Mr. Chicken entered our lives when Eldest was just about three years old. Daughter had just turned one. It's a long story explaining who gave him to us. Or maybe it's a story that's not so much long as it is difficult to explain. Or maybe it's a story that's not so much difficult to explain as it is boring. Yeah, let's call the origins of Mr. Chicken a boring story and go forth with our tale today.
It's Mr. Chicken. The children's attachment to him waxes and wanes. When he does come out of hiding, all three of them squeal and shriek and play around with Mr. Chicken. In his most recent venture from his hiding coop, Eldest played down to Youngest as we wrapped up dinner. We even got food to feed Mr. Chicken, just to be sure Mr. Chicken didn't feed on any one of us. [Don't bother telling us that chickens are vegetarians. We know better.]
It's been a long time since anyone in the house truly believed Mr. Chicken was anything other than a puppet. I remember those days of pure belief and delight in my little ones' eyes and voices. And I'm glad those memories can come back with such strong force from time to time. It just takes something like a dusting-off of good ole Mr. Chicken.