We’ve started a new routine when we go grocery shopping. Now that Georgia is almost four and a half — and getting in and out of shopping cart seats is becoming a challenge — she has become my shopper’s helper. Of course it makes shopping take twice as long and it has to be timed to avoid Monkey Mode or the Sour Hour. But on a good day, with the grocery gods seeing fit to grant me peace and patience, and a promised treat to Georgia for good behavior, it works out OK.

So the other day we were shopping and I pointed out items for Georgia to get. Here's what happened...

G: May I push the cart?

B: Hmm, OK but can you focus on not bumping into anyone or anything? LIKE THAT LADY RIGHT THERE!?! (aside to nice, almost bumped lady) Excuse me, I’m so sorry. OK now Georgia, please be super careful or I’ll need to take over the cart, so now will you please get one package of string cheese, the one with the purple on it, that’s the organic string cheese.

G: Howzabout two?

B: We just need one today. OK, can you choose six bananas that aren’t too green or too brown?

G: What about potato chips, can we get potato chips?

B: Not today. That’s only for parties, we don’t want them in the house all the time or we might be tempted to eat too many of them. Can you choose six bananas?

G: Ohhhhkayyyy. One, two, three — Mommy, are these OK?

B: What do you think?

G: I think they are perfect!

B: Me too, good job. How many more do you need to make six?...

So you get the idea, it’s all about teachable moments, a little math lesson and a lot of patience. The shopping continued and then we came to the eggs. I looked at them all, tried to figure out the best price for the least abused chickens and chose some brown eggs. I checked them for cracks and put them in the cart. Georgia grew serious and silent. I wasn’t sure what the change was about but figured she’d just hit the wall and needed some calm time. I negotiated her into the cart seat and continued shopping and tried to take advantage of the mood swing.

About halfway down the cat food aisle she asked, “Mommy, why did you get brown eggs?” I used to buy brown eggs all the time to create a market for diverse chickens, but now with brown eggs in every grocery store, that doesn’t seem so important. I just said, “well, they looked the best and they were the least expensive.” Her lip started to quiver, “but Mommy, brown eggs mean the chickens weren’t treated very well…” She was really sad that I would buy eggs from chickens who had endured such a hard-knock life that their eggs came out brown. I had no idea where this came from and I was sprinting toward the check-out finish line. I did manage to contain my laughter and try to ease her concerns, so I said too soon, “Oh no, sweetie, different kinds of chickens lay different color eggs. Some chickens even lay beautiful blue eggs and pink eggs. Brown eggs don’t mean the chickens weren’t treated well.” She’s at a poignant stage where she doesn’t like to be wrong, so she sort of mumbled, “Oh yes, oh right, silly me.” “Why did you think the chickens weren’t treated well?” I asked. She was too bothered that she had been wrong, so she just said, “Let’s just talk about this another time.” The time hasn’t been right yet.

We’ve talked a little bit about how we buy meat and eggs and milk from animals that have been treated with respect and allowed to live like they are supposed to live for their albeit short lives, but I didn’t know how deeply it had gone into her imagination — and heart. I’d love to know what sort of chicken world she had in her little head and how she came to the brown-egg-means-mistreated-chicken conclusion. Probably couldn’t touch the terrible reality of factory-farmed chickens, but we’ll save that for a lesson when she’s much, much older.