My father’s favorite animal is the frog. Which means that my favorite animal had to be the frog too. As a newborn, instead of being gifted a cuddly teddy bear, my dad gifted me a stuffed frog, which was aptly named “Froggy.” The first formative months of my life were spent with Froggy by my side.
Growing up, my dad insisted that we kept a whole menagerie of slimy pets in our home. We had frogs, turtles, fish, newts, tadpoles, salamanders, and any other mud-dwelling creature he could find. These animals were sequestered in our family room den, which came to resemble a pet store with its multitude of terrariums and aquariums lining the walls.
Of course, the frogs were my dad’s favorite. We had green tree frogs that clung to their terrarium glass with suction-cup toes. We had fire-bellied toads which had bright orange bellies that warned of their skin toxins. We had African clawed frogs which devoured their prey underwater. And then we had the occasional bullfrog that was captured during one of our summer camping trips, which was brought back to join the ranks of his watery brethren in our family den.
After grade school, I spent many afternoons with my crayons drawing lush, tropical greenery across a sheet of xerox paper. I’d then scotch tape my drawing to the back of a terrarium, hoping the captive frogs would enjoy the scenery, and perhaps reminisce about their real homes out in the wild.
Once a week, my dad would come home from the pet store with a bag of live crickets — aka frog food! Invariably, as my dad was dumping the bag of live crickets into the terrariums, one or two crickets would jump overboard and escape in their pursuit of freedom. “GIRLS!” my dad would yell, summoning me and my nimble sisters to dive after the escapee cricket. But most times the cricket was much faster, and many a night, we would all fall asleep to the unrelenting chirp of an unretrievable cricket, lost somewhere in the confines of our house.
For years, I begged my mom to get me a cat. Or a dog. Or even a guinea pig would do! Anything that I could touch and cuddle. “Please, please Mom!” I pleaded. But her allergies were a problem, and besides, who would take care of it? “Me! I’ll take care of it!” I tried to bargain with her, since I was sincerely the most responsible little girl she knew. In the days before the internet, I heard a rumor that poodle dogs did not shed and were therefore hypoallergenic. But my case for a furry pet fell on deaf ears, and I was left to make-do with my dad’s slimy creatures instead.
During my teenage years, my dad’s frog obsession began to hinder my already non-existent social life. “What’s that smell?!” my friend Jennifer once asked while sitting on the couch of our family room den, her nose crinkling. “Ohhh… that’s just our pets…” I replied as off-handedly as I could muster. The thing that most people don’t realize about having a menagerie of amphibians and reptiles is that changing their water frequently is a MUST, because it will STINK. And with ten terrariums piled in one room, you can only imagine how much the place stunk to high heavens.
But it wasn’t just the live frogs that invaded my childhood home, it was the inanimate ones as well. In our living room, there were double curio cabinets filled to the brim with frog knick-knacks. Worse yet, our landline telephone was a touch-tone phone with a plastic Kermit-the-Frog molded on top. When anyone called and we were not home, they were greeted by my dad’s voice stating, “This is Kermit-the-Frog and the Alvey’s are not home!” on our answering machine. Commence my teenage mortification.
Once in high school, I had a very important first date. My mom graciously invited him inside, and as I was rushing down the stairs, I saw him staring perplexed at our Christmas tree. It was covered from top to bottom in frog ornaments. My face turned beat red as my date laughed at the frog angel atop. It was then and there that I decided that the pestilence of frogs needed to stop. Once I went away to college, I could re-invent myself as a normal person without a weird, frog-obsessed family. Not surprisingly, the date did not end well.
For the majority of my adult life, I have been successful at keeping frogs out of my living space. I adopted a cat nearly sixteen years ago off of Craigs List, and she has been my devout cuddle buddy ever since. I’d much rather be a Crazy Cat Lady than a Frog Fanatic any day. Only when my dad comes over does the frog invasion begin anew, although temporarily. Since moving to Florida, my dad has replaced his entire wardrobe with flamboyant-colored frog shirts. Standing amongst all the Hawaiian shirt and Tommy Bahama-clad seniors down here, my dad appears only eccentric, rather than insane. When he was introduced to my fiancé’s father, Bill, for the first time, Bill remarked that, “Anyone who wears a Kermit-the-Frog watch is A-okay by me.” In retirement, frogs had metamorphosized into my dad’s entire wardrobe and into his entire personality. I am sure that in his next life, my dad will most certainly reincarnate as a frog.
It comes as no surprise then, that my fiancé and I began grooming my father a year and a half before our upcoming wedding. “Please Dad, no frogs at our wedding,” I implored repeatedly every time we went out to dinner. “But everyone loves my frog shirts!” he bemoaned.
A few months before our wedding, I took my dad on a special shopping trip to the Boca Raton Mall. Together we picked out the best suit we could find, the suit that he would walk me down the aisle in. My dad chose a navy Michael Kors suit jacket and pants with a trendy gray dress shirt. And we even bought a nice geometric tie, leather dress shoes, and navy dress socks. No frogs in sight, I sighed in relief, as I handed over my credit card to the cashier.
But my relief was short-lived, because on the day of our rehearsal dinner, my dad decided to march out with a neon rainbow, psychedelic-inspired shirt, covered in multi-colored frogs. His shirt was accompanied by a defiant smirk on his face that distinctly communicated to me, “No one can tell ME what to do!” My heart plummeted. The most important day of my life, and my dad was still bringing his damn frogs into the center of it. I walked over to him and politely tapped his shoulder, and stated that his casual shirt was not appropriate for our rehearsal and that he needed to change. My dad sulked away and quickly came back with a normal button-down shirt.
The next day — our wedding day — went off without a hitch. My dad looked handsome in his navy Michael Kors suit, no frogs in sight. But the next morning, he was back to his usual antics and had donned a different frog shirt for our morning-after brunch. And the following day he left our destination wedding in combat boots covered in a green frog pattern that he had ordered specifically for the event.
I never thought I’d have to go to war with my dad over frogs but apparently, I do. I guess there are worse things than having frogs at your I do’s. But I’ve kissed too many frogs in my life, and I just wanted to enjoy my wedding with my prince, sans frogs. Is that really too much to ask?
love, Lexy
