The Chicken Incident

It was in the early months of our marriage. The incident. Somewhere between month one and month four. I know this because we were only in that small apartment for a short time. The apartment was tiny. Really, really tiny. One bedroom–big enough for a bed and dresser. A sort of living room with enough space for our hand-me-down couch and a chair that may or may not have been in a dorm room? The kitchen was a few feet long and just wide enough that we could scoot by each other if we turned to the side.  In my mind it was a lovely place. Just the two of us and our cozy apartment on our own for the very first time. In reality, I’m sure I hated it and couldn’t wait to get out. Get to a place where I didn’t have to carry my dirty laundry outside and down a less than sturdy flight of stairs to be cleaned.

I have two vivid memories from those early months in that tiny apartment. In one memory I am sitting on the arm of our old hand-me-down couch wrapped in a towel and hair still wet from the shower and staring at our tiny t.v. screen. Chad was in the room, too. I watched as confused news reporters attempted to explain what had just happened in NYC. And then I watched in horror, as a second plane flew directly into the second building of the World Trade Center. The Kennedy assassination of our generation, we all remember where we were just after 9 a.m. on that September day, don’t we? The second memory from those early days is far less traumatic, but just as embedded in my memory. Let’s call it the Chicken Incident.

At the time I was ‘between jobs’. I had quit the corporate job that I had carried into the marriage and was in search of something more “soul fulfilling” (story of my life), which left me at home with too much time on my hands and too many thoughts in my head. Chad would be home from work early that day, so I wanted to do what was required of any jobless, devoted newlywed–have a good dinner on the table. That’s what the books told me anyway–make sure you look nice when he comes home in the evening, have dinner on the table, greet him with a smile, wear make-up. I could do that, right? Oh, and don’t forget to make sure the house is clean and you smell good. Easy-peasy.

Poor unsuspecting Chad walked in the door that day and had no idea what was about to hit him. As he stepped into the apartment, I greeted him with a casual hello, giving no indication that on this day I was trying to win the Perfect Wife Award. I had taken care to dress like I cared, but didn’t care too much. The apartment looked nice. I was pretty sure that I smelled good. All of this done, of course, without me trying. (Not really.) In the course of our conversation I mentioned to Chad that I had planned dinner for the night. I motioned over to the kitchen and told him that there was chicken marinating and would soon be ready to put on the grill. Now, the exact details of the next series of events are a little fuzzy. For example, I thought that I was making teriyaki chicken, but Chad insists that he likes teriyaki. This detail doesn’t really matter, though. When I told Chad what I was making he expressed gratitude, but also let me know that he wasn’t a big fan of the not-teriyaki-but-whatever-flavor-of-chicken I was making. But it’s fine, I’m sure he said in his usual, kind and genuine manner, I’ll eat anything.

That’s when it happened. When the bomb went off. When his kind, sweet-smelling, nicely, but not too nicely, dressed wife turned into a two-year old, tantrum throwing child. I honestly can’t remember exactly how I responded to him. I can’t remember the words–although I know they were loud. I only remember the tears. And I remember the way I picked up the bowl containing the chicken marinating in the not-teriyaki-but-whatever-flavor-of-chicken I was making and tossed it into the trash. (Good thing we were loaded and could afford all the meat we wanted, you know, freshly graduated from college, one of us jobless, the other of us working in ministry.) I remember the way he stared at me in shock, speechless at how the blushing bride he’d married just months before could become a raging child faster than he could form a sentence. Suddenly our tiny apartment felt like a single dollhouse room. The walls closed in. I remember yelling something, more tears, and walking out the door, leaving my good natured husband as tossed aside as the chicken that lay in the bottom of the trash can.

Ah, young love. Ain’t it great? Lucky man, that husband of mine.

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I text Chad this morning to ask what kind of chicken I had (almost) made that day. He called me and asked what I was talking about. As I recalled the story of that random event over the phone, he informed me that he has zero recollection of the event. Not a trace. God bless that man. Perhaps that’s the key to the happy life we have? He forgets. I laugh.

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Chad and I recently took a (free) Enneagram test. Well, I took the test four times, willing my results to change. When I finally got the same result for the fourth time, I cried. I don’t want to be a three, I said to Chad as I unsuccessfully fought the lump in my throat. Chad told me that he heard to just read the descriptions and whichever one makes you want to throw a book against the wall–that’s the one you are. So, yeah, I’m a three. Chad is a nine. I didn’t need a test to tell me that Chad is a nine. He’s a peacemaker, easygoing, reassuring, stable–Chad defines the nine–the nine defines Chad. The nine is everything I want to be. The nine is everything that I love about Chad. The nine, in my opinion, is all the best that is in the world.

As Chad and I have mused about our results, it’s been like holding a very clean, well-lit mirror up to ourselves and up to each other. Like pausing in front of the mirror and seeing, really seeing what is staring back at you. Our test results have given us an opportunity not to rush by ourselves or each other but to look closely, and see clearly what is staring back. We’ve been married for almost 17 years now. We’ve been together for almost 20. There are no real surprises in our results. For the most part, the test has simply given us language to understand each other and our motivations. A glimpse into the heart. The insides. The why’s. The how’s.

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Chad drove into the driveway on Saturday morning and I greeted him as he emerged from his truck. With tears in my eye, I shamefully admitted that I had taken the Enneagram for the fourth time, hoping I would get a different result. I’m a three, I told him. I don’t want to admit it, but I am. He laughed at me, as he typically does when I over-react about something (daily) and pulled up the description of a three. He stood across from me for a few moments and held a mirror up to me. He talked about the good qualities of the three. He pointed out how some of my past (bad) habits have changed through the years. He pointed out that my three was perfect for his nine. In moments he calmed me down, showed me the bright side, shined a light on the good. (God knew I needed a nine.)

We all know that there are no perfect marriages. An impossibility when marriages are made up of two imperfect and flawed people. Still, the years I’ve spent with my “Nine” have taught me so much. Seventeen years of pushing and pulling, giving and taking, of working it out and untangling the mess of trashcan chicken and unspoken expectations have resulted in a deep understanding of one anther that has served to help each of us grow. While I’m pushing and striving and searching for more, more, more, he can grab my hand and point out, Look at what is here, right in front of you. And when he is sitting down, settling in, and ready to call it a night, I can pull him up and say, Come on, there are stars to see outside.

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And maybe it’s that simple? Holding a mirror up to each other and seeing, really seeing, the best in each other. And, perhaps, forgiving the occasional Chicken Incident.

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