The engine of my navy Honda Pilot roared as I pressed the accelerator to the floor, racing to get my preschooler to school on time. I panicked not because I was running late and would suffer the dreaded parental punishment of walking my child to the front office and requesting a late slip. No, not today. As I raced through the yellow light and pulled alongside the sidewalk winding its way to the front door of my son’s school, these words shattered through an overloaded mom’s brain:
“I FORGOT SHOW-N-TELL. NOOOO.”
Fear swept over me as I imagined my son being “that kid” standing in front of the class with no show-n-tell. Why can’t it be last year when my little tike was in the 2.5-year-old class and brought the SAME thing EVERY week? Nope. This year my son was in the big leagues where every show-n-tell item is marked and recorded on a big, red-gridded poster proudly displayed under the attendance board.
My brain scrambled, trying to remember what letter or number coordinated with the weekly show-n-tell. Something representing the letter “G” or the number “4.” No, no, that was last week. This week was definitely the letter “F” or the number “5”.
Then, like Einstein discovering the Theory of Relativity, my brain sparked to life imagining my son proudly standing in front of the classroom while the rest of the students oohed and aahed at his live, new pet—Freddy the Frog.
So, like any rational human being would do, I dropped my son off, told the teacher I would be back, and I went to the pet store and bought a frog. Perfect, right?
Well, almost.
As I stepped into the pet-smell-tinged store, I beelined to the aquarium section and told the nearest saleslady that I wanted that frog. She pulled him out and put him in a clear plastic bag with some water. Easy as pumpkin pie.
“Perfect! My son is going to LOVE this!” I sang to myself.
Next, she handed me the papers.
“What’s this?” I ignorantly queried.
“The Pet Release Form.” She says this in a way that implies I obviously should have known this 10 years ago. “Please sign and date, here, here and here.”
Ok, I am signing my life away for a frog. Whatever. It’s for my son.
“Feed the frog a cricket a day,” she added very matter-of-factly.
“What? A Cricket?” Gross.
“Yeah, and make sure it’s only one a day and alive. And, the crickets will need food too,” She answered with absolutely no empathetic undertone.
“What! I need to feed the food, food. That’s funny.” I chuckled to myself. Come on, that’s funny!
Clearly the saleslady didn’t appreciate my irony as she glared at me. “Get this lady some cricket food!”
Who was she talking to?
Another saleslady appeared around the corner carrying unappealing orange chunks in a clear jar.
“Uhh… okay,” I say apprehensively, as my arms were loaded with frog-friendly paraphernalia.
Twenty minutes after heroically entering the pet store, and $40 none-the-richer, I timidly walked out of the store with my new friend, Freddy the Frog and of course, his harem of crickets.
Things went great. When I picked up my son, I overheard his classmates telling their parents about the frog that was brought in for show-n-tell. Another boy climbed into his mother’s arms, inched his way toward her ear and whispered, “Can I have a frog too?”
Feeling like I won the “Mom of the Year Award,” my son, the frog, and I climbed into the car while discussing Freddy’s appearance in school that day.
I would tell you more of the story, but I have to go and think of a way to explain to my ever-so-practical husband that his impulsive wife bought a live, stinky frog that requires a daily feeding of live crickets. Oh, and did I mention that it’s a poisonous frog which requires gloves and full-body armor to clean the slimy guy’s cage?
Have a wonderful night my friends. I am going upstairs to select my preschooler’s color-coordinated, red outfit for tomorrow.
