So, I got this wild hair, you know? Fertile duck eggs. Figured, how hard could it be? My neighbor, old man Fitzwilliam, he’s always got ducks quacking away, and he offered me a dozen eggs. Said they were “definitely good ones.” Famous last words, right?
First off, getting an incubator. I wasn’t about to shell out big bucks for some fancy contraption. Found a cheap one online, looked like a plastic lunchbox with a lightbulb. The instructions were clearly written by someone who’d never seen a duck, or maybe even an egg. Total mess.
Anyway, I set it up in the spare room. Cleaned the eggs gently, just like some YouTube video told me to. Then popped them in. The temperature thing was a nightmare. The dial on that cheap incubator was more of a suggestion than a setting. I was up and down, fiddling with it constantly. One minute it’s too cold, next it’s practically cooking them. My wife thought I’d lost my mind, staring at a thermometer all day.
Then came the turning. Supposed to turn them three, some say five, times a day. I made a little ‘X’ on one side and an ‘O’ on the other so I wouldn’t get mixed up. Felt like I was playing tic-tac-toe with their lives. Every turn, I’m thinking, “Hope I’m doing this right.” You read all this stuff online, and everyone’s an expert, but try it yourself and it’s a whole different ball game. So much conflicting advice, it’s enough to make your head spin.
Candling was kind of cool, I admit. Holding a flashlight up to the eggs in a dark room, seeing the little veins. That’s when you know something’s actually happening in there. Lost a couple early on, no veins, just clear. Tossed ’em out. Felt a bit bad, but what can you do?
The humidity, oh boy, don’t even get me started. My cheapo incubator just had these little water channels you had to fill. Sponges, no sponges, more water, less water. It was a constant battle. One day the hygrometer (fancy word for a humidity measurer I bought separately) would be reading Sahara desert levels, the next it was like a Louisiana swamp in that box. I was just winging it half the time, hoping for the best.
Then came lockdown, the last few days before they’re supposed to hatch. You stop turning them, crank up the humidity, and just… wait. That was the hardest part. Just sitting there, listening for peeps. I was like an expectant father, pacing around. Probably drove everyone nuts.
Day 28. Nothing. Day 29, still nothing. I was starting to think old Fitzwilliam’s ducks were shooting blanks. My hopes were sinking pretty fast. I’d told the kids we’d have ducklings, and now I’m thinking I’m gonna have some serious explaining to do. Then, on day 30, I heard it. A tiny little ‘pip’. One egg had a small crack! Man, I was excited.
Took ages for that first one to get out. Zipping around the shell, then just resting. It’s exhausting work for a little duckling, apparently. Over the next two days, seven more hatched. Little yellow fluffballs, peeping like crazy. It was amazing, honestly. Four of the eggs never did anything, just sat there. Bit of a letdown for those ones, but hey, eight out of twelve for a first timer with a rubbish incubator? I’ll take it.
Cleaning out the incubator afterwards was gross, by the way. Shells, gunk, the whole nine yards. But seeing those little guys waddling around in the brooder box I’d cobbled together made it all worth it. Yeah, it was a hassle, and I probably did a bunch of things wrong, but we got ducklings. And I learned a heck of a lot. Mostly that next time, I’m buying a better incubator.
