One day my dad brought home a large bucket of frogspawn that some man at work had given out of his pond. We did not have a pond. I remember looking into that bucket with only the excitement and wonder a bucket of slimy eggs can inspire the mind of a seven-year old boy.
“You see Boy, this bucket of slime will grow into frogs.”
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.
I watched that bucket like a hawk for weeks, noting each and every little change with growing excitement. It was more than just a scummy pail filled with slime: it was paradise.
My mum was less impressed with the spawn.
“This is going to go wrong. Something bad will happen.”
The men of the house ignored her. My father and I shared knowing winks and nudges whenever Mum brought up the fact that she hated the frogspawn; how we smirked at her distress! Silly Mum; why wouldn’t anyone not want a live frog colony growing by the back door?
When I saw my first tadpole swimming around in that bucket, I reached an emotional plateau hitherto unknown to myself.
I was flying, walking on air; my slime had mutated.
Soon I had two hundred or so tadpoles swimming around in my bucket: a swirling vortex of gungy slimy wonder. I watched them swim for hours- watching something growing from essentially nothing was wonderful. They were my babies and they were awesome.
Feeling that my children needed a little more room to continue grossing my mum out, me and Dad upgraded them from the bucket to the wheelbarrow. I think I may have actually cried from the happiness I imagined the tadpoles must’ve felt moving into their new home.
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