Story by Livia Tredway
Collaborative editing by Livia & Rebecca Tredway

Long ago when frogs were magic there lived a frog named Alex. He lived in a puddle and if you caught him he would grant you three wishes. Now our story begins.

One rainy day there was a little girl named Melissa who loved splashing in puddles. She found a really big puddle and wanted to splash in it. A strange croaky voice called out, “You may not jump in this puddle, little one, for it is magic and it is my home.”

Alex the Frog hopped out of the puddle. Melissa, surprised, asked curiously, “What are you doing in this shallow puddle?”

Alex said, “I’m not a normal frog for I can talk and I am magic. This puddle is magic, too. That is why it’s my home. My name is Alex.”

Melissa said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Alex. I did not know that it was your home. I thought it was a normal puddle.”

Alex was indignant. “Why I never! This is a very SPECIAL puddle and if you catch me I’ll grant you three wishes.”

Melissa said, “That would be nice!” She bent down and gently scooped up the frog.

“Now I shall grant you three wishes,” said Alex the Frog.

“Let me think,” Melissa murmured to herself. And then out loud she said, “I wish that you could be my best friend. I have always wanted to be friends with a frog!”

“Wish granted,” Alex croaked.

Melissa smiled sweetly and exclaimed, “Yay! Now I have a new friend!” She tenderly patted him on the head.

Alex sadly croaked, “I never had a friend before. Melissa, can you teach me how to be a friend?”

“Sure, poor Alex! Well, I guess I’m your first friend!” And they both laughed and played together for a while.

Then Alex paused and said, “It’s time for me to grant your second wish.”

Melissa realized she liked having a frog friend but wanted him to stay with her in her own home. “I wish you could be with me forever,” she said.

“Wish gladly granted!” And then Alex asked, “Where am I going to stay?”

Melissa laughed, “Come with me, silly.” Alex hopped onto her curly red hair and curiously croaked, “Where are we going, little one?”

“To my home,” she replied happily.

At home, Melissa prepared a cozy bowl with a little bed for her frog friend Alex.

He said, “No one has ever been this nice to me before. They just thought I was a gross and disgusting slimy frog.”

She patted him gently on the head and said, “I like having a frog for a friend.”

“That’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me,” Alex croaked happily.

“Well, you are my best friend and I love you,” Melissa said.

Then Alex pointed out, “If you want me to grant your third wish I can now.” But she said, “No, I don’t need anymore wishes. My wish is right here with me.”

Alex thought to himself that Melissa was the sweetest girl in the world.

Melissa told him, “Our friendship is my most treasured possession!” She swooped down and kissed him right on the lips. Alex blushed a little and then they both laughed.

This is the story of the frog and the girl who loved him.

The end.

I took Shiloh, our 6 year old Coton de Tulear, to visit his veterinarian the other day. Since we’ve been fostering, I haven’t been on top of many smallish matters of life, so Shiloh was a bit late on his vaccinations. On the phone the receptionist told me to bring in a stool sample. O-kay. All day long I stayed glued to the bathroom activities of the dog—super fun, let me tell you—and finally at dusk his little dog body hunched in that familiar pose. I ran for a plastic baggy and when I came back? He was eagerly waiting at the door to be let in.

Have you ever seen a person act oddly in their yard or out on the street? You wonder what in the world they could be doing? Well, that was me that evening. Not only was the sun well on its way past the horizon but the yard was covered in small patches of snow, thus turning this experience into a real life Where’s Waldo with dog poop. I like to imagine the neighbors saying, “Honey, come see this! What in the world do you think she’s doing??” Because there I was, iPhone held high like a torch shining down on the ground with its capable flashlight app, making circles in the yard. I couldn’t have had more intensity in my pursuit if I had dropped my engagement ring. And you know what? I was successful. I WON! I won the, um, stool sample award? Yeah. Who’s keeping tabs on my awesomeness?

So yesterday was another moment like this one, except more gratifying because there was an end product and less humiliating because it didn’t involve poop. As many of you know I frequently collaborate with Maralee Bradley on columns both for her blog and for Her View from Home. Sometimes Maralee will come to me with a specific need, but more often it involves general ideas and I get to figure out what it is we’re looking for in terms of art. (My favorite example of this was when Maralee and I both received new foster children in a matter of days. She literally ran into my house and mumbled something like, “Now Hulk likes them, now Hulk doesn’t” and that was it. Somehow we made it work and it was one of my favorite shoots because I got to play with toys like a kid.)

I knew Maralee was looking for images of plants pushing their way through snow as they come up in the spring. After searching my archives and coming up with nothing, I went exploring. In the snow. And the wind. In the snowy wind. Snow rarely ever delicately floats to the ground in Nebraska; it usually comes down in a sideways driving-rain kind of maneuver, only it was driving frozen bits flying into my eyeballs. So again, were the neighbors wondering what in the world was going on with Mrs. Tredway yesterday? Kneeling on a plastic Trader Joe’s tote bag, I dug through the dirt and dried hosta leaves and found green gold. There it was: Spring making its way through Winter. Spring! It’s coming. Doesn’t matter that we were having a mini-blizzard on the last day of February or that snow is frozen in large patches on the sunken part of our front yard. Doesn’t matter that we’re still donning hats and mittens to run errands or that my snow boots are encrusted in salt from so many days of winter wear. Spring is coming.

I should’ve gotten on my hands and knees earlier. No matter what the neighbors might say.

I came around the corner and had to laugh out loud at the sight. My recently-made bed had a big bump in it. A throw pillow was knocked into a different position, but it was the crazy bedhead sticking out from the duvet that revealed the culprit. My ten year old, in my cozy bed, happy as a clam.

Later in the morning while bemoaning the way items were thrown all about the house as normal household items often are—dishes on the counter and dining room table, socks left on the living room couch and hair accessories on my office desk—I felt mounting frustration at the way playing pick-up is never truly completed. I recalled being so diligent this morning at getting up and making my bed because, really, I love a well-made bed. Everything else can be in chaos but if my bed is made I feel like I have a shot at finding some measure of control in my day. That is, until Liv climbed right in there and made herself at home. I later returned to the room and found, interestingly enough, an Adobe Photoshop manual open and face down (as though it was halfway read that morning), a magazine rack pulled out, my bedside drawer wide open (and rifled through) and a flashlight twisted into two pieces, sans batteries, right under the covers. Well, at least she had a good time in there. I hope she also enjoyed putting it all back because that’s what I insisted she do a bit later.

I remember loving my parents’ bed. It was so big. And so clean and neat. And nothing felt out of place in their room. And Mom was in there. I loved it. It was pretty much the polar opposite to my own room, which explains why us kids would throw ourselves on that bed at every opportunity. At least once I remember Mom telling us that we’d like our own rooms much more if we’d make the beds, too. Such wisdom, my mom. And I’ll never forget it. Years and years later I’ve made it a habit to figure out what makes a bed look so inviting. Cozy, thick covers. The right amount of pillows. A sheet turned back to welcome you in after a long hard day. A clean, comfortable place to lay down your head that night and rest in peace.

I don’t make up my bed everyday. But when I do I can feel the way it contrasts the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink and the blot of hardened toothpaste in the bathroom sink and the gerbil cage that always invites cleaning in my office. It’s a small stand against evidence of the Fall in my house, a smidgen of redemption in the ever-present work of life with a family in this space we call home.