Sex and Violence and Springtime

Every spring in Richardson, Texas, a riot of color delights the eye as poppies, bluebonnets, daisies and Indian paintbrushes burst forth in medians, the service road of the Expressway, and the library grounds from seeds sown by the environmentally aware Parks & Recreations Department. Parents dress up their little darlings and pose them among the wildflowers for family portraits.

I was no different. When Jennie was two years old, I dressed her up in a little sundress, drove to the wildflower field near the Richardson Library and took adorable portraits of my curly blond-headed child. Inspired by the thought of matching pictures, when Jackson turned two, I made the pilgrimage to the wildflower field, children in tow.

Jackson has allergies. LOTS of allergies, and it only took five minutes to find out what exactly tripped his histamines.

As I posed him in the wildflowers, I watched him begin to break out in a rash. With each succeeding photo, his skin became redder and bumpier. His cherubic face, instead of dimpling in a smile, wore a pained expression. He started to scratch and twitch and, finally, began to cry. I quickly lifted him out of the offending pollen-makers and took him back to the car.

As a distraction, I decided to take the children to a nearby pond that was home to a great many ducks. We got some stale bread from home and parked at the duck pond. As we exited the car and looked at the vast array of water fowl, I realized with a sinking feeling that spring, in addition to bringing adorable downy ducklings, also rams home the process by which said ducklings arrive: SEX.

The duck pond was full of ducks, most of which in various stages of pursuit and copulation. Nearby a drake sat on top of a duck, enthusiastically pecking the top of her head, which was bloody.

Jennie was aghast. “Mommy, what’s that duck doing to the other duck?”

“They’re mating, honey. That’s how they get little ducks,” I explained, trying to use words that a 4-year-old could understand.

Jennie thought about it for a minute. “Ouch,” she said, somewhat shocked.

I started to explain that sex was a lot more fun (and less bloody) for humans and then decided that was too much information. I hurried the children over to a quiet end of the pond, where a mama duck was paddling around with six fluffy yellow ducklings. We admired the ducklings, fed them some bread, and were delighting in the pastoral scene when a dark shape began to rise from the depths of the pond. Expecting the theme from “Jaws” to begin playing at any moment, we watched, horrified, as a large turtle shot to the surface, grabbed a duckling by the feet, and took it down.

Jennie and Jackson froze, stunned, as the duckling failed to return to the surface. After a long moment of shocked silence, a few fragile air bubbles rose to the top, and the five remaining ducklings and their mother paddled off.

Jennie broke the silence. “Did the turtle eat the duck?” she asked in tones of terror.

I gulped. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“WHY???” she demanded.

“Because the turtle was hungry,” I said simply. “Animals eat other animals when they’re hungry, just like we eat hamburgers and chicken.”

At that point, I decided that there had been enough life lessons for one afternoon. We’d run the gamut of sex, violence, survival of the fittest and the itchies all in one glorious spring afternoon, so we retreated to the benign comfort of Blue’s Clues and Kipper in our air-conditioned and pollen free home.