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.
