Foo-Foo

Imagine being 2 years old, in possession of enormous curiosity, and managing the chaos of 20th century East Dallas and the joy of la vida Grothe.  That's exactly where Elena found herself in the summer of 1981.

She was born to be an investigative journalist, Randy said;  she did ask ALOT of questions.  Prior to this time, I held considerable pride in my ability to communicate with children;  this was something I had education and expertise in.  But when Elena hyper-focused on an issue beyond her range, Randy was far more adept than I at heading her off and bringing her back to the here-and-now of being 2. The combination of her natural proclivity toward investigation and my misguided belief that all children's questions deserved to be answered in a manner they could understand inevitably led us into dicey territory.  Randy would frequently return from work to find us mired in a never-ending Q & A dealing with impossible topics that puzzled great minds - other great minds.

The other essential detail to appreciate in this story is that Elena, at age 2, had an urgent physiological need for an afternoon nap, a full-blown, 2-hour afternoon nap.  Our days were planned accordingly.

Rather, most of our days were planned accordingly...

During August of '81, I had weekly appointments with Dr. Leib over at St. Paul Hospital to manage this pregnancy situation I was also dealing with.  So one hot afternoon, I buckled Elena into her car seat for the trek to St. Paul.  By the time we hit Fitzhugh she was sucking away on her thumb and drifting into slumber.  Clearly, there would be hell to pay if I allowed her to fall asleep now in the car and not be able to complete her nap, so I launched into the daunting task of keeping her awake with an arsenal of oral diversions.

'Little Bunny Foo-Foo Hoppin' Through the Forest...', we sang.

'The People on the Bus Go Up and Down...', we sang.

'Wise Men Say, Only Fools Rush In, But I can't help falling in love with you..', we sang.

'Memory - All Alone in the Moonlight...', we sang.

I'd become desperate and we were just turning onto Harry Hines; Elena was fading fast. So, in that crucial and desperate moment, I said, "Look, Elena, on your left is Parkland Memorial Hospital where they took President Kennedy when he was shot!"

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was slammed with panic and remorse. Out popped her thumb.."Why'd they shoot President Kennedy?" she asked. (Why'd dey shoot Pwesident Dennedy?) I was beating myself up for general and pervasive maternal ineptitude and feared I was ruining her life.  Asking myself  WWRD  (what would Randy do?),  I replied... "No, no - I meant that's the summer home of Santa's elves."

"Who shot Pwesident Dennedy?" she persisted. Now she was fully awake and had morphed into her investigative mode and there was no turning back. "Lee Harvey Oswald" I muttered before launching into 'Little Bunny Foo-Foo' for the umpteenth time.

By the time we got into St. Paul, she was asking about motives and theories.  I was faced, in this awkward and public situation, with all my failures as a mother.  I knew that Randy would know how to deflect and redirect her, but it would be more than a decade before cell phones.  I was reduced to asking her to keep her voice to a whisper as we sat in the waiting room.  I told her that there were books written about all this and that we could read them later, when she was a little older.  I tried to redirect her to 'Green Eggs and Ham'. As a young mother, you'll never face a more vigilant and judgmental crowd than those surrounding you in your obstetrician's waiting room.

Her questions continued all afternoon and evening up until her bedtime. Then, in the wee hours of the next morning, Randy and I were awakened when our precious 2 year old stood by our bedside asking,

"Mommy, what did the Wawwen Weport say?"