Waddle, waddle, quack, quack.

The following is a transcript from a recent telephone conversation with my mother.

Me: Mom, there's something we need to talk about.

Mom: OK…

Me: I just saw my podiatrist.

Mom: And?

Me: I have something of a bone to pick with you.

Mom: What is it?

Me: I asked him about the duck walk.

Mom: Oh, dear.

Me: Listen, Mom, Dr. Lowery says I was born with it. That it's in my bone structure.

Mom: I see.

Me: Mom, God made me this way. There's nothing you or I or anyone could consciously do to change my behavior. All that time you spent trying to correct my steps--

Mom: I was just trying to help you to be a normal boy.

Me: Normal? Mom, I was who I was, and I am who I am. This is all the normal you're going to get out of me. I can't change. All I have ever wanted was for you to love me for who I was, not for how I walked.

Mom: Couldn't you at least try to point your toes straight ahead when you walk?

Me: I did not choose this, and I couldn't possibly choose to walk any differently. Believe me, if I could have chosen my gait, it would certainly not have been that of a duck: heels in, toes out. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. The stares, the guffaws, the mockery—it's not been an easy road. (lengthy pause) But, it is a road I must continue to travel as courageously as I possibly can, knowing full well that pain will surely follow me all of my days.

Mom: You can't control it?

Me: I've tried. Honest, I have.

Mom: What about a good therapist?

Me: You're missing the point.

Mom: You're saying this is genetic?

Me: Yes, Mom, that's what I'm trying to tell you.

Mom: If you have kids, are there going to be little ducks waddling around the house?

Me: Yes, Mom, and I hope you'll love them, independent of their manner of locomotion.

Mom: I'll try.

Me: That's all I ask.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, May 6, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: (pre)determined
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