Dad owns a hobby farm in Alban. A tiny, sleepy town about 45 minutes south of Sudbury. The Farm used to have cattle, sheep, rabbits and chickens. On our way home from a camping trip one year, we stopped in for a surprise visit. Dad wasn't home, but we slipped on some rubber boots and took the kids for a tour of the barnyard.
As we walked through the barn, The Girl spies a dead chicken on a bench. She looks up at her father, her big doe eyes pleading, questioning. "What's the chicken doing, Daddy?"
I close my eyes. Oh man. I wasn't prepared to explain the cycle of life to a four-year old. Please God, I'm thinking, give me the right words to say so that I don't traumatize this child for life. I had visions of The Girl running screaming from the barn and vowing to never eat chicken again.
The Husband doesn't hesitate. He presses a finger to his lips and whispers "Shhhh. The chicken is sleeping." The Girl's eyes widen. "Oh!" she whispers loudly. And pressing a finger to her own lips, she begins to tiptoe out of the barn, pulling her father who is tiptoeing behind her.