Frogs in the kitchen

When I was in grade six or seven, I finally got tired of my mom opening my lunch box every day right after I got back from school and giving me grief for any remaining food. She'd pull the box out of my school bag and hold it by her ear and give it a shake. If it sounded like there was anything in the box, God help me.

So one afternoon, I went to the small stream that ran along the back wall of my school's farthest playing field. In that stream lived these little green and yellow frogs... tiny little buggers that were fully grown at about an inch from nose to bum. I caught about a dozen of them and put them in my lunch box (after dumping my lunch). All through the afternoon, I had to firstly keep them alive by keeping the lid of my lunch box open slightly, and secondly keep the class teacher from getting too curious about the little noises in my desk. My classmates were about dying from stopping themselves from bursting out laughing. But no one wanted to get caned on account of my frogs. Anyway, long story short... uneventful afternoon session in school, uneventful bus ride home (except for a very upset woman who sat by me and had to put up with the dreadful froggy smell emanating from the slightly open lunch box on my lap).

Just before I walk into the apartment, I closed and put the lunchbox in my bag. Mom opens door. Grabs school bag. Takes out lunch box, gives it a shake... eyebrows race up forehead to meet hairline. She launches into a tirade about how little value I give to the food she slaves to make for us from groceries bought with dad's hard earned money. Grumbling to herself she takes the lunch box to kitchen sink and...

...we never found all the frogs.