the rain. Or those poor homeless victims of this awful economy who lost their home to foreclosure and now live in the forest in a flimsy tarp tent! I think I saw something like that on the news! Or, worse yet, those terrible parents who brought their kids out in the rain without a stinkin' umbrella!!" The cars whiz past and I'm certain I'm being judged as all of those things at 35 miles an hour. Why does this bother me so much? It doesn't bother my husband at all. He smiles and says, "Wow kids, wasn't that nice of that family in the car to offer us their umbrella?! God bless them."
I'm sure they will be blessed. I, however, was not feeling very blessed as I climbed in the car soaking wet, thinking how glad I was that the seats are leather and easy to clean up from mud. I start the car, glare at my husband and shaking my head, mutter, "Never again." Home is only 3 blocks away. I'm a model of efficiency upon entering the door, pulling off coats and snowsuits, barking out orders. Anna picks up my wedding ring off the bathroom counter as I ready her shower. It falls in the sink and starts on it's way down the drain. She catches it just in time. "Anna!! What are you thinking!!!" I yell at her. She howls her heart-felt hurt and scared feelings. She's hysterical. I'm hysterical on the inside, but silently brooding on the outside. Joe steps in and facilitates the shower. I go to the freezer and crack open a large package of dark chocolate I got as a Christmas present. The bedroom door gets closed as Mommy self medicates with chocolate that she isn't prepared to share while taking off her wet clothes.
So, I wonder, chomping on chocolate, what is my breaking point? The rain? The mice? The dirty dog? The umbrella? Why did I feel shamed by a family walk in the rain while my husband felt energized by it? What deep fears did that "family adventure" conjure up for me? Why did the imagined opinions of strangers feel so real and important? Can you put a price on family memories? At what point is it a healthy thing to sacrifice your comfort to see your spouse happy? At what point do you call it a day and head back to the car? Why do opposites attract? How can the things we love about someone also be the things that drive us nuts sometimes? How did I miss the fact that just because you take you're kids out in the drizzle without an umbrella doesn't mean that you're a bad mother? Maybe doing things in the spirit of adventure and memory building means you're a good mother... after all, what mother can control the weather? That's a little much to ask... even of mothers.
So, I wouldn't have changed today. Except for a few things... I would have prayed more. Especially on that bridge. I would have communicated better with my husband. He may be handsome with glistening rain drops on his head, but he can't read my mind. I would have concentrated on my kids' smiles more, and the rain drops less. I would have been more grateful that the wedding ring didn't go all the way down the drain. After all, what's the ring without a great relationship with the husband who gave it to me and the daughter who dropped it? I would have eaten less chocolate while thinking about all these things. But, I guess that's what "I'm sorry" is for. So... "I'm sorry God. I'm sorry family. I'm sorry thighs." Tonight I'll tip a glass to more family memory-making adventures in 2011.
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