I FOUND A FROG

Even though I’m now a grandparent, the memory still feels as fresh as yesterday. I can still see myself as that small, curious six-year-old coming home from school, tossing my backpack to the floor, and racing into my room — only to freeze in my tracks and shout:

“I found a frog on my bed!”

I remember my mother’s chuckle, the way she leaned casually in the doorway with a knowing smile, and simply said, “Surprised?”

At the time, I had no idea just how much magic was hiding in plain sight — or just how closely I’d been watching a miracle unfold in my very own bedroom.

It had all started earlier that spring.

One day, I was walking home from school when I passed by a little pond not far from our house. Something in the water caught my eye — tiny, wriggling black shapes darting just beneath the surface. I knelt down and stared for a long time. They looked like little black fish. I was fascinated.

At that age, I didn’t have any pets of my own, so I rushed home and asked my mother if I could keep a few of the little fish I had seen. To my delight, she didn’t say no. Instead, she sat down with me and talked about what it meant to care for a living creature — the responsibility, the patience, the attention it would require. When she saw that I was truly interested, she handed me a small bowl and said, “Go ahead and catch a few. I’ll get something ready while you're out.”

I ran all the way back to the pond, heart pounding with excitement. The little black “fish” were everywhere, and they were easy to catch. I filled the bowl, holding it carefully on the walk home as if I had caught treasure.

When I returned, my mother had cleaned up an old glass fishbowl and filled it with fresh water. It sat in the corner of my desk like a tiny aquarium waiting to be filled with life.

She looked into the bowl I had brought and smiled. “Tadpoles. Wow, you're in for a surprise.”

“Tadpoles?” I echoed. “What kind of fish are those?”

She laughed softly. “Not fish. Just watch them carefully.”

And so, I did.

Every day, I sat by my little tank and watched the tiny creatures wiggle and swim. At first, they all looked the same — little teardrops with tails. But then, after a couple of weeks, something changed.

“Mom!” I shouted one afternoon. “My fish are growing legs!”

She came into my room, looked into the bowl, smiled again, and said, “Keep watching.”

A few more weeks passed. Then more changes. Some of the tadpoles were growing front legs now. Their tails were shrinking. They looked less like fish and more like... something else.

“Mom!” I cried again. “They’re growing arms too — and their tails are almost gone!”

She peeked into the bowl again and nodded. “You're almost there. Keep watching.”

Finally, one morning, I woke up and couldn’t believe what I saw. My little “fish” — the black dots I had pulled from the pond weeks earlier — didn’t look like fish at all anymore. They had legs, no tails, and tiny mouths. Their bodies had changed completely.

They were frogs.

“Mom!” I yelled, probably loud enough for the neighbour's to hear. “My fish are frogs!”

That’s when she smiled and said the words I’d never forget: “You’ve just watched a miracle. Right before your eyes.”

Later that day, I came home from school to find one of the frogs had managed to leap out of the bowl — and landed right on my bed. That was the moment I shouted, “I found a frog on my bed!”

My mother just laughed and said, “Well, you’d better gather them all up and take them back to the pond. I don’t need 50 more frogs hopping around this house tomorrow morning.”

So, off I went — bowl in hand again, walking back to the same pond where it all began.

I remember standing by the water, releasing the tiny frogs one by one and watching them leap into their natural world. It was bittersweet, letting them go. But it was also magical — because I knew I had been a part of something special. Something real. I had witnessed transformation with my own eyes.

All these years later, that memory stays with me. Not just because I saw tadpoles turn into frogs — but because my mother let me discover it on my own. She didn’t spoil the surprise. She just guided me gently, letting nature be the teacher.

Now, when my grandchildren ask me questions about the world, I try to do the same. Because sometimes, the best lessons are the ones we watch unfold slowly — with wonder, patience, and the freedom to shout, “I found a frog!”