I was exalting in my nakedness. The house was still an appropriate temperature, the bathroom was full of morning sun. I entered the shower blissfully—and this is the part where if I were Dr. Suess, I would say something like “A frog on the wall? Shouldn’t be there at all!” But I’m not, so I just looked at it for a instant before turning on the water. The water hit the wall; the frog jumped onto my forehead. If I had been standing in the summer heat, his two-inch long body would have worked nicely as a cool pack. Instead, I decided a frog on my head shouldn’t be there at all.
I chased him around the shower, he hopped fast. I chased him faster; he knocked off the shampoo bottles. “This is not a rain forest!” I shouted at him; he jumped out of the shower. I chased him around the bathroom; he hopped faster. Puddles were all over the floor; he was hopping all over the walls. I caught him twice; he forced his lithe body out between my fingers.
I’m not good at catching things —I’m too afraid of hurting them. The third try I had him in an iron grip. He was released into the wild, both of us in our birthday suits. If I were Dr. Suess, I would conclude this beginning with something like “And that is how Tiresome Tuesday began.”
Now, if I were following along the lines of one of my son’s favorite Dr. Suess stories—Wacky Wednesday, only this is the Tiresome Tuesday version—there would still be a frog on the wall. There wasn’t, but with artistic license, let’s assume there was. One big fat tree frog, right in the middle of the kitchen, nearby where I was making French toast this morning.
What else might be amiss? How about a tot sitting on top of Big Dog’s face—yep, that actually happened—and both were tolerating it well. She was reading a book, held upside down, expounding on it with words of toddler nonsense. I sat down with a plate of warm food and that delicious foreign maple syrup, when I felt someone’s eyes on me. I then locked eyes with a huge grasshopper on the window. I broke eye contact swiftly, fearful of what other creatures may have come to call.
Turn the page.
In Dr. Suess’s story, things escalate quickly. And so, it seems, does real life. There were dishes outside, and dirt in the sink. There was the rustle of squirrels in the attic, instead of the trees. The rooster was roosting in his bed at lunchtime. It was ninety degrees outside in mid-October. The boy pooped his pants, and the tot made it to the toilet. The world had gone mad.
Turn the page.
I ran! I ran into Patrolman McGann! Alright, of course there is no Patrolman McGann. If you haven’t read the book, then consider yourself confused. I ran into Big Dog. His wet nose rubbed against my cheek as he sniffed me, maybe smelling my frog friend. His big, calm, gold eyes spoke. “Only twenty things more will be tiresome,” he said. “Just find them and go back to bed.”
And here we are. Bedtime. Big Dog was right.
But out on the porch I hear a frog croaking. It sounds like a taunt.