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“Pollito; Extended”
A while back I had gotten a toy set for my son when he turned one. It was a set of barns and barn animals. The tops on the barns would open and reveal a hollow center where the animals could hide.
And, my son loved it. He enjoys hiding various things, not just the animals, inside and opening the barn with a surprised gasp and a little giggle.
His favorite animal in the bunch is the chick or, as I call it, “pollito”.
I would play a game with him where I'd hold up the chicken and say, “Pollito! Peep! Peep! Peep!” And, he'd giggle and repeat my words before taking the little chicken and placing it into the barn. It was fun for him.
Which brings me to a lesson I learned recently.
One evening, we were eating El Pollo Loco. It's not out of the ordinary for either myself or my husband to feed our son, though he has gotten to the point where he'll grab what he wants as he's eating. He's a big boy after all.
So, when my husband lifted a small piece of chicken up to my son I didn't think much of it. And maybe, it was the lack of thought that resulted in what happened next.
As my husband extended his hand which held the white meat, I got the ever so bright idea to say, “Pollito! Peep! Peep! Peep!”
Then, everything froze.
The small eyebrows on my son began to lift into the heavens almost in slow motion. His mouth slowly fell into an “o” shape. His big round brown eyes turned to me with horror.
A second passed before it dawned on me that my little one and a half year old had taken in what I had said, processed it, put it together, and had conjured a very intense feeling.
His tiny hand darted up as he raced to stop the chicken choo choo train.
“No!” He shouted.
After that interaction, he gingerly picked at the rice and beans for a few moments before going off to play with his toys…looking contemplative.
Now, forgive me for being woefully unaware that a one and a half year old could comprehend the vastly complex idea that eating chicken means eating a living, now dead, thing.
I never would've imagined in a million years that I, not a video about what hormones are pumped into chicken or a vegan or any plethora of other articles and videos discussing what chickens go through to become food, would be what would ruin chicken for my son.
Since then, I've noticed his hesitancy whenever I bring him food. Though he quickly shakes it off, I can tell the core memory of “Pollito” is still burned into his soul.
And in those moments the lesson of what words can do, is burned into mine.
BY: J.M.M.POWELL
© J.M.M.Powell
And, my son loved it. He enjoys hiding various things, not just the animals, inside and opening the barn with a surprised gasp and a little giggle.
His favorite animal in the bunch is the chick or, as I call it, “pollito”.
I would play a game with him where I'd hold up the chicken and say, “Pollito! Peep! Peep! Peep!” And, he'd giggle and repeat my words before taking the little chicken and placing it into the barn. It was fun for him.
Which brings me to a lesson I learned recently.
One evening, we were eating El Pollo Loco. It's not out of the ordinary for either myself or my husband to feed our son, though he has gotten to the point where he'll grab what he wants as he's eating. He's a big boy after all.
So, when my husband lifted a small piece of chicken up to my son I didn't think much of it. And maybe, it was the lack of thought that resulted in what happened next.
As my husband extended his hand which held the white meat, I got the ever so bright idea to say, “Pollito! Peep! Peep! Peep!”
Then, everything froze.
The small eyebrows on my son began to lift into the heavens almost in slow motion. His mouth slowly fell into an “o” shape. His big round brown eyes turned to me with horror.
A second passed before it dawned on me that my little one and a half year old had taken in what I had said, processed it, put it together, and had conjured a very intense feeling.
His tiny hand darted up as he raced to stop the chicken choo choo train.
“No!” He shouted.
After that interaction, he gingerly picked at the rice and beans for a few moments before going off to play with his toys…looking contemplative.
Now, forgive me for being woefully unaware that a one and a half year old could comprehend the vastly complex idea that eating chicken means eating a living, now dead, thing.
I never would've imagined in a million years that I, not a video about what hormones are pumped into chicken or a vegan or any plethora of other articles and videos discussing what chickens go through to become food, would be what would ruin chicken for my son.
Since then, I've noticed his hesitancy whenever I bring him food. Though he quickly shakes it off, I can tell the core memory of “Pollito” is still burned into his soul.
And in those moments the lesson of what words can do, is burned into mine.
BY: J.M.M.POWELL
© J.M.M.Powell
