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ninanevermore.
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I offered my son his choice of places to visit yesterday. I told him we could visit the fountains or one of the two large parks with playground in our town. He didn't want any of those places; he wanted to visit the little playground in our neighborhood with its worn, shabby attractions and all the ducks he could feed. He is an ecologically minded young man who sees no reason to travel someplace by car when he can travel two blocks by little red wagon.
And did I mention there were ducks? Not just the same old ducks, either. There were dozens of new ducks to see, because we are in the middle of hatching season.
The ducks have been hatching for about six week now, and we have them in various sizes, from adolescent muscovies (predators have whittled this brood down to three):
To toddler mallards:
Mallard mothers, from what I've seen, are not as good at mothering as muscovy mothers. This is the first brood of baby mallards I've seen on the lake in a couple of years. After having witnessed the brutality of mallard mating, I wonder if it has anything to do with lingering resentment of the ritual that mama mallards must endure, that makes them fail to roost on the clutches of eggs they lay. If this is the case, I don't blame them one bit.
The newest, shiniest ducks we saw appeared to have just hatched. In fact, there was one unhatched egg still in the nest, and this mama muscovy thought her brood was still too tender to venture into the water.
She also thought my son and I were venturing a little too near, and she puffed up her chest and tried to look as threatening as she could.
"You're standing too close," I told my son, "You're scaring her."
"No, I not," he replied, offended by the suggestion. He doesn't understand how anything can be afraid of him, when he knows means no harm and only wants to look. I finally convinced him to give the stressed out mama some room.
Eventually, she went for a swim and left her babies to look after each other.
As far as I can see, there are 13. If the last egg is not a dud, there could be 14 by today.
After we had seen all the ducks and fed them the last of the stale bread I brought from home, we went back to the playground. On our way there, my son spied two pine trees that had grown together.
"What made this hole?" he demanded to know.
I explained that the trees had just grown that way, and that nothing had a made a hole. He decided the space in between the trees needed exploring, and tried to climb inside it. He was annoyed to discover that he didn't quite fit.
Back at the playground, I rolled up my jeans to try and catch a breeze on my legs for relief from the heat and humidity. Worn out from chasing ducks and little boys, I lay down inside the wooden playground structure and put up my feet.
"Hey! Your legs look like a bridge!" my son exclaimed.
"Do they?" I asked.
"Yes. I wanna climb on them."
So he did.
Some bridges are just nice places to sit and enjoy the view. Apparently, I am just such an bridge.
After awhile, he decided to lie down and rest, as well.
I have often enjoyed the unique view that you get standing (or sitting) on a bridge, but yesterday I learned that as a bridge, you enjoy a slightly different but every bit as unique a view. As a bridge looking straight up, this is what I saw:
Looking forward a bit, I could see that the playground is enjoyed by teenagers as well as tikes.
Lovers and friends? Here, in a kid's playground? Good grief, who else had been lying in this exact same spot, and what had they been up to? I resolved to take a shower when I got home.
Finally, this is the view a bridge has when someone decides to climb down upon it from a higher platform:
What does a bridge say when a 32 pound boy steps on its stomach?
"Ooof!" just like you would if the same thing happened to you. For once, I was glad my son is the skinniest kid I know. If he were any heavier, the bridge might have responded to being stepped on by saying, "Ugh! Sweetie, please get mommy's cell phone so she can dial 9-1-1."
At last I tired of being a bridge, and I loaded up the little red wagon and pulled my little bridge climber, explorer, and student of all things duck-related back home for dinner.
All and all, it was a nice Sunday afternoon.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
.
.
I offered my son his choice of places to visit yesterday. I told him we could visit the fountains or one of the two large parks with playground in our town. He didn't want any of those places; he wanted to visit the little playground in our neighborhood with its worn, shabby attractions and all the ducks he could feed. He is an ecologically minded young man who sees no reason to travel someplace by car when he can travel two blocks by little red wagon.
And did I mention there were ducks? Not just the same old ducks, either. There were dozens of new ducks to see, because we are in the middle of hatching season.
The ducks have been hatching for about six week now, and we have them in various sizes, from adolescent muscovies (predators have whittled this brood down to three):
To toddler mallards:
Mallard mothers, from what I've seen, are not as good at mothering as muscovy mothers. This is the first brood of baby mallards I've seen on the lake in a couple of years. After having witnessed the brutality of mallard mating, I wonder if it has anything to do with lingering resentment of the ritual that mama mallards must endure, that makes them fail to roost on the clutches of eggs they lay. If this is the case, I don't blame them one bit.
The newest, shiniest ducks we saw appeared to have just hatched. In fact, there was one unhatched egg still in the nest, and this mama muscovy thought her brood was still too tender to venture into the water.
She also thought my son and I were venturing a little too near, and she puffed up her chest and tried to look as threatening as she could.
"You're standing too close," I told my son, "You're scaring her."
"No, I not," he replied, offended by the suggestion. He doesn't understand how anything can be afraid of him, when he knows means no harm and only wants to look. I finally convinced him to give the stressed out mama some room.
Eventually, she went for a swim and left her babies to look after each other.
As far as I can see, there are 13. If the last egg is not a dud, there could be 14 by today.
After we had seen all the ducks and fed them the last of the stale bread I brought from home, we went back to the playground. On our way there, my son spied two pine trees that had grown together.
"What made this hole?" he demanded to know.
I explained that the trees had just grown that way, and that nothing had a made a hole. He decided the space in between the trees needed exploring, and tried to climb inside it. He was annoyed to discover that he didn't quite fit.
Back at the playground, I rolled up my jeans to try and catch a breeze on my legs for relief from the heat and humidity. Worn out from chasing ducks and little boys, I lay down inside the wooden playground structure and put up my feet.
"Hey! Your legs look like a bridge!" my son exclaimed.
"Do they?" I asked.
"Yes. I wanna climb on them."
So he did.
Some bridges are just nice places to sit and enjoy the view. Apparently, I am just such an bridge.
After awhile, he decided to lie down and rest, as well.
I have often enjoyed the unique view that you get standing (or sitting) on a bridge, but yesterday I learned that as a bridge, you enjoy a slightly different but every bit as unique a view. As a bridge looking straight up, this is what I saw:
Looking forward a bit, I could see that the playground is enjoyed by teenagers as well as tikes.
Lovers and friends? Here, in a kid's playground? Good grief, who else had been lying in this exact same spot, and what had they been up to? I resolved to take a shower when I got home.
Finally, this is the view a bridge has when someone decides to climb down upon it from a higher platform:
What does a bridge say when a 32 pound boy steps on its stomach?
"Ooof!" just like you would if the same thing happened to you. For once, I was glad my son is the skinniest kid I know. If he were any heavier, the bridge might have responded to being stepped on by saying, "Ugh! Sweetie, please get mommy's cell phone so she can dial 9-1-1."
At last I tired of being a bridge, and I loaded up the little red wagon and pulled my little bridge climber, explorer, and student of all things duck-related back home for dinner.
All and all, it was a nice Sunday afternoon.
