I found myself relating to this bird mama and the struggles that she went through to have her babies. In the weeks to come, Mama Duck endured heavy rain, sleet, high winds, a tornado warning, frost, and temps in the 80s (Welcome to Ohio! If you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes.) I watched as she sat, day after day, only leaving to go eat in the evenings. She stayed with her eggs even when curious children poked their faces into her nest; when rival ducks tried to invade; when the lawnmower came dangerously close to her home (sorry, Mama, if the grass gets too long, the Homeowner's Association is going to kick us all out). This duck somehow knew, without the benefit of formal parenting classes or What to Expect When You're Expecting, that she was supposed to stay with those eggs and protect them, no matter how boring or uncomfortable that task became. I started bringing her bird seed and water in the mornings (and learned John was bringing her bread in the evenings). I felt that she and I were on similar paths as we followed our biological clocks and insticts and attempted to have babies.
I started feeling great sadness for her as the weeks stretched on and no babies emerged from the eggs. I would check anxiously every evening for a sign of hatching, but as the days passed, there were fewer and fewer eggs remaining in the nest. A quick Google search told me that mallard eggs generally hatch in about twenty-eight days, and as eggs start to ferment the mother will break the shells and move them away from her nest, in an attempt to prevent the smell from attracting predators to her remaining babies. It broke my heart to see less eggs every day and more remants of broken shells left in their place. Only a few intact eggs remained, and I wondered what would happen if none of them hatched. I knew that I would be very sad; what, if anything, would she feel? I realized that I was projecting my human emotions onto an animal, but I hurt for her all the same.
Then one day, we had a visitor to the back porch. I heard a pecking sound and looked out to see Mama Duck tapping on the sliding door with her beak. I looked out and there beside her was one fuzzy little duckling, the most beautiful baby duck that I had ever seen. It was as if she was presenting it to me, saying 'Here's my baby! I did it!'
Mama, Daddy and Baby Duck come to our back door every evening for some birdseed or crumbs of bread. And crazy as it sounds, these birds have given me hope to keep trying for our own little duckling.
