Contributor: Brent Rankin
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Our baby was born a…ah…I don’t know how to say this. Even now, I shutter when I think about it. When delivered, our baby was…a frog. A tadpole, actually, with the little green arms and legs just forming, and a tail to match. Huge bulbous eyes, both with convex lens like swimming goggles, filled with a clear fluid. Water, I think. A toad. When slapped on its bottom (where ever that was), it didn’t cry. It just went “ribit…ribit…” and licked its long slanted forehead with its elongated tongue.
I realized it was time to have a talk with the wife, but she was sedated. So I waited in the room where fathers’ wait. How am I going to explain this to the family? Who is even going to believe me? Where is my sedation? I’ll be put away. Locked in a room with padded walls, where the books have short words, large letters, and plenty of pictures. What was I to do?
The nurse sauntered in and announced that my wife was awake and wanted to see me. She made no mention of the amphibian in the cradle (an aquarium, really, on rockers) beside my wife’s bed.
When I entered the room, she could tell by the expression on my face that something was greatly amiss. I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the…baby…and stared at my wife. For a while, anyway.
She opened her eyes wider, smiled, and then said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
“It’s a frog,” I said.
“Oh, my little prince, of course he’s a frog. What did you think?” When there was an argument, I was called The Little Prince. Always The Little Prince, like the fake compliment would ease the tensions.
“I expected something more…human,” I said, “You know, pink and bald, ten fingers and toes. You know?”
“Oh,” she cooed, closing her eyes, “That’s right. You forgot.”
“Forgot? Forgot what?”
“When we first met, I was enchanted by you. Do you remember? You, sitting there, all proud and regal, wearing that cute tiny crown.”
I squinted, put my face closer to hers and said, “What are you talking about?”
“The pond was so very calm and the lily pads just floated on the water, gently, like cotton. “Kiss me’ you said.”
“I asked you to kiss me? By a pond?”
“Not by a pond, you where in a pond, sitting on a lily pad.”
“What?”
“You said that if I kissed you, you’d become a handsome prince and love me forever.”
“…what…?
“So I picked you up and gently kissed your mouth, because you didn’t have lips. And here you are.”
“You kissed me and you fell in love with me? Are you still doped up? What do you mean that I didn’t have any lips?”
She turned her head to the side and giggled into the pillow.
And then she said, “Silly Prince. Look at your son. Frogs don’t have lips.”
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It's true. One has to kiss a lot of nasty things, until you find the real one.
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Our baby was born a…ah…I don’t know how to say this. Even now, I shutter when I think about it. When delivered, our baby was…a frog. A tadpole, actually, with the little green arms and legs just forming, and a tail to match. Huge bulbous eyes, both with convex lens like swimming goggles, filled with a clear fluid. Water, I think. A toad. When slapped on its bottom (where ever that was), it didn’t cry. It just went “ribit…ribit…” and licked its long slanted forehead with its elongated tongue.
I realized it was time to have a talk with the wife, but she was sedated. So I waited in the room where fathers’ wait. How am I going to explain this to the family? Who is even going to believe me? Where is my sedation? I’ll be put away. Locked in a room with padded walls, where the books have short words, large letters, and plenty of pictures. What was I to do?
The nurse sauntered in and announced that my wife was awake and wanted to see me. She made no mention of the amphibian in the cradle (an aquarium, really, on rockers) beside my wife’s bed.
When I entered the room, she could tell by the expression on my face that something was greatly amiss. I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the…baby…and stared at my wife. For a while, anyway.
She opened her eyes wider, smiled, and then said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
“It’s a frog,” I said.
“Oh, my little prince, of course he’s a frog. What did you think?” When there was an argument, I was called The Little Prince. Always The Little Prince, like the fake compliment would ease the tensions.
“I expected something more…human,” I said, “You know, pink and bald, ten fingers and toes. You know?”
“Oh,” she cooed, closing her eyes, “That’s right. You forgot.”
“Forgot? Forgot what?”
“When we first met, I was enchanted by you. Do you remember? You, sitting there, all proud and regal, wearing that cute tiny crown.”
I squinted, put my face closer to hers and said, “What are you talking about?”
“The pond was so very calm and the lily pads just floated on the water, gently, like cotton. “Kiss me’ you said.”
“I asked you to kiss me? By a pond?”
“Not by a pond, you where in a pond, sitting on a lily pad.”
“What?”
“You said that if I kissed you, you’d become a handsome prince and love me forever.”
“…what…?
“So I picked you up and gently kissed your mouth, because you didn’t have lips. And here you are.”
“You kissed me and you fell in love with me? Are you still doped up? What do you mean that I didn’t have any lips?”
She turned her head to the side and giggled into the pillow.
And then she said, “Silly Prince. Look at your son. Frogs don’t have lips.”
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It's true. One has to kiss a lot of nasty things, until you find the real one.
Author:
Brent Rankin
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