It’s Easter every day at my house. Each morning Bob and I have an egg hunt. We comb the yard on a search and destroy mission to find our pet duck’s eggs. I know it doesn’t sound nice to do this to Grant (the female) and Spike. But let me explain.

One year we let Grant keep her eggs. She never moved from her nest - even in storms. Bob would bring the food dish to her because she got so thin.

After a month she was getting too weak and we needed to remove the eggs. But when we opened the gate to the coop, there on Grant’s back, was a little baby duck.

I went into unexpected ecstasy. “It’s a miracle!” I said, tears streaming down my face. “This gives life meaning!” In less than an hour, Grant was surrounded by 7 ducklings. And she didn’t look all that thrilled about it.

Now I want to tell you something. Maternal instinct isn’t always what it’s quacked up to be (sorry – I couldn’t resist). Grant would have let her babies drown in our homemade duck pond. Well – maybe she knew something we didn’t know yet.

Bob and I were in parental bliss. We put a divider in the duck pen so the babies couldn’t reach the pond. We cooed to them. We named them. We kept them warm and dry. We cradled them in our arms.

And they HATED us. Any time we’d come near them, they’d wildly flail away, like a cyclone made of ducklings. They’d scream and shriek as they whirled to the far side of the pen, then crash head-on into the fence. “They should imprint any day now,” I said.

I could hear Grant chuckling under her bill. 

I was sad when they finally grew full size, which took 4 days.

They evolved into MONSTERS. En masse they devoured everything growing on our property, leaving nary a blade of grass. Our yard, which once had gardens and pretty sitting areas was now wet, muddy swampland. And it smelled really bad.

As all teenagers hopefully do, they found their voice. They quacked primarily from midnight till dawn. Bob learned that if he flung open the slider and shouted, “QUACK!” they would quiet down for twenty minutes. So all night long, I’d be startled awake by the sound of my husband quacking then slamming the slider shut. 

Our neighbors stopped speaking to us.

With terrible guilt, we decided to find them homes. We put one ad in the paper and offered to pay for a year’s worth of food. That’s a lot of money. I must have received 50 calls. Everyone had a sad story, such as recently losing a favorite duck. We interviewed candidates, making sure they would be responsible parents by putting the ducks in coops at night.

I still feel terrible that I let Grant nest. In hindsight, I know it was wrong. But we did have every intention of keeping the ducklings. Thank God I found them homes.

I watched as one child lovingly carried G. J. (Grant Junior) away. Then I couldn’t watch any more. By the end of the day, all the babies were gone.

So now you understand why Easter lasts from spring to fall around here. Bob likes to use the eggs for baking, however the idea of eating one of Grant’s eggs gives me problems. Bob really enjoys gathering them. But nobody appreciates this as much as Grant.

I know Easter is about miracles. It really was miraculous when Grant gave birth. And miraculous that I found good homes. But the nicest miracle of all? No matter how much we insisted, not one of the new owners would take a dime.