Child Feeding Ducks: a progression of reactions

Stage One: Utter Delight.  Wow!  There are ducks!  And I have bread!  And ducks eat bread!  What a fortunate combination!  I can't believe that you took me to the duck park, Mom!

Stage Two: Legitimate Happiness.  This duck-feeding business is seriously fun, like when I'm coloring and I get to open a fresh box of crayons with pointed tips, or you hand me a cookie and say, "Sure, watch some TV, my child!"  If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Today is a good day to be a six-year-old with access to a bag of bread.

Stage Three: Moderate Pleasure.  Yes, yes, yes.  Feed the ducks, feed the ducks, feed the ducks.  They keep coming, and I keep breaking off pieces of bread.  I'm getting to be an old pro.  I think I'll name one of the ducks.  Ole Yellow Bill sounds niceGet it?  Because he kind of looks old.  And he has a yellow bill.

Stage Four: Heightened Awareness.  I can't help but notice that when I walk in a different direction, these ducks follow me.  That's odd.

Stage Five: Elevated Concern.  Wait a minute here.  I've only got one dozen hotdog buns, yet there are multiple dozens of ducks.  Something seems off with that ratio.  They're all circling around me, and that one duck is honking, and I'm starting to think that he's angry.  Why is this happening to me?  Do ducks have teeth?

Stage Six: Bonafide Distress.  It's over.  I take it everything back: this park is not fun at all.  It's a forsaken, desperate place.  I'm surrounded, and my mobility is seriously limited, and it clearly doesn't help that you keep warning me that I'm about to step in duck poop.  On top of it all, my dress is about to be eaten.  Why did you bring me here?

And because six-year-olds are like this...

Two hours later:  Hey Mom?  Do we have any more bread?  I want to go back to the park.

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  1. This reminded me of a similar memory I had as a child. I distinctly remember traveling to the public park with bread to feed ducks and leaving in tears. A sneaky duck had come up behind me and stole all of my bread while snagging my finger in the process. Long story short, ducks are not cute anymore.

    1. Three words for you: scarred for life.

      I hear you, Jack. I hear you.


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