Innocence lost

Today we went to Trader Joe's to get a brine turkey for Thanksgiving. I had a lot on my mind (Room Parent activities, the kids' holiday parties, Malia's Sing-A-Long, ballet recital, Thanksgiving with the in-laws, making Christmas cards, naps, dinner -- you get the picture) and I use the car (it's the only place I have that allows me a modicum of personal space) as a place to ruminate over my to do list. Or in my case, my "holy cow, how am I ever going to get everything done?!" list. Malia asked me where we were going and why. I told her we were going to Trader Joe's to get a turkey for Thanksgiving.

You know how you get used to talking a certain way and forget that kids take what you say literally? You're especially vulnerable when you have other things banging around in your head.

(You can imagine what's going to happen next, right?)

Me: "We're going to Trader Joe's to get a turkey for Thanksgiving."

Malia: "Oh, really?!! I can't wait!"
She's very excited. In fact, a little too excited for the simple task of grocery shopping. That familiar danger danger danger warning starts buzzing in my head. And as usual, I ignore it.

Malia: "Mom, where are we going to keep the turkey?"

Oh crap. It dawns on me (finally, because I'm the village idiot) what she's all excited about. Crap crap crap. She thinks we're getting a real turkey. As in "gobble gobble gobble, this is my pet turkey" turkey.

All other thoughts flee from my head as I try to find a way to explain to her the facts of where her chicken nuggets and beloved bacon come from, without traumatizing her off meat. Forever. I can barely cook as it is and to try to accommodate a 3 year old vegetarian? My nightmare of all nightmares.

Me: "We're going to keep the turkey... in the... f-f-fridge."
As is my custom when trapped by my kids, I talk slowly, weighing every word, watching out for any self-made pitfalls.

Malia: "Huh? The fridge? Why, mom? How will it run around?"
Ugh. There's no way around it. I just have to tell her.

Me: "Honey, it's not that kind of turkey. It's a different kind of turkey. It's the kind of turkey that... that... we eat. "

Silence.

Mom: "You know, for Thanksgiving."

More silence. It's making me nervous so I start babbling a little.

Me: "So, we're going to buy it. And then I'm going to...uh... cook it. And then we're going to... uh... going to eat it. For Thanksgiving."

Silence. And then...

Malia: "WE'RE GOING TO EAT THE TURKEY ANIMAL?!!!"
In the most disgusted, offended voice I've ever heard from her.

Malia: "THE TURKEY ANIMAL??!!!"
She said it again, as if she couldn't believe her ears.

I don't say anything. I can't say anything. What the heck can I say?? I can't think that fast on the fly to mitigate the damage. So I use silence as my answer. Luckily we were parking so yes, like a coward, I used that as my excuse to remain silent.

I put Taede in the cart. Malia walks by my side. She's uncharacteristically quiet. I still don't say anything and quite honestly, I'm hoping this all blows away so I don't have to say anything. In my mind, a box of candies would well be worth the money to make it just disappear. We cross the parking lot and I notice her looking around, looking a little apprehensive. I wonder what the heck is she doing? She's looking around the front of the store, eyes darting everywhere. And that's when I realize she's looking for the turkeys. As if they were running around, free range in the Trader Joe's parking lot.

Egads! Say something. Say something, Sonya!

BUT WHAT??!!!

To make matters even worse, as we enter Joe's... they have laid turkey tracks on the floor. TURKEY TRACKS, for crying out loud!!! Leading up to the refrigerated section where the dead bird carcasses lay piled up, waiting to be bought.

Malia: "Mommy!! Look! Turkey tracks!!"

Me: "Oh yeah, honey! I see them..."

I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I really don't know where to go with this so I meekly follow her as she happily hops on each turkey track. Up to the shrink wrapped birds.

She looks at them.

She looks at them again, a little puzzled. I think she was trying to reconcile the image of the feathered turkey of her preschool stories to the plastic wrapped odd shaped thing at the store.

And luckily, thankfully, it didn't compute. She didn't say anything further and I didn't volunteer. Armed with an oddly shaped 16-pound shrink wrapped Thanksgiving Something for me, a carton of graham crackers for Taede, and a box of strawberry mochi ice cream for her, we finally exit the store.