Just when you thought WCB couldn't get any cuter, she invents a new game called Attack Duck.
Last April, the Easter Bunny brought WCB a duck puppet that quacks to the tune of "Rubber Duckie, You're the One" when you move its mouth. A few days ago, I decided to make the duck "attack" her by pecking at her tummy while quacking. WCB thought this was the Funniest. Thing. Ever.
Now we have to play Attack Duck at least 50 times a day. As soon as I take her out of the high chair after breakfast, she crawls over to the duck and brings him back to me. If she had her way, we'd do nothing but play Attack Duck until bedtime. There is little relief from Attack Duck. "Maybe Daddy will play with you for a while," I said, after a particularly Attack-Duck-intensive day. WCB crawled over to Jay, ripped the duck off of his hand, and handed it back to me. I'm a slave to the duck.
To play Attack Duck properly, WCB must first be boosted onto the couch. Then I put the puppet on my hand. After the first "quack", WCB shrieks in mock horror (It's so funny to me that a 14-month-old understands mock horror) and flings herself onto the pillows, laughing hysterically as the duck continues to attack.
Sometimes, I recite the Shel Silverstein poem "Boa Constrictor" using the word "duckie" instead:
Oh, I'm being eaten by a duckie
I'm being eaten by a duckie
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
It's up to my knee.
It's up to my thigh.
It's up to my middle.
It's up to my neck.
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .
The other day I noticed my hand was even a little sore from quacking all day long. How do I explain this one to the doctors? "It's an old Attack Duck injury," I'll say.