F day at preschool

"F"-day at preschool required of Ian, our four-year-old, some demonstrable thing starting with the letter F. A fork was his initial idea, but we thought that too dangerous. Rather, we thought others would think it too dangerous, and did not want to be accused of poor judgment. Ian also wanted to take iron. This, we knew, was not a good idea. No one would understand (Fe) and everyone would think him a bit strange.

What would be the most appropriate thing a four-year-old boy could take to preschool starting with the letter F? When the question was phrased that way, the answer seemed obvious. A frog. And frogs were plentiful out at the pond. So Ian and I set off, down the path with his bug net and a glass jar in search of a frog.

The pond has frogs of many varieties. There are the bullfrogs, bigger than your fist, that sit quietly on the bank under the willows until you approach, and then screech and leap into the water with a splash. Unless you gig them (and we are too far north and west for that to be within our traditions), they are nearly impossible to catch, and won't fit through the top of an old mayonnaise jar very well anyway.

There are smaller green frogs too--about the size of a good sized piece of gravel. They have sharply pointed noses and, when it is hot (which it was not) cluster on the shore in piles of three to five frogs. I'd hoped to catch one of these. It would be the perfect size, easily visible, but not overwhelming. But these mid-sized frogs were apparently on sabbatical, leaving their much smaller brethren on guard.

These smaller frogs were the size of the fingernail on your little finger, assuming that you trim your fingernails with some regularity. I took Ian's net and quickly swooped in down over one of these brown bugs. Not quick enough. I tried again. Closer, but failure again. The third time I swung the net so fast and hard that it buried its rim in the mud. But there in the net was a frog. In transferring it from the net to the jar, it was inevitable that some of the mud went along. Ian, watching this all very intently, asked "Where's the frog?" I tried to point out the small brown frog on the clump of brown mud. "Can you catch another one? That isn't very big."

He was right, of course. Taking a jar of mud for F-day was not much better than taking iron. So I searched for another. This time my technique was more refined. I learned that the longer they are chased, the longer their reaction time. By making the frog jump three times (assuming I could keep sight of it) I was able to catch it before the fourth jump. "Two frogs" Ian yelled merrily. Was this a fluke, that I caught the second so easily? I had to find out.

Targeting another I quickly scared it three times then struck. Caught again. "Three frogs." This time with all out laughter. And then, sitting on a little stone sticking out from the top of the water sat two more. Wouldn't that be great, to catch two at once. I approached slowly, the hunting chant of "More frogs please, more frogs please" in the background. I struck. Two at once!

This prompted a new response. Catching five frogs, in Ian's view, called for song to celebrate the achievement: "Five brown frogs, jumping in a jar, Mr. Alligator can't catch more!" Where the "Mr. Alligator" came from, I don't know. But at this point I was convinced I could catch more. And I did. "Six brown frogs, jumping in a jar, Mr. Alligator can't catch more!"

* * *.

"Sixteen brown frogs, jumping in a jar, Mr. Alligator can't catch more!" It was getting dark. Mr. Alligator was getting tired of catching frogs. I looked in the jar. On its sides the small frogs were clinging. No one was going to think this was just a jar of mud.
If you want to be a popular four year old, here's the formula-bring a jar of sixteen little frogs to preschool. "It looks like a plague." The teacher said. Ian was beaming.