We’ve given up on the ducks’ ability to care for themselves. Instead of waiting patiently until they learn to use their house, each evening after putting Alston to bed, we head down to catch the three older quacks and stick them in the duck house with the three younger quacklings. I’m armed with the flashlight, holding open the roof top door, while Will attempts to corner the ducks so he can grab one. In a vain attempt at helping, I occasionally stick a foot out as a quack runs by, as if to trip him and make him easier to catch. Turns out, you can’t trip a duck. The whole ordeal takes about 20 minutes.
At the same time, Alston, in full toddler glory, learned how to catapult out of his crib, resulting in some significant changes to the farm house night routine. For now, the crib mattress is on the floor, while I wait for the toddler bed guard rail to arrive. So each night, after the usual bath and story, we’ve added a small battle of wits to the mix. I get him down on the mattress and exit the room once I see him begin to suck his thumb. The moment I shut the door, he then leaps out of bed and heads right for the door knob, which I am holding shut from the other side. Crying ensues, he quits, I put a gate up outside his door and we’re all set…
… until about 3 AM, when he inevitably rolls off the mattress. The six inch fall is enough to wake him up, so he pays that favor forward to me, and inevitably he ends up in our bed and I sleep with baby feet in my face. Cute baby feet, but feet nonetheless. As Will’s been battling (yet another) case of poison Ivy, he’s missed this adventure while shacking up in the guest room where he can itch to his hand’s content.
However, Will has his own bedtime terrors, involving any quack or squawk or unidentifiable animal sound. So I frequently find him sleeping on the couch when Alston and I head down for breakfast, wearing his long wool coat in lieu of a blanket.
Needless to say, all involved are looking pretty tired these days.