Petting the Frog

It’s an odd relationship that Husband Jack and I have established, maintained, and somehow sustained over 25 years: he the practical, micromanager; me, the sarcastic, authority-challenging rebel. These dynamics have become especially exaggerated since I lost my job, but petting the frog serves as a metaphor for our entire relationship:

Jack built a beautiful waterfall in our backyard. Every stone, boulder, fern, and plant attests to his skilled attention to detail. I am sometimes his project critic, but most often his cheerleader. The falls run year round, occasionally partially freezing into a magnificent living sculpture. Every spring, Jack meticulously cleans the pond part of the waterfall of debris and muck that collected during the winter.

This spring as he is doing so, he digs out a massive frog hibernating in the mud at the bottom of the pond. “Is he alright?” I ask. “He’s fine,” he states and places the inert frog on a stone next to the pond. Jack’s hands are covered with black muddy goo from removing the frog and he’s headed toward the spigot to wash.

“Don’t pet the frog!” he tells me forcefully.

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Don’t pet the frog!” he repeats. “I don’t want to have to dig him out again.”

“Okay, I’m just looking at him.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, commandant. I’ve got the idea! Geez!”

He walks away. I watch as Jack disappears from view. A voice tells me to pet the frog; pet the frog. Do it! Pet that damn frog if you want to. He’s not the boss of you! PET THE FROG!!”

I take one more glance Jack’s way, reach out, and pet the frog.

The seemingly lifeless frog jumps about a foot in the air and plops deeply into the glop at the bottom of the pond.

Jack returns. “Where’s the frog?”

“He jumped back in.” I point to his whereabouts.

“Damn it! Did you pet the frog?!”

“No, I didn’t.” I lie.

I watch from the kitchen window as Jack digs into the pond and once again removes the frog from the muck, cleans the pond and sends the frog on its merry way.

Jack walks back into the kitchen. Filled with Irish guilt, I say, “Jack, I did pet the frog!” Then I crack up laughing.

“I KNEW IT!” he yells triumphant, then goes to take a shower.

I enjoyed that.