Fiddledeedee

As part of my nightly ritual, I check the front door to make sure that it’s secure. It’s not that I’m afraid anyone will break in, but rather that someone will break free.

Pity the fool that enters into this fray unaware.

I glanced out the front window by the front door. I never see anything significant, or even interesting, but still I look.

And there at the receiving end of the front porch from the gutter, lay a dead bloated frog, on its back, one arm draped across his throat.

If you’re new, you might note that I devote entire posts, and lo, even a whole category to my escapes with the amphibian population. Which continue to terrorize me, even in the throws of winter.

If you’re not new, I apologize. I’m doing it again. But I’m not going to torture you with photographic evidence this time. I’m sure you still haven’t recovered from the freeze dried frog entombed in the door of my van. And it’s still there. Btw.

I’ve had to stop taking pictures for two reasons. Because I do care about y’all and your well being. And my computer is set to show photographs when I haven’t touched it in awhile. And more than twice, pictures of frogs have appeared out of nowhere when I’m trying to enjoy something fried in nature.

And that’s just wrong.

I immediately alerted Fiddledaddy to the fact that there was a dead and grossly bloated frog on our front porch. Confident in the fact that he would extricate himself from the comfort of his bed, and go put it out of my misery.

Instead, “I’m sure a snake will eat it.”

I paused for a moment, trying hard to push that visual out of my head.

“Listen mister, we have 3 children that will go out the front door at some point tomorrow. And I am certain that at least one of them will either a) step on it, b) scream loud enough to wake the dead, or c) kiss it to see if that’s her prince at long last.

If you need the answer key, it is as follows:

a) Jensen
b) Cailey
c) Emme

“A snake will eat it.” And with that, he roller over and went to sleep.

Let the record show, that I didn’t sleep all that well, envisioning a fiery escape in the dark of the night, and what a large dead bloated frog might feel like squished between my toes.

At this point, you might be thinking that my meds should be altered. But alas, there are no meds. Which accounts for a few things. Just sayin’.

Even the resident snake was not desperate enough for a breakfast of dead bloated frog. And so there he lay, all day. The children all checked on the progress of his decomposition throughout the afternoon.

They gathered around him after an outing to pay respect. Cailey quietly said, “Look mom, how his hand is over his eyes. That’s so sad.” But I was too busy wringing my hands, and making sure that Jensen didn’t jump on him with both feet.

He has the same little boy compulsion around rain puddles. And ant piles.

The next day, Fiddledaddy left the house to retrieve something from his car. When he came back, I noticed the frog was removed from his almost final resting place. And was nowhere to be seen.

He maintains that the snake must have been famished. But I know the truth.

And I’ll let you all decide:

(Warning: if your gross out threshold is a tad low today, avert your eyes, my friends. Avert your eyes.)

A few weeks ago, I climbed into the passenger side of the van, and Fiddledaddy went around to take the steering wheel as we prepared for a family outing.

If a trip to Wal•Mart counts as a family outing.

I heard him exclaim that a frog had been smashed when someone last closed the driver’s side door. And it was still there. Intact.

“COOL!” Everyone jumped out to ogle pay their respects to the flattened frog.

Everyone except me, that is.

I don’t have to remind you how I feel about frogs. I don’t want to look at ‘em. Dead or alive.

No amount of begging would remove me from the passenger seat. I wasn’t looking. Out of sight. Out of mind.  I stared ahead, singing my happy song in my head, to drown out the descriptive conversation.

I asked my family to take pity on me and scrape it off so that I would NEVER have to see it.

Ingrates that they are, they refused.

And so the flat frog remained.

I’ve continued to chauffeur my children around God’s green earth. I’ve just chosen to avert my eyes every time I open the van door.

But then, I downloaded some pictures from my camera the other day.

Evidently, Fiddledaddy borrowed my camera.

Now do you see what I have to deal with here?

It’s just wrong, I tell you. Wrong.

Because I’m not one to just let a subject die, I thought I’d update you all on the Plague O’ Frogs that has settled upon our house.

Much to my horror.

The morning after I reported the great frog takeover (you remember, millions of little tiny frogs covering my garage and door) I settled down on my front room couch. To gaze thoughtfully out the window, while drinking a giant mug of coffee. Contemplating the day ahead.

It was then that I noticed the grass was moving.

Or I’d had 3 too many cups of coffee.

I looked closer. The grass and accompanying bushes were all alive with tiny frogs. Emme had joined me, and when she discovered the takeover, she clapped her hands with glee.

PETS, MOM! HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS OF PETS!

If you’ll recall, Emme is the daughter who mourned the loss of a frog named “Sticky Legs.” He was murdered a good year and a half ago. To this day, she professes how much she still misses him. May he rest in peace.

Fiddledaddy, the more adventurous of this parenting team, told her to go put on play clothes, and get a cup to catch frogs. To her hearts content.

I looked at him, “Are you INSANE?”

Ignoring me, he set about enabling his young daughter in her effort to catch a frog. Or four hundred.

Well. I washed my hands of the whole sordid mess. And sat stubbornly on my couch. Behind the safety of a closed window. Clutching yet another cup of coffee.

Until Fiddledaddy motioned for me to get the camera. “But, that would mean that I need to exit the door!” I yelled through the glass.

No one listened to me. As per usual.

Dutifully, I captured photographic evidence. Which I will now share with you.

Allrightythen.

Somehow, Fiddledaddy talked me into allowing 3 small frogs caged inside a baby food jar which would sit in the middle of the kitchen table for a few hours. For show and tell.

Which did wonders for my diet. I wanted nothing to do with food the entire time the frogs were in my house.

I may be on to a new weight loss secret.

Well. My frog problem may be on its way to being solved. The next morning, when I stumbled to my customary position on the front couch, this is what I saw.

I’ve never been so happy to see a snake before in my life. And people, he looked hungry. And like he had it in for the frog population.

Emme, however, fell down on the floor in a heap. “MY PETS! MY PETS!”

And so I wrapped my arms about her to give comfort.

Not really. I said something sensitive like, “Too bad. So sad.” And I laughed maniacally.  “And we’ll call him FANG,”  I snickered.

I then hid my satisfied smirk behind the giant mug of coffee.

Until Fiddledaddy reminded me that all those millions of little tiny frogs are going to grow into large bulbous toads.

At which time, you’ll be reading about my untimely demise in the morning newspaper. Unless, of course, I can find a hungry boa constrictor. To keep as an outdoor pet.

Which will only lead to more frog blog fodder. And so it goes. Just a warning.

No. No one is sick. I’m talking about a plague. Of epic proportions. As in, biblically. The real deal.

After we received 25” of rain in our area a couple of weeks ago, a number of you, commented, e-mailed and called to warn me of the coming plague.

The Frogs.

And a few of you were a little too gleeful. Not to name names, but I’m talking about YOU, Kelli And that’s just WRONG.

As you may recall, I’ve devoted many many posts and an entire category to dealings I’ve had with the amphibian population.

We had a tad more rain tonight. As we were driving home from AWANA (yes, I’m a Sparks leader again this year because my own children aren’t driving me to drink), Emme made an observation when passing a neighbor’s house.

“Gee mom, there sure are a lot of mosquitos on their door.”

“Yes, Emme, and don’t forget, mosquitos kill, so don’t dawdle when when we’re going in the house.”

I am a shining example of parenting perfection.

When we pulled into our driveway, I looked at our garage door. There were millions of mosquitos on our house as well. As my eyes adjusted to the porch light, and much to my horror, I saw that they were not mosquitos, BUT FROGS. Millions and millions of tiny frogs. I got out of the car, and inspected the front door.

This is what I saw. Not just tiny frogs, but large bulbous parent frogs as well. I heard a couple of popping sounds underneath my sneakers. The ground was carpeted in tiny frogs

I still haven’t had the nerve to look at the underneath side of my shoes.

There seemed to be no way into the house. Fiddledaddy, after hearing the screams from the driveway, (screams of fear from me and Cailey, screams of delight from Emme, and screams from a mommy frog who had just witnessed a youngster or two falling prey to a size 7 1/2 sneaker) opened the garage door so we could scurry inside.

Emme captured the frogs that made their way in with us. I forgot to ask her what she did with them.

I’ll be checking my bed very carefully. She and I have been at odds lately.

It’s just a good thing that Dominos delivers. I’m never leaving the house again. And it’s a shame, since preparations really should begin for the locusts that are sure to follow.

Last night, I was happily typing away on my computer. From the kitchen, Fiddledaddy nonchalantly says, “If you should ever be driving, and a large toad were to climb up your leg, you could remain calm and not freak out and crash killing yourself and all of our children, right?”

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, a little while ago when I was getting out of the van, there was a rather large toad, not the cute little tree frogs that you’re obsessed with, but a big warty TOAD, that was by the driver’s door. When I went to shoo him away with my foot, he may have jumped up into the van. And I can’t find him.”

One of two things may happen today, people.

A) You may be reading about me in the news.

B) We may be spending the day at the car dealership, looking for a replacement for the mommy mobile.

Okay, three things.

3) I’m never leaving the house again. You’ll be hearing much more from me.