When I consider having children I think about frogs

Creative Non-Fiction by Annastacia Stegall

When I consider having children I think about frogs.   

My grandmother stabbed a frog with a fork. That pretty much sums up all I know about her. That, and that her name was Vyla, her obituary had comments about how she was loved and will be missed, and that she ordered my mother from the grave not to attend her funeral. I don’t remember what she looks like. 

The only thing I vaguely remember is pulling up to her house one day, my mother saying stay in the car, her being gone for a short amount of time, and the stillness of the air when she came back. Similar to dawn in the Midwest before a summer thunderstorm, everything covered in humidity’s sweat—even the sky. 

There’s a story that my mother tells. One where her and my aunt are children who desperately want a pet, as most children do. At their age I wanted a dog, and there are photos of me opening the box with Scruffy inside—my five-year-old birthday present, a Brittney Spaniel. In the photos I am staring at the dog, soon to be best friend, with a smile that looks cut out of a Colgate ad—all teeth, slight tongue, no lip—and glued upon my face.  

My mother and my aunt, around that same age, found a frog and kept it—a secret in their closet that lived in a shoebox speckled with fork-sized-holes for breathing. I imagine them running in the field next to their trailer park, waiting for the hour between fireflies beginning to light and the streetlamps turning on, to hunt for a meal. Their little hands cupping above their heads with purpose. A lesson in providing. Of course, Vyla eventually found the frog, and when she did she sat the girls down and said something along the lines of I told you girls you couldn’t have a pet and let her hand guide the utensil down swiftly, prongs gouging the frog’s head. 

I start the story here simply because I don’t know where else to start. 

There are pictures of me kissing a frog being held by my mother’s hand, a thin gold bracelet braided around her wrist. Grandma Lola, my father’s mother, had been housing the frog in her bathtub. She called us over after bringing a plant home from the local grocery store to find a frog hopping out of its leaves once set inside--hurry, I think Ann will like this. I didn’t necessarily want its green skin to turn into a prince. But I did, in some way, want to become a princess and I, a tomboy, didn’t mind the dampness of a frog's skin, or that it might pee when cupped in hand. 

I have photos of me on the 4th of July, standing proudly in front of a line of tents at Diamond Lake near Montezuma in Iowa. Mother and I had just pulled a prank on my cousin, filling his tent with baby frogs for him to find when we lay down for the night. The day was hot and the sun was unforgiving as we swam and waited for fireworks. I was giddy all day, waiting for his scream. When he finally opened his tent flap, it revealed a graveyard full of fresh baked frog legs. The scream produced was different than expected, less satisfying, heavy with guilt. 

The word frog, as you’ll see with other words, conjures memory after memory. There is a page dedicated to frogs in one of the scrapbooks that my mother made. Me and my sister sitting on a frog statue among other photos, the lyrics of Frog Kissin’ by Chet Atkins strung throughout the background. Promising us a world of opportunities under each and every log. 

When I think about my mother I think about many things, but the main one is scrapbooks.

A scrapbook in many ways, operates how a memory would. This isn’t a new thought. E.W. Gurley in 1880 proclaimed that “we are all Scrap-books; and happy is he who has his pages systematized, whose clippings have been culled from sources of truth and purity, and who has them firmly Pasted into his Book” which is to say I have pasted and pasted with glue—stick, glitter, and hot, categorizing these memories into folders. Memories experienced. Memories passed down from generation to generation. 

Will I tell my own children about Vyla one day? Will it help them to understand? 

I often find myself thinking about how a frog must look when stabbed by a fork. If it would twitch at first—for a second looking so cartoonish you’d briefly chuckle to yourself and, as a child, think of the lobster caught between Chef Louis's fork prongs in The Little Mermaid II.

When my partner and I first started dating, there was a family reunion at Grandma Lola’s house. Near the end we stepped outside to grab a breath of fresh air; to pat ourselves on the back and say we made it and I hope we continue making it. Once outside we found a frog sitting on the middle of the backyard patio. We took this as an omen, another way to make the family love my partner, the new addition. 

We immediately ran inside to tell the kids and brought out Ava and Acey, a four and one-year-old. We were all standing and staring as the frog sat in stillness before choosing to leap towards Acey. Startled, he screamed with terror and began crying uncontrollably. This, I believe, is the shock of learning something new— just because you think something won’t (jump or stab) doesn't mean it actually won't (jump or stab). 

I’m sure if you looked closely, the fork glinted with this lesson as Vyla’s hand traveled down. 

Annastacia Stegall

Annastacia Stegall (she/her) is a poet and MFA graduate from Eastern Washington University. She currently serves as a lecturer at Gonzaga University, teaching English Composition. Her work has appeared in publications such as Peatsmoke, Querencia Press, #Ranger, Bifrost, and Expressions. Annastacia resides in the Inland Northwest with her feisty cat, Roscoe. Find her on Instagram at anna_stegall.