The Frog Catcher

I really want to write a post about this past weekend of wonderfulness. But it's been one of those days where I was fried crispy by 10:00 AM. Between my just-back-from-the-jewelers watch deciding not to work regularly (it's French, apparently), the bag of bananas I bought yesterday at the grocery store disappearing into thin air, the hair that is limp and blah and needs a cut and foil immediately and the birthday present I forgot to buy last night at Target, I'm a mess.

Note: If I had an editor, that whole paragraph would be edited down to the last three words.

So while I attempt to right the ship-that-is-me, here's a journal entry I've been wanting to post. I wrote it last summer, when I was on a bit of a bloggy sabbatical.

Enjoy.


My son is a frog catcher.

He finds and catches amphibious creatures within five minutes of stepping out the back door. Often, it takes him only seconds to have a gnarled and chubby toad in his grasp. He’s very proud of his ability, although I think it comes to him quite naturally. He just sees them jump and immediately moves in for the grab.

Since this is mid-summer, and we live next to a lake, the frogs and toads are ripe for the picking. Our yard is filled with scores (maybe hundreds) of baby leapers, as well as their larger and more wart-covered parents. Connor almost always ends up with a prize these days when he goes outside.

And therein lies the problem. Baby frogs are often carried in one slightly closed fist. Larger toads are carried tightly squeezed in both hands. In either case, the toad ends up looking like one of those dolls whose eyeballs pop out when you squeeze them. And in at least one case, I saw the fruits of such vigorous love – a baby toad that fell to the ground with a thud when I finally convinced Connor that the frog would be happier outside.

I think rigor mortis had already set in.

Ladies and gentlemen, there are days when I feel like that frog.

I am held so tightly by my children. It’s a loving grasp, for sure. But it’s hard to breathe in there. And when night falls, I fall with a thud into my bed or my computer chair and wait for the Creator to breathe new life into this drained and dry body.

Don’t mistake me. I love my children, and being their mother is a gift beyond measure. It’s a mercy I never expected growing up, seeing as children weren’t on My Life Plan, and it’s one that I’m thankful for every day.

Still. That frog and I have a lot in common. Which is why I remind Connor (and even Natalie, when Connor shares a frog with her) to tread gently and remember that God loves small, slimy and warty creatures too.

Love 'em and watch 'em and hold 'em tight. Just make sure they get some air.