To most people, I would imagine that a pollywog is a tadpole. When I was a little, some mornings my mom would wake me up by singing “The Pollywog Song.”
Good morning little Pollywog!
In three more days, you’ll be a frog!
Then you can leap from log to log,
You funny, little Pollywog!
Those who know me best know that I hate to get out of bed. I love my sleep. I’m not apologizing for it, it’s who I am. Even back then at the ripe old age of 3-5 years, this was the case. Some days I would demand, “Mom sing the song! I’m not getting up til you sing the song!” She would sing it, and I would drag my little butt out of bed. Then I would ask her to sing the song to my parakeet, Pepper and my guinea pig, Arnold. I was a precocious little bugger, to put it nicely. I wish you could hear it, because the song is really sweet. To me it is, anyway.
Some days I sing the song to my aging Jack Russel Terrier. She loves the bed more than I do. I’ve been even known to sing the song to my husband, on the rare (I mean rare) occasion that I get up before he does. A Pollywog is anything I think is cute, and has commanded my heart at that very moment. It is a term of affection. I generally want to kiss Pollywogs all over their sweet faces and sing to them, ’cause that’s how I roll. I hope to some day soon have another Pollywog or two to add to my home. In my book, there’s always time for a song and you can’t give too many kisses.