Columnist James has to expose his (frog) buttocks for his son and wife.
My wife is in the kitchen with an empty bag of candy. There is steam from her ears and indignation from her eyes.
“Who ate the frogs?” she asks, swinging the empty container back and forth. Our son stands next to her. He too is angry.
I know exactly who ate the frogs. And when. I was in the mood for something sweet last night and then I saw the frogs in the cupboard. There were seven. I ate them all.
“I really wouldn’t know,” I say.
“Do not lie. I didn’t eat the frogs and neither did our son. Just admit it, James,” my wife chirps passionately.
“Maybe it was the cleaner. He loves sweets,” I say.
“Dad, lead by example. Just open your mouth. Maybe I can still smell the frogs.” I open my mouth wide and can hear our son sniffing. He’s a talented boy and I believe he can do anything, but he can’t do this. The frogs have been in my stomach for over twelve hours. My breath smells of coffee and of humus and of salmiak.
“And? Do I smell like frogs?” I ask.
“Not anymore, but you remain the prime suspect,” our son says.
“And the only suspect,” my wife adds.
I was the same way three weeks ago. Even then my lovely housemates managed to turn our kitchen into a court of law. That day it was a supermarket cake. Half a supermarket cake. One with the structure of a bulletin board and a soggy bottom.
“Who ate half that cake?” my wife asked.
I knew exactly who ate half the cake. And when. I was craving something sweet the night before and then I saw that half cake. He had been there for a while. One side was already dry.
With a knife I cut the cake into two thick slices. The slices were about as thick as our bread board. It wasn’t a nice cake, but I ate it anyway.
“Okay, I ate the frogs!” I confess.
“See! Why did you eat those frogs? Those frogs belonged to our son. And you are losing weight, right? You’re just kidding yourself,” my wife says.
“It was only seven. Seven little frogs”, I say.
“And all seven were not yours,” my wife says.
“Exactly, they were mine,” says our son.
“Are you serious? I am a man of forty-one. Almost forty-two. I have completed studies. I have written books. If I want to eat frogs, I eat frogs. This is my house too, you know? And love is all about giving, right? Don’t envy each other. If you eat something nice, I enjoy it too. That’s what love is. Being able to enjoy vicariously.”
The prosecutors look at each other. They are not impressed by my speech.
Ten minutes later I’m in the supermarket with a bag of frogs. It feels crazy just to settle for a bag of frogs. Men of almost forty-two do not go to the supermarket especially for one bag of frogs. So I also pay for a bag of tea lights.
The cashier looks at the two products I have deposited on the conveyor belt.
“I’ve never seen this combination, sir,” she laughs.
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“People who have a romantic evening ahead of them, get tea lights. Often in combination with a bottle of wine and some cheese.”
“Frogs are also quite romantic. Frogs can jump twenty times further than their own body length. People in love can do that too. But to be honest, I don’t have a romantic evening ahead of me. I ate my son’s frogs yesterday and that’s why I’m here before you with a new bag.”
“You shouldn’t do that, of course,” says the woman.
“I have completed studies and written books. I am an important man!” I mumble as I pin.
James Worthy (41) is a writer, journalist and columnist. He is married to Artie and father to James (8). For Libelle James writes columns in which love is central: for his parents, his family and life. Witty, sometimes heartbreaking, but above all honest and moving.