Good things never come from
being awakened at 4:00 am. My eyes popped open as I heard my husband
shuffling back to bed from his visit to the bathroom. I immediately
perceived that he chose to go to the one bathroom that I had under secret
surveillance. You see, I had ducklings stashed in
there. That may seem a bit odd (unless you know me well), but in an
attempt to rationalize my behavior, let me explain that I live on a
farm. Our newly hatched baby ducklings temporarily needed a safe
space until they got large enough to be moved outside. “Did you
close the bathroom door?”, I semi-accusingly whispered to my husband. “Of
course I closed the door”, he grumbled back in a sleep deprived
tone. Ironically, I inherently trust my husband with my life every
time I sit in the passenger seat of the car, however, I do not trust him with
door details. I cautiously listened. The seconds ticked
by. Wasn’t there just a faint abundance of birdy noises now? Perhaps
my husband had woken them up and they were partaking in their usual feeding
frenzy, splashing water from their dish all over their bedding and creating a
poopy, wet mess. They will settle down in time I told
myself. I kept my eyes closed willing sleep to come, but continued
to listen nevertheless. Nope, that dreaded mother’s intuition would
not calm down. Something was just not right. Curiosity and
obsessive-compulsive tendencies prevailed. I slid out of bed and
crept down the hall.
The bathroom door was firmly
shut (bet you didn’t see that one coming). I slowly opened it to
inspect the situation. Multiple ducklings were in the dry wading
pool enclosure. They were expressing vocal disapproval. At
first, I assumed it was because of my intrusiveness but, as I watched, I
realized that something was amiss... one, two, three, four…. there
were seven ducklings in the wading pool. Adorable, but… oops – there
should be nine ducklings. It was then that I spotted the other two
ducklings tearing around on the bathroom floor. Somehow, they had successfully
catapulted themselves out of the wading pool and were now unable to get back
in. They circled the exterior perimeter resembling race cars in the
Indy 500. I contemplated just leaving them to run around
in the bathroom. That sounds reasonable for anyone who has a modern
bathroom with perhaps a washable tile or linoleum floor, but I live in an old
farmhouse. While it has a certain charm, the wide plank wooden
floors and antiques scattered throughout the bathroom do not make it a “duck
friendly” environment. I decided I would catch the little buggers
and put them back where they belonged. I started to dodge and dive
around the bathroom.
Now, I believe that they call
this next part “painting the scene” even though it may not be a very enticing
visual. There are multiple mirrors positioned around our
bathroom. Some on the walls and others propped on the floor, awaiting
an appropriate final resting place. These mirrors unfortunately
brought to my rapid attention that the ducklings were now not the only thing
chaotically waddling naked around the bathroom. Due to an
undesirable combination of perimenopausal hot flashes and fleece pajamas, I had
obviously shed my layers earlier in the evening. My nude
demonstration was anything but kinky. The myriad of mirrors were
emphasizing those “pandemic pounds” and exposing orifices and crevices that I
never wished to explore. The ducks already thought I was horrifying,
and I am suspicious that my disrobement only heightened their
terror. Their speed escalated. I started to contemplate
that perhaps it would be most efficient if I could corral the loose ducklings
into some sort of makeshift enclosure. I frantically glanced around
the bathroom for material.
It was then that I noticed
that my situation had deteriorated significantly. The wading pool
was empty! Nine ducklings were now tearing around my bare feet…and
they were leaving an abundance of colonic deposits throughout the entire
bathroom. I slipped and felt something warm and gooey between my
toes. It appeared that ducks have the ability to sprint and poop at
the exact same time without missing a beat. Clearly, my ducklings
had outgrown the confines of the wading pool and were focused on becoming escape
artists whenever stressed. I needed a new plan.
I threw a towel into the old
cast iron bathtub. I figured the tub may have to be sacrificed in
order to save the other antiques. Unbeknownst to me, the ducklings
apparently were also developing a plan. With military precision,
they had divided into two groups and dispersed. Group A had
established home base behind the flush. Group B had claimed the
space on the floor behind the porcelain washbasin. I decided to wage my attack
on Group A first. I formed a temporary barricade on one side of the
flush using a vintage copy of the book “Where the Wildflowers
Grow”. It had apparently been a childhood classic given to my
husband. So much for sentimentality. On first attempt,
the ducklings rammed into the book, flipped it in the air with their beaks, ran
over it, and shit on the classic rendition. Attempt number two went
better. I managed to secure the book better and trap
them. I lifted them one by one into the tub as they “tweeted” the
entire time. To clarify, these were not the kind of tweets like the
songbirds sing to Snow White when she rises in the morning. These
were more like “T…W..E….E….T!! T…W….E….E…T!! emulating the
screeching of a train braking for a moose on the track.
I eventually wrangled and
successfully captured Group B of the duckling troops by trapping them next to
an antique chest. Once I had all the ducklings settled in the
bathtub with their water dish and food, I got down on my hands and knees, ignored
the terrible mirror reflections from the horrid angles, and started scrubbing
the bathroom floor. Like a terribly pathetic Cinderella, I swished
and scoured while the critters went about messing up the interior of the
tub. I eventually stood stiffly, rubbed my aching back and emerged
with an element of anticlimactic triumph from the bathroom.
I stumbled in the hall and
tripped on the cat who was patiently waiting on other side of the door just in
case a duckling emerged. Deflated and exhausted, I crawled back into
bed and glanced at the clock. It was 5:08 am. My alarm
goes off for work at 5:30 am. I sighed. I noticed that
between my 4th and 5th toe, it still felt
gooey. Because I am a truly exceptional wife with over twenty years
in the same relationship, it started to dawn on me that my current sleep
deprivation was completely my husband’s fault. Once you have obtained
a lot of experience as a wife, those revelations come to you much
quicker. Completely oblivious to the previous commotion, my husband
was sleeping soundly beside me. So soundly, he was
snoring. Snoring very loudly. I told him to stop and
kicked him…but made sure to use that foot which felt a bit slimy.
Amber Swan (Bsc, MD, CCFP, FCFP) is a General Practitioner in Oncology who writes narratives in medicine, poetry, and comedic stories. She is a member of the Writer’s Federation of NB, Canada. Her poetry has been published in the medical journal “Current Oncology” and one of her short stories won in the Inspirational Category earning publication in the Next Generation Short Story Awards compilation.
Dr. Swan is noted for her
ability to multi-task. By day, she helps manage care of patients
receiving cancer therapy and, in the evenings, she shovels
manure. She runs “Swan Bevy Farm” in Harvey, NB with help from her
husband and son. Although she deems herself an amateur writer, she likes to
pride herself on her ability to handle crap.
