The Ballad of Bobby Joe

I’m lucky (so, so lucky) to live on a small street full of children, all fairly close in age to my own kids. This is the first year that everyone on the street is old enough (and young enough) to play together, so most afternoons once school is out, you’ll find up to a dozen kids running through yards, riding on bikes, trikes and big wheels, blowing bubbles, and playing ball in our cul-de-sac.

This is a long-awaited, magical time for the parents on my street, and we’re all a bit giddy with the excitement of seeing our children live out the dream most of us had in the backs of our minds when we moved to the suburbs. For me, that dream is very personal- Growing up, I lived on a street much like the one I’m on now, and my adventures with my neighborhood friends are some of my favorite memories. And so while this new playtime scenario means I get pretty much nothing done from 2:30 on, I’m okay with that. I willingly abandon the laundry, the cleaning and the writing and instead keep watch over the kids from my front steps.

In exchange, I get the comfort of knowing my children are growing up doing what children do best- playing outside, using their imaginations, and communing with nature.

Nature, as it turns out, plays a big role in their outdoor activities. The lure of Spongebob and LEGO Star Wars just isn’t strong enough to override the appeal of snail hunting. Or caterpillar trapping. Or butterfly netting. Or acorn gathering. Or four-leaf clover seeking. Or bird watching, lizard gazing, squirrel chasing, and sewer cat hunting. (Yes, we have an elusive population of former house cats and their progeny who emerge every so often from our sewer to poop in our brush piles. Good times!)

But all of these things have absolutely nothing on frog catching. There must be a bumper frog crop this year, because the little hoppers seem to be everywhere– and the kids are loving it. That’s how I knew exactly what my daughter and a neighbor friend were looking at a few days ago, when I spotted them peering into a small outdoor trashcan and squealing with delight.

“Mommy!” my daughter shouted a few minutes later from our deck. “Sally and I found a frog! Come and see!”

A day or two later, my entire family was outside getting ready to leave when I spotted something strange on the street in front of our house, just behind my 17-year-old’s car. I walked over and looked at it more closely.

“Eww! I said, turning to my stepdaughter, who was standing across the lawn. “You ran over a frog!”

“I did?” she said in surprise.

I hope it wasn’t Bobby Joe,” I blurted, not thinking. Hearing me, Punky rushed over while I cringed. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Now there would be tears. And wailing. And gnashing of teeth. And, most likely, one of the things every parent dreads most: A PET FUNERAL.

I held my breath as Punky stood over the frog, hands on her hips, surveying the gruesome damage.

“It is him,” she said at last. She turned and looked at my stepdaughter. “Sister, you runned over Bobby Joe,” she announced loudly. Then she turned and ran to get into the car. My stepdaughter and I burst out laughing.

Since that time, Bobby Joe has become even more popular with the kids. He’s been “runned over” a few more times and now looks more like a dark silhouette of a frog, imprinted on the street. (But, as the six-year-old across the street noted gaily, you can still see his tongue sticking out. Awesome.)

Fortunately, none of our young neighbors have taken Bobby Joe’s untimely demise too hard. In fact, they’ve turned out to be an incredibly fickle bunch. Last night, a new visitor showed up and Bobby Joe was all but forgotten.