A Different Kind of Mama

A few days ago, my niece, Michelle Albrecht wrote a guest blog about a unique way to gather eggs. Some of you suggested she write about the time her little brother, my nephew Steven, became a surrogate momma to some feathered babies. So, here is that story. Thanks, Missy!

Momma Duck

Baby ducks imprint. That means that the first thing they see after they make their way out of the shell that has been their whole world for several weeks is their momma.  Even if what they see is actually a small human  boy.

As I’ve mentioned, daddy was a science teacher in a small town in northern Minnesota for many years.  Sometimes in the springtime, he would get some fertilized duck eggs and incubate them as part of his biology class.  Now, if we wanted a flock of ducks at home, we would simply place the eggs under a Banty chicken and let her take care of keeping them warm and turning them periodically, which can lead to some avian drama down the road! But that is another story entirely.  When you do that as part of a science class, you use an incubator – a round galvanized metal contraption – to keep the eggs warm.  Of course, that means that you have to turn the eggs by hand and sprinkle them with water periodically just as a momma duck would do if left to her own devices.

One spring, we had a batch of eggs in the incubator out in our utility room.  There was one small window in the lid and my brother’s face was pressed up against it quite a lot of the time, checking out what was going on in there.  When it was time to turn and sprinkle the eggs, Steven was right there, caring for those eggs every bit as carefully and tenderly as any momma duck would.  He has always had an afinity for critters of all shapes and sizes and the patience he demonstrated as he waited for those eggs to hatch was nothing short of amazing.  Finally the day came!  Those little ducks managed to push their way out of their shells and get their first look at the world.  Of course, the first thing they saw was Steven.

After a day or two spent letting their fluffy little feathers dry, they were off!  Steven would say,”Quackquack!” as he went outside to play and those little ducklings would come running just as fast as their little legs would carry them across the yard to fall in line behind him. (Being raised by a five- or six-year-old boy probably explains why we spent so much time later in the summer collecting duck eggs from the bottom of the lake, as I think back on it!)  Most days included time spent swimming.  The lake was very shallow out in front of our place and Steven would pull himself along the bottom of the lake to swim with his babies.  All we could see was his head just above the surface of the water and a line of little ducklings trailing him.  They splashed and played and dabbled for food beneath the surface as ducks do.  After awhile, we’d notice that this one or that one was floating a little lower in the water than they should and he would scoop them gently up and set them up on the dock to dry out for a bit.  Once their feathers had dried out some and they were bouyant again, they would be back in the water to play.  All the while, Steven kept a close eye on all his ducklings.  If any wandered too far off, all he had to do was “Quack!” once or twice and those little duckies would walk on water to get back to the rest!  When “momma” spoke, they listened!

It’s fun to remember those days now.  I’m sure my own children have trouble even imagining the things Steven and I did as we grew up on the lake.  At the time, it seemed like just an ordinary childhood and I’m sure we thought that everyone had experiences like these, but with the passage of time and the amazed looks I get whenever I tell these stories, I’ve come to understand how very unusual and special these times were.