How baby toads and ponies are made

I am not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees. I certainly wasn’t prepared to talk about the toads.
My kids are 8 and 6, and I would like to think that I will never have to have that talk with them. Mainly, that is because my wife is in charge of all things technical and clinical.
When I am tasked with real-world issues, in particular ones that deal with the human body, I often try and come up with explanations that simply allow the conversation to end. For example:
CHILD: Daddy, what would happen if we didn’t make it to the bathroom.
ME: God would stop making ponies.
But on occasion, I am thrust into the real-world, real-time job of having actual heartfelt discussions on matters such as these with my kids. Such was the other day during the Earth Day even at Hopelands.
As we were walking around the pond, we heard the distinctive high-pitched sound of Southern toads, calling out amorously toward one another around the bay. Whenever we hear animals calling, my kids and I will stand very still and try to find the animal. This is easy with, say, a cow. But toads and frogs can get tricky.
We went into “listen for it” mode, in which for some reason you bend your knees slightly, put your hands out to your side and cock your head. I have no idea why people do this.
But you know that if you went into the stance in the middle of a crowded mall, most everyone would stop to see if they were missing some important sound.
So we wait for the sounds to pop up again. Immediately, Allie spots our target. “Daddy, in the water!” Parker sprints over to see where she is pointing.
And then he says, “Hey, they’re all riding piggy back.”
At that point, a couple walking a few steps ahead of us stop in their tracks. I am sure they are thinking, “Oh, we’ve gotta see how this one plays out.”
Parker turns to me and says, “So what are they doing, Daddy? Are they playing?”
The gentleman looks at me, waiting for my answer. He is clearly enjoying this.
“Well, son, they’re...”
A small voiced chimed. “Mating. Breeding. They’re making new toads, Parker.” Clearly, Allie had this under control.
“That’s right,” I said, “they’re making baby toads. So let’s leave them alone to... do... their... thing.”
Parker was not ready to move. First, he took some of the duck food he had and set it in front of each of the pairs. The gentleman and I surmised one might enjoy a sandwich or something of that ilk at that moment. Who knows.
And then Parker decided to get a closer look, in particular how exactly the toads were stuck together. After a brief discussion on how we should never do that again, we watched for a while as the recently detached male called out loudly for his lady toad friend.
We watched his throat swell out each time he called, and saw him navigating through the reeds in his quest. We eventually moseyed on down the trail, but I would like to think they were reunited.
My kids were very excited about the find, and told plenty of folks for the rest of the day about it. Nothing like livening up a grocery store trip with a hearty, “WE SAW TOADS MATING!!!” to ring through the aisles.
The fact of the matter is that it is just life, and I always want my kids to learn about the way the world works without mystery or intrigue where it serves only to confuse matters. It’s OK that they know how baby toads gets made. And why God makes ponies.