Death-wish Frog

This may feel like a re-run, because the frog has leapt onto the pages of this blog before, but I tell you what…

He outdid himself today.

The backstory:
Said froggy currently resides in a second-hand goldfish bowl in our kitchen. For more of his murky history, you can read this.

Jack and I were emptying the dishwasher while I chatted on the phone with my sister.

Earlier that day, I had cleaned the frog’s bowl and given him fresh new water to swim around in. The water was dangerously close to the top of the bowl, and the frog had even gone so far as to try to grab my shirtsleeve when I reached across the water’s surface. For more sensible moms that would have been a signal to empty some of the water, but not me. I just said, “Stop it, you freak!” and moved on, figuring I had showered the frog with enough attention for one day.

So…talking on the phone, emptying dishwasher…I told my sister jokingly that one day that frog will jump right out of its bowl. As the words came out of my mouth, the prophesy came true: right before my eyes, that slimy little critter came up out of the water, scootching across the counter top towards me. He slid right off the counter, plinkoed around in the top rack of the dishwasher amongst the clean cups and dropped to the bottom rack, ultimately landing in the very belly of the dishwasher. I sprang into crazy-mom-ninja action, shrieking into my poor sister’s ear and hopping around the kitchen. Jack vanished; who knew that kid could move so quickly?

The commotion brought the rest of the family running; I pointed at Will (the frog owner, ostensibly) and Justin and commanded them to retrieve the frog. Justin helpfully offered to shut the dishwasher and put it on the “pots and pans” cycle. Then he got a stadium cup to try to scoop the frog up, but the space was too tight.

There was only one way to get that frog out, and it was with your bare hands.

Justin, Will and I all simultaneously declared that we weren’t going to touch the frog.

Well, someone has to touch the frog.

So Justin removes the bottom rack of the dishwasher and I get down on my hands and knees and go in after that blankety-blank frog. I have it in my hands once and it wriggles free, but I grab it a second time and Justin offers the stadium cup as a frog depository. He pours the frog back into the bowl and then scoops out enough water to render the bowl an effective prison once more. Will, who has the phone now, gives my sister the play-by-play.

After the excitement, I ask Will if he really still wants that stupid frog. He shrugs; the only way he would care about the frog at this point in his life is if the frog put on a Braves jersey and started batting .317. And could scores us tickets behind home plate at Turner Field. Justin and I look at each other and contemplate assisting the frog in taking a long walk off a short pier, but what stops us is knowing that Jack (our resident St. Francis of Assissi)would be devastated if we offed the frog.

Plus if we throw the frog in the creek, it would probably grow to be eight feet long and hunt us down and eat us (except Jack, of course).

Best to keep him in the bowl.

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