weekend before last, in Halifax, we took Oscar and his cousins to the Public Gardens. sure, the place is a beautiful collection of Victorian arboreal exotica with rare trees, a few leafy survivors older than anyone i know…but those points of charm were of little interest to three boys under three. the Gardens is kewl because it has DUCKS, people.

free range ducks, the fearless kind.

my lumbering, slow-moving mother self was no match for ducks. Oscar was IN LOVE. or in glee, if glee is a state of being. fat fingers pointed and little feet stamped and there was squealing, and it wasn’t just me. when the ducks waddled off, Oscar chased them. with zeal. it became clear that if i did not figure out how to move faster, my son was going to topple headfirst into the murky water and come up baptized with green duck shit. luckily, his father materialized from parking the car and saved O from himself and from the excesses of duck delight, but still, the boy was twitterpated.

and he remains so. all week, in the bath, his yellow rubber duckie has been put through his paces, forced to bob and weave and lead O around the tub like a plastic pied piper, whilst cries of “duck! duck!” permeate the bathroom. O saw a pigeon yesterday, and wooed it with a plaintive “duck?!”…though i think he knew he was fooling himself.

i am becoming one of Those Mothers, indulgent and soft at the core.  or in the head.  i found myself wondering if we could keep a real duck in the tub.

he’s just so friggin’ infectious, that kid.  my kid.