Farm follies.

It’s August.  Already.  Summer’s been humming along, bringing with it sticky temperatures, pesky mosquitoes, and coyotes howling long into the night.  But then there’s ice cream cones, beach days, and sunsets. And frogs.

Frogs?

Yeah. Soo, the other night, we were having a perfectly lovely family summer evening. Dinner, then outside in the backyard to roam and try to catch frogs with our net and frog catcher container.  Saw a couple, caught none. Fine by me. Back inside, we had ice cream, danced to some music, and then it was bedtime.  Stories read, snuggles had, it was a great night.

Fast forward to 5:45 am the next morning.  Upon entering the shower, I notice G’s boat, docked serenely on the windowsill of the bathroom.  Inside the boat, like a tiny little amphibian passenger, is none other than a frog.  A real live frog.  Just sitting there, as if waiting for his maiden voyage to set sail.

Looking back, I kind of can’t believe how calmly I handled the whole thing.  I run out to grab the little plastic frog catcher that we had just had the night before, and slowly reenter the bathroom, hoping not to scare the little guy, because frankly, if he jumped out and hopped away, I can guarantee it wouldn’t be long before I freaked out.

Somehow I manage, without touching him, to get him into the plastic container, and set him on the windowsill.  I proceed to take my shower while staring at this miniature being, who’s staring right back at me, as if perplexed as to how he got inside the jar. Not nearly as perplexed as I am as to how he even got into the house, let alone all the way into the bathroom, let alone four feet high off the ground to sit in the boat on the windowsill. 

I can tell he’s panicking inside the jar.  Before anyone wonders or calls PETA on me, this a jar meant to catch things which means there are air vents.  He takes advantage by trying to wrap his spindly little legs around those openings (can I hear a collective ewwww?) and try to break free from his plastic prison.  No such luck.

Of course I take a picture of him in the jar because really, who is ever going to believe that this happened and while I wish I had taken one of him in the boat, my concern was too great for him hopping away.  The last thing I needed was for one of the cats to notice he was here and then there’d be a whole lotta of freaking out to be had.  How he managed to even skirt by them all night, I’ll always wonder.

While getting G dressed, I tell him with unabashed enthusiasm…guess what! Momma caught a FROG!

“Ribbit?” he says.  YES! A real frog. In your boat. In the bathroom.  He giggles with anticipation.  I don’t think he quite believes me.  Until we march downstairs and I proudly hold out the container and say See! There he is! This ugly, beige, beady-eyed creature has been waiting to say hello to you! (not really.)

Big mistake as now G proclaims, “MY frog! Mine mine.”  I convince him that I need to hold on to him because we DON’T want him escaping, do we? No.  We go show daddy, who, half asleep, nearly vaults off the bed when we shove the plastic jar in his face.  I believe the exact wording was “Get that thing out of my face!”

With time ticking away, I decide, well I can’t leave him in the jar.  I tell G that I don’t know how to take care of a frog and that maybe his mommy and his friends miss him...time to release him.  Important to teach him that we can catch things but also let them go, right? I think so.  And so I not so gracefully chuck the plastic container until Freddy (oh yeah, we named him) flew out and landed somewhere in the high grass, hopefully hopping his way to freedom.  Or else getting soon picked up by the many hunting birds that roam the sky.  But at least he didn’t perish on my watch.

Apparently, G then spent the day excitedly telling his buds at daycare all about the frog and the boat.  Sounds like a children's book.  Or a song.  Or maybe, it's just all part of livin' in the country.