A few minutes ago, Max and I were curled up on the couch reading a book about ducklings. This particular book shows pictures of real ducklings in various stages of hatching from eggs, a process that Max witnessed when we stumbled upon an exhibit at the Museum of Science a few weeks ago of baby chicks, some newly hatched, others worn out, and peeking a beak through a tiny crack in their shells, failing to progress.
Max looked at his picture book and asked me if there were ducks in the egg salad he had for lunch. I said no, and he insisted there was a beak. (Even before I stopped eating eggs, I was a bit lazy in my prep methods, figuring a bit of shell just adds extra calcium.) I explained to Max that eggs in the fridge are not usually fertilized, and while a potential baby duck or chicken once existed, in order to grow into an actual chick, they need to stay outside in a nest. Quiet for a minute, Max then got up and walked into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he reached for an egg and told me he wanted to plant it outside in the bucket garden and grow a duck.
Yesterday Max and I planted several different bulbs–tulips, wildflowers, hyacinths—and I had explained how they would not grow into flowers until Spring.
Looks like we may have a duck amidst the daffodils, if he continues to insist.
When our duck grows up, and we pick it, I want it to live in a cage in the kitchen.
Max, ducks make a lot of poop, and their poop is really stinky. I don’t want a duck in the kitchen.
Well, MY duck will not poop.
Max, everything that eats poops.All animals poop.
Ok, Mom. But some animals eat poop……like the sharks in the toilet ocean that eat my poop when I flush.
No, I did not drink, smoke or take drugs while I was pregnant. It only appears that way at times.