Who Ripped My Duck? Friday’s Unsolved Mystery.

“Who stole my_____?”

We have all stood in that moment. We open the fridge, salivating over the perfect craving, whether it be pickles, a pizza, leftovers from the night before, or in my case, the coffee creamer. You look inside and find yourself scouring every corner because you don’t see and believe it but—gone!

You rush to the pantry grabbed by an emergency sweet attack. You see the bag and grab it—EMPTY! Or the bathroom towel in my husband’s case. ;0) Maybe you’re hair dryer winds up missing, or your shoes. Back in my college days, whatever I needed in the moment my freshman year—gone! 

Conclusion? No one is around to claim the blame.

This week, the mystery involves my daughter’s favorite yellow duck, a cloudy location, and a few rascally hands—

I pull up to my kids’ school. My daughter flies at me from the playground.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! My duck!”

Her voice drops low. Her lip quivers. She hands me her little limp duck. “My duck’s ripped. Can you fix him?”

We get her coat and I search the duck finding a hole the size of quarter, ripped on its belly. I ask a series of questions: Did we share our toys today? Who did you play with? How did your poor little Duck get ripped?

Wednesday’s story: “Sam did it! He grabbed it and the teacher saw it!” I felt distress as a parent. Was my child bullied? Did she bully? Did she not share?

Thursday’s story: after contacting the director at school to get a few facts down, my daughter’s story shifts as she answers the director’s questions meekly, ”My brother did.” Staff were questioned. No one saw a duck on the playground. The boy from yesterday pleads the fifth with innocent eyes, and of course, I suddenly have a very hurt big brother from the shift in the accusation of the duck ripper.

Friday’s story: ”No mommy, big brother didn’t do it. Sarah did!” Another girl in her class. Another good friend of hers.

I still have no answers and the story continues to shift and evolve.

Lesson Learned.

Right and wrong is a difficult feeling for anyone, especially a three and a five-year-old. Stories are emotional journeys. There’s an emotional tie to the truth and the discovery to understand what took place to create your current moment. Any event has a beginning, a middle, and yes, an end. It may not be the answer you want, but oh well, sometimes the answers don’t always matter and in my case, the ending needs a little revising. My daughter is happy again. The duck is happy and healthy, mended in all the right spots. All last night and still to this morning my daughter says, “Mommy, thank you for fixing my duck.”

The end.

About Erika Beebe

Author, dreamer, and a momma to a couple of wonderful kids, I try to live life everyday in hope and inspire others along my way.

Posted on April 26, 2013, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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