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Frogs Don't Wear Tights
by Matthew Deane

My mother sleeps on the dining room table. This statement of fact is useful when I find myself locked in comparative combat with an opponent that will not submit to my dysfunctional superiority. When I feel the need for a killing blow, I casually mention my mother’s night time affinity for a hard slab of oak (no pillow necessary), and follow with, “Did you know that my mother is the catalyst behind my intense loathing for all things Disney, as well as my irrational fear of large crowds and extreme impatience for long lines?”

This phrase will always get the eyebrows to rise, and I go on to explain that my mother, wishing to dampen our desire to visit Disneyland, told us that we had to wait for our turn.

“Disneyland is a popular place, and every family in the country wants to go there, but if we all show up at once, there won’t be enough room, the lines would be too long, and it wouldn’t be any fun. That is why Walt Disney decided to invite one state at a time, to keep the lines short and the fun long. We have to wait for a letter in the mail telling us that it is our state’s turn, and then we will see about going.” Mom would say, leaving no room for her little ones to debate the matter.

And why would we debate her? Who wanted to drive all the way to California just to wait the day away like cattle in a pen, only to get into the park and mingle with the unwashed public in even more lines? What a genius Walt Disney is, we thought, he really cares about us kids! For months we checked the mailbox, but no letter came. We were losing patience with Walt, and then one day our parents announced that we would be moving to Oakdale, Pennsylvania. This restored our hope; maybe Pennsylvania was next on the list to be invited to Disneyland, and the letter we had been waiting for would arrive along with our Welcome Wagon basket!

A few days after moving into our new home, we approached our mother as a unified front, wanting to know where the invitation to Disneyland was. “Oh, I am sorry, guys, but I asked around once we got here, and I found out that Pennsylvania was invited to Disneyland just last year, so we are on the bottom of the list.” She was our mother, so we believed her. I began to wish dreadful things for Mr. Disney, not knowing that the man had actually been dead for years.

My mother was a witch. I don’t mean this as libel; she told us herself that she was a witch with special powers. She used this lie to keep us in check, and we believed her because she was our mother, and because we thought it was cool to have a witch for a mother. I thought it was cool, that is, until she turned me into a frog one night as I slept.

The great offense that brought the dark powers of my mother’s magic upon me and changed me into a frog at the age of seven was that I complained about having to wear tights to school.

“Mom, these are tights, and girls wear tights. I am a boy, and I don’t want to wear tights, I want to wear thermals.” This seemed logical enough to me, but not to her. She seemed to be ignoring the facts, even though I was considerate enough to point them out to her.

“Matthew, these are not girl tights, they are just tights. Olympic skiers wear tights to keep warm, and some of the male skiers even wear women’s nylons.” Another example of her ingenuity when it came to child manipulation; my mother tried to take advantage of the fact that over the previous winter I had been captivated at the sight of alpine skiers racing down the slopes during the Winter Olympics in Montreal. My mother hoped that I would slide into my white tights at the mere suggestion that I would be just like a downhill racer. I wasn’t buying it.

“Mom, I don’t want to wear girl tights!” I protested with great passion, my voice almost a sob.

“Matthew, you will wear these tights tomorrow, and that is final.” These words passed through her clenched teeth in a calm but threatening tone. It was a familiar tone, but I couldn’t have cared less; I did not want to wear those damn tights.

“I hate you and I hate these tights! I wish you were not my mother, I wish I was born into a different family!” I threw the tights at her and crossed my arms over my chest, determined to take a stand.

The quiet that settled over the room was something you could scoop into your hands and splash on your face like frigid water. Being only seven years of age, I had not yet learned what those words could do to my mother. She had been given up for adoption as a newborn, which to her meant that she had been unwanted from the start. To hear that she was now unwanted by one of her own children, no matter how young and ignorant the mouth that voiced those hateful words, must have cut her deeply.

“Matthew, that is a hurtful thing to say. I am very sorry you feel that way. Put on your pajamas and go to bed, but before you fall asleep, think long and hard about what you just said, and decide if that is what you really want. I think you will feel differently in the morning.” This time her tone was soft and low, a subtle hint of threat mingled with frustrated love and measured patience.

I retreated to my room, happy to get out of her sight and eager to lie down and imagine my life with another family, one in which only the girls wore tights and the boys wore thermals. I drifted off to sleep smiling, the pages of my mental scrapbook plastered with imaginary snapshots of blissful moments spent with a new and loving set of parents.

I awoke with a start the next morning, the dread of my real life settling over me like a layer of sleet blown in by the cold winter wind I could hear outside my bedroom window. I sat up to scratch away the sleep, and noticed those awful tights lying at the foot of my bed alongside my other clothes. What to do? I hated the thought of wearing tights, but also hated the thought of my mother’s wrath coming down upon me. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided that instead of putting on the tights, I would hide them in my closet, hoping that she wouldn’t yank up the cuffs of my pants to verify that I had surrendered to her iron will. As I slipped both legs into my Toughskins, I noticed a large, dark spot on my right ankle. I dropped to the floor in a panic and pulled my foot as close to my face as I could manage. The spot was about the size of a quarter, and it was green.

“I told you that I thought you might feel differently in the morning. Do you?” My mother’s voice seemed to break the sound barrier directly over my head. I turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, and felt the panic rise from my heart and into my face. I was speechless, and she continued.

“I cast a spell on you last night while you were sleeping. If you don’t change your attitude around here and wear the clothes you are asked to wear, that spot will spread over your whole body and you will become a frog. The choice is yours - wear those tights and be happy doing it, or turn into a frog.” She turned and headed down to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my green ankle, a pair of tights, and a decision no seven year old should ever have to make.

Later that day during reading group I felt a prodding at my ankle. I turned to see the kid sitting on the floor next to me poking my tights, a puzzled look on his face.

“Hey, are those tights? Yeah, they are, you’re wearing tights! Are you a girl?” He snickered and pulled at the cuff of my pant leg to get a better look.

My eyes brimmed with moisture as I slapped his hand away. “They’re not tights, they’re thermals.” Even as I spoke, I couldn’t help but think that my voice sounded more like a croak than a reply.

Matthew Deane is a rejected (but not dejected) writer from New Hampshire. He is rather new to the submissions and rejections process, having only started down the long-suffering road of the writer in 2007, when he joined a local writer’s group at the behest of his wife. Since then he has been rejected by several agents, publications, and contests, but oddly enough, never by a reader. His creative non-fiction stories have been dredged from the depths of his own memory, and his writing casts a humorous light on the physical, mental, and emotional rigors of growing up. Some of his work can be found here, and you may contact him here.