Mr. Frog

First of all, my sincerest apologies to my readers on not posting anything for a month and a half!!! This summer has been a whirlwind of crazy as I have been busy starting my own business and Bret has been working feverishly to finish the long-winded process of getting his license for work. That being said...

The summer has been awesome, wonderful, and fantastic. Maybe I'll get around to posting some pictures (or maybe I won't), but Elliott has had a summer full of Busch Gardens, hot and sweaty summer days, fireworks, swimming, music... the list goes on and on. AND, we're going on our first big vacation in a couple of weeks to JAMAICA. But this post isn't to talk about any of that. This post is about Mr. Frog.

If you know Elliott, then you know Mr. Frog and the important role he has in our lives. Mr. Frog is Elliott's best buddy, his lovey, pretty much his everything with the exception of Mom and Dad. Wherever Elliott goes, usually Mr. Frog is not far behind. Nicknamed "Frog," I am much more likely to know his whereabouts than, say, my car keys, wallet, sunglasses, or brain.

Friday evening we tuck Elliott in with his usual routine: stories, rocket ship blast off into the crib and an effusion of kisses. With giddiness, Bret and I come downstairs all excited about ice cream on the couch and a non-cartoon movie. About 20 minutes into the movie we hear a little voice through the monitor, "Need help. Dad, need help." I look at Bret and offer to check out the "situation," even though Elliott didn't really sound upset.

I trudge upstairs, open up the room, and there's Elliott laying in his bed. He looks up at me and says, "Gross," and holds his closed hand out to me. Now, on occassion, Elliott will blow out a massive boogie and hands it to me (hey, motherhood is not a sanitary job... don't judge). Assuming this is the "situation" warranting my immediate attention, I say, "Awww, honey, do you have a boogie?" and I go to grab it out from between Elliott fingers. Hmmm. That's kind of mushy. I bring it up closer to my face to get a better look in the night-lighted room, but it never makes it there, because I smell it. I'm holding a glob of poop. In my hands. Poop. HOLY S--T, I'M HOLDING POOP! IN MY BARE HANDS!

Ok, so I take a deep breath... well, not literally, because it stinks... and call to Bret for help. We get Elliott out of the crib, wash his hands multiple times, change his diaper, and inspect the crib.

So, you are now probably wondering why this is a story about Mr. Frog. Well, as I'm thanking my lucky stars that I didn't wait to see what was wrong with Elliott, because by some miracle, Elliott hadn't smeared poop all over his crib - I remember Frog. The frog my son loves to clasp in his little (recently poop-covered) hands and rub all over his face in a movement of comfort. I grab Frog, silently praying, and start sniffing him all over. Oh no, there, on his little green belly where I can so easily imagine my son's fingers grasping its middle, I smell poop. In a very brief moment, I shamefully consider giving the animal to Elliott any how, but quickly admit that even if this means Elliott not being able to sleep, I MUST WASH THE FROG, now one hour after Elliott's original tuck-in.

Preparing myself for the worst, I explain the situation to Elliott. He looks at me woefully, and says, "Nooooo, Frog!!!" Expecting the mother of all tantrums, I have Elliott pick out a couple of other stuffed animals and tuck him back into bed. Waiting for the wails, I close his door and hear it click. Silence.

That's right, my super trooper of a little man went to bed without Frog. I washed and dried Frog and before going to bed, slipped into Elliott's room to deposit Frog. There was my little man, with his blue bear tightly tucked under one arm, sleeping peacefully. I left Frog next to Elliott on the pillow.

Who knew we could survive without Mr Frog?

Well, at least until 2 am, when Elliott woke up wailing until he found Mr. Frog laying on his pillow, as if he had been there the whole time.