The Frog

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"It can sometimes take a month for them to get used to their cage," Jack says, the new frog, neon green and shiny, an iridescent jewel, rests adjacent, nested in a giant 10 quart jar. Frogs.

Moored on a kitchen stool, Jack leans an elbow on the white countertop. He flip-flips through one of a thousand animal magazines, pauses, looks up, squints, recites animal facts as I drink down my nightly water.

"I guess that makes sense," I say, "if they come from a different part of the world."

"Yeah," he nods. Snagged by a burgeoning paragraph, he doesn't look up. "Hmm," he says, pauses, "This time," he cocks his head, "I want to get one that looks like the other gender."

"Yeah?" I say, "Since you don't know which gender you have now?"

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"Um-hm." Surfing a sea of animal facts, he pauses again, cresting a wave, me blurred to scenery.

"Hmm," I fill the space with the hum of listening to invisible details transferred from page to child. I drink my water, soft lamp light a circle around us.

"And," he suddenly says, his eyes orbs of intensity, "this time I want to pay for the frog myself."

"Yeah?" I say.

"I don't like feeling helpless 'cause everything is being provided for me," he says.

"Huh. Makes sense," I say. Freedom, a fruit at the top of the tree, he reaches up to pluck it off.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Wedged in the fraction of seconds between memories, I recall him waiting to help me from the car at church, the whole study group gathered for a meal. 

I keep meaning to bring a little bit, he had said. Yeah? I had frowned. I saw they have a little basket for people to help pay for the meal, he had said. I had nodded, blathered something unmemorable and felt a radiant circle of provision and safety encompass me.

Provision, sacrifice. 

Masculinity, he bears the mark.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Gratitude:

6580. Jack barbecues burgers for Craig and me. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this loyal courier from the swift completion of good cheer and kind service. 

6581. We share many consecutive nights hand sewing Christmas ornaments and enjoying the turning plot of an audiobook. The final count of ornaments breaks fifty. 

6582. The children plan a baking day complete with shopping list and baking itinerary.

6583. We begin to stagger the children's bedtimes. The older tier enjoys new found freedom and friendship. Pleasant conversation makes bedtime illusive.

6584. Jane reads an advent storybook to the littles. They pine for it each day.

6585. Craig takes me on a date.

6586. "I finally understand what people mean when they say church family," Jane says as we trundle in the house Sunday noon. "I always just thought that they didn't really have a very good family, but now I see it's different."

6586. Our maturing family moves like the chords of a hymn resounding through the Christmastide.