Feeling Froggy

One of the most mesmerizing wonders of nature is metamorphosis. I think it's because metamorphosis reminds us of miracles, and when we can recognize unbelievable change in our world, we can then connect with it in a personal way. This important practice starts early on, as early as preschool and kindergarten science lessons, when children are introduced to the tracking of the caterpillar as it morphs into a butterfly, the slow, reliable change of seasons, and the story of the awkward gray duckling that grows into a swan. Regardless of your age, you can't deny the attraction of such nature stories and the way they manage to restore your faith in transformation or simply remind you of events, places and people that have mirrored miraculous transformation. They’re magnetizing and universal stories—and if you need more information, there’s probably a U2 song about it.

At any rate, with this in mind, let us not forget the ugly brother of transformation: the frog. We are drawn to the frog on a fundamental level. Consider all the long-legged froggy idols that exist in your world or in your memory. Perhaps you have a stuffed animal (or five), like we do. Maybe you’ve got a green lawn buddy protecting your azalea bush, or a friendly mascot smiling from a bumper sticker on the back of your beat up Subaru, or a set of salt and pepper shakers given to you by your great aunt. Does your heart turn to mush when Kermit sings “Rainbow Connection?” (That's rhetorical.) And I, for one, still believe Frogger was the best game ever invented.

Yes, the evidence is all around us: we love frogs. We love them even though they're pretty goofy-looking, sort of icky and maybe even a tad(pole) creepy—like little lost dinosaurs trapped in the modern world. Do frogs lick their eyes? I don’t know the answer to that, but things that lick their own eyes always weird me out a bit, in a good way. Furthermore, it’s amazing that frogs are born of a gooey pile of eyeball-like eggs, then grow into furiously swimming puppy dog tails with eyes, and eventually become these murky-dwelling yet majestic things that seem to know the very deepest secrets of life. Plus, they eat flies—and that’s cool, too.

Weeks back, the three of us, in our six well-worn Target galoshes, waded through the shallow marshes and petite ponds of Maudslay in search of frogs, lily pads and all reptilian remnants we could uncover. We watched the victorious leaves of lily pads float atop unseen umbilical cord roots that secured them to land beneath the thick, green water. But there were no frogs lounging there. The water bugs hopped on the glassy surface of the pond with hardly a ripple. But, there were no bubble gum pink tongues to lasso them mid-skip like some awesome scene from Animal Planet. 

In fact, finding the frogs became a real life game of “Where’s Waldo?” They blended into the water and rocks so well, I found myself doing double and triple takes at the bumps on the logs, just to be sure. Finally, we found one arrow-shaped head peeking out of the water. Then, we found another only inches away … and another. They were as still as a country night, and honestly, quite beautiful. What we discovered is that you will not—you cannot—win a staring competition against one of these water-slicked rascals, even if you hold open your eye lids and pray for mercy. They will beat you every time.

“What did the frog order at McDonald’s?” Henry asked me. I knew the joke well because he’d told it many times since learning it at school during their frog unit this past spring. “I don’t know. What did the frog order?” Henry’s sweet yet mischievous grin spread across his face, ending in a dimple and giving the impression of an exclamation point, as he said, “French flies and a diet croak.”

Frogs are the bomb, alright, especially to a six-year-old boy. Next time I promised we’d catch one. Between now and then, both Henry and Sadie are entertaining themselves pretending to be green … hopping like frogs on all fours and shouting “RIBBIT!” Yeah, that’ll be us. Sigh. And now you know why.