The Frog, the Bird, and My Son: A Father's Day Reflection

By Ruba Moghraby

This morning, I sent a simple "Happy Father's Day" message to my son—now a father of two.

What I received in return was something else entirely.

"We may notice that, compared to the bird, anxiously watching me while scarfing down its food and then fleeing before having finished with its meal in its beak, this frog is apparently at its ease. From a behavioral perspective, it is the frog, not the bird, that appears more in element with its dominance.

The question, then, is why I did not similarly compensate for my encounter with the frog by attempting an even greater height of leisure?

Herein lies the lesson; the helpless are so consumed by power struggles that they neither fully appreciate their own incapacity, nor perceive actual strength even when it’s right in front of us.

The frogs were there before I came. They are there now. When my wife puts pots outside, they live there and we step lightly around them. When we leave, they will be there. They are not uneasy when I am upset.

They do not observe Father’s Day ever, but I observe the frogs every day."

I’ve read it over many times now.

It’s not a rejection of the holiday—it’s a meditation.

A stream-of-consciousness poem.

A wink of humor wrapped in philosophical depth.

And more than that… it’s my son’s mind at play.

His heart, too—subtle, but fully present.

He’s always had a way of seeing the world sideways, not through the lens of convention but through his own thoughtful gaze. That lens has sharpened since fatherhood. Not into predictability, but into presence. And presence, as the frog teaches us, does not always announce itself. It simply is.

There’s something sacred about this kind of mind:

the kind that watches, questions, observes, and laughs quietly at its own inquiry.

The kind that sees strength not in noise or reaction, but in stillness.

The kind that doesn’t need a holiday to know that meaning is made in the margins.

This blog post isn’t just a way to share his words.

It’s a love letter.

To him.

To fatherhood.

To the way we make sense of life through metaphor and meaning.

He may never know how much joy his words brought me this morning—unless he finds this post.

And if he does, I hope he sees it as the honor I intend it to be.

Happy Father’s Day, son.

The frogs may not celebrate it…

But your mother celebrates you.