She watches me cut up a chicken breast and says, "Mommy, you're hurting it."
"Honey I can't hurt it, it's dead."
"What was it?" she asks.
"It's chicken," I say, and Lindsey and I begin making clucking noises, because we're sensitive like that.
More and more questions about the chicken, what color it might have been, how long it lived, why did it die, why do we eat it, what part are we eating, and so on.
I make up the chicken and broccoli part; Lindsey nibbles on a piece of chicken and declares it edible. We serve up the stirfry on their plates and sit down to our various dishes. Lindsey tucks right in, shoveling rice and stirfry into her mouth - clearly a winner with our picky eater.
"Do you have everything you need?" I ask Marissa, who seems to be picking at her meal.
"Yep," she says, "I have grapes, rice, broccoli...and animals," poking at the chicken at the last word. She took a piece of chicken and says, "I think I taste furry."
We all burst into laughter, Marissa most of all. But surprisingly, she ate her animal and declared it good.
|Marissa eating something other than a chicken.|