Ada: “I am going to make this a chicken sandwich. Chicken is going in the sandwich. He is in my big car.”
Rodger: “Does chicken want to be eaten?”
Ada: “Nooooo.”
Rodger: “Then perhaps chicken shouldn’t go in the sandwich.”
Ada: “Chicken has to go in the sandwich, because it’s a chicken sandwich.”
Ada then stuffs the toy chicken - the same toy chicken, I note that went to hospital with her when she was seriously ill at 7 months - into the cushions making up the sandwich, ordering him to “push your head in!”, throws a towel over it so the sandwich will cook, and then announces:
“Chicken is making a terrible fuss!”
Rodger: “Is that because chicken doesn’t want to be eaten?”
Ada: “Yes. Now you must eat the chicken sandwich.”
Fortunately I had already been designated a triceratops, so no chicken for me.
I’m far too sentimental to have given her any of this cooking and eating my toys. I blame her mother.