frogmania

We have frogs, people. Lots and lots of frogs.

In the first weeks after our move, Evelyn spent hours and hours (and hours) watching tadpoles. Tadpoles in the creek, tadpoles in the river, tadpoles in the lake and even some frighteningly ginormous tadpoles in a tiny pond near Stowe. She loved them. She talked to them. She named them. And then, one day, they were all gone. No more little herds of black commas scuttling around the shallows of the lakes. We moved on to minnows and wildflowers and building rock towers.

My guess is that they went somewhere to hide from her prying fingers. They'd probably been scooped up in a jam jar one too many times. But they are back, and grown, and catching frogs has become part of the daily routine around here.

"Mom! You have to look at THIS one!"

Yesterday we spent a good two hours catching frogs, and then bugs to feed the frogs, and then letting the frogs go and catching more frogs. Armed with the net we made out of a mesh bag and a wire hanger to catch them and an old Cool Whip tub to hold them, they are as happy as clams (the kids, I'm not sure the frogs are super excited about the whole situation).

 This is what we wanted. Children knee deep in mud, catching frogs, and minnows and salamanders. Writing messages with sticks and rocks and smelling like river water and needing to be hosed down nightly, and sometimes twice a day. Sweaty, stinky, happy.