Meet Kermit.

Hello Kermit. I'm glad you're here. I say that because 12 of your brother/sister tadpoles have not made it as far as you have.

Seeing that the odds are against you...12 dead...10 still living...I have taken you out of the tank to honor you with a photo shoot.

You are having a hard time looking me in the eye. I promise I have not been killing off your siblings.

I've been hitting all the latest tadpole websites to learn how to raise you up to be a strong toad or frog...whichever one you might be.

I have changed your water. Even collected fresh rainwater for you. No chlorine...honest.

I have given you a rock to climb out on.

I read you might enjoy lettuce. So I boiled some for you.

Your tank is not in direct sunlight or under a vent.

But for some reason you guys are dropping like flies. Aren't you supposed to drop the flies?

And then you lay there on the bottom of the tank and and a sibling comes to snack on you. Gross, I know. But I am allowing this carnivorous activity in case you're not vegan.

These just aren't the lessons I intended to be teaching my daughter by bringing you into our home.

Here you are back on your rock. You rock climbing stud.

Stay safe. If you aren't on the rock in the morning I'm going to assume you are hopping around my house, because I've yet to find a cover for your tank. Better that than providing breakfast for the youngins. I just can't bear that thought. Just like I can't bear the thought of my epitaph reading "Tadpole Murderer".

Okay people! We raised tadpoles numerous times while growing up and I don't remember it being a traumatic experience. Lily checks the tank each morning not to see their growth, but to count the dead. What am I doing wrong?!?