Once upon a time last week there was an afternoon we decided to go and feed the ducks. One of those lovely picture perfect moments, right? Both of us bundled up against the cold, my joyous toddler flinging bits of bread out into the water. Henry is teething like a beast of prey, and I thought he might appreciate the opportunity to chew on a duck’s face instead of his own fingers.
I jest. In truth, teething has turned this boy into a howling, shrieking, fist-battering ball of crossness – he has basically become the Lindsay Lohan version of himself, so the botox is next – and my tether’s end, she is nigh. Those incisors, my goodness. Overrated. But he’s better distracted and outdoors, and so outdoors is where we’ve been going.
What I hadn’t reckoned was that there were thirty fat geese, four swans and eighty gulls in addition to the family of ducks, and all of them were quite keen on our bread. And I am afraid of birds. And Henry rather wanted to grab a duck’s face after all, or, failing that, at least jump into the river.
After five minutes of sitting in the centre of a swirling vortex of angry bird faces, Henry diving at the back of every goose foolish enough to get near him and shrieking louder than all of them when I tried to move him away, we decided that feeding the ducks was a job for Daddy.
Then he had a mega tantrum when I said it was time to go home.
Hey, shall we just stick to the park next time? Yes, great idea.