Duck – A Love Story

Duck.
Or Ducky.
Sometimes Duck Duck.

He’s been with my six-year-old daughter every single night since she was a five-month-old baby. A gift from my friend Heather, he has become something more than a toy. He’s a companion, a comfort, a tiny piece of magic that makes the rough edges of life a little softer.

He’s weathered stomach flu and strep throat. Cribs and big girl beds. Crying it out and long car rides that ended in passing out cold. He’s been to Tennessee and seen mountains, slept in motels, swum in pools, flown on airplanes, and even ridden a few trains. He has survived kindergarten heartbreak tucked inside a backpack, ready to offer a hug when the day felt too hard.

He is well-loved. His fur is faded from countless trips through the washing machine. There’s a hole in his rear end from where Ella holds him every night. His eyes aren’t as bright as they once were—2,000-some days ago—but that just makes him more real, more cherished.

I wonder if the toymaker imagined this—how much love a little yellow duck could carry, the adventures he would witness, the nights he would soothe a child into sleep, the comfort he would give to a parent navigating the messy, unpredictable road of parenting.

I owe a lot to this little duck. A reminder that the small, ordinary things—soft cloth, stitched eyes, a tiny duck named Duck—can hold extraordinary love. Maybe this week, I’ll put him in the gentle cycle. A small act, but a ritual of gratitude for all he has given us.