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?"

Little Doll Dishes

OK, I'll make it snappy and complete last week's story...  

Yes, I was the same Ms. Grothe whose son had bitten into a light bulb last Sunday night and had gone to the emergency room to be monitored in case he had swallowed glass.  And, yes, my husband was currently screaming from the agonizing burning sensations inside his head because he had just snorted a jalepeno seed.  But before the nurse could get a doctor's visit arranged, the jalepeno seed washed away in the streams of water that continued to pour from Randy's eyes and nostrils.  He stopped jumping and screaming and collapsed into exhaustion. 

No lasting ill effects...end of story.

So tonight my question is... 

Why do children have to grow up so fast?  Why can't we let them enjoy being children without being burdened with too much adult information?

Elena's 6th grade teacher wanted her to do a report on Auschwitz.  Auschwitz!  She was only 11 years old.  I had already proven my smother mother credentials that year by protesting the showing of  "Salaam, Bombay!".  The film featured orphaned and homeless children surviving amidst the crime, child prostitution, and violence on the streets of Bombay.  When I objected, the teacher informed me that she was just trying to prepare the students for middle school and high school, and that I needed to let Elena grow up.

This growing up madness started way too early for my liking; it began when Elena first started nursery school at the age of 2. She was immediately thrust amongst more progressive 2-year olds with more progressive parents.

When Elena was 2, I became pregnant with Jackson and I explained to her that there was a baby in my tummy.  She was perfectly delighted with this and proudly went off to nursery school to announce the blessed event to all her buddies.  Of course,  she was immediately shot down and shamed by a know-it-all 2 year old in her class. Little Daniel (whose mother was also pregnant at the time) informed Elena that the baby was not in my tummy, "Your Mommy didn't swallow it!",  he mocked. She came home and informed me that the baby was in my uterus (which she pronounced, utewus)."The baby is in your utewus, Mommy, not your tummy", almost rolling her eyes at my naivete.

Later that year, there was the night when she was bathing with her rubber ducky and sweetly asked me,  "Mommy, do I have china?"  

"No", I explained, "You have little doll dishes."

"I don't have china?", she persisted. 

I assured her that she had plenty of little doll dishes.

"Do you have china?", she asked.

I explained that I had my Grandmother's china and that someday it might be hers, but that right now she had plenty of little doll dishes all her own.

As she got out of the bath and I was wrapping her with a towel, she summed it all up for me.... "Jake says that boys have a penis and girls have china."

Kathleen's Glorious Sunday

Siyahamba, ekukanyen' kwenkos'

Siyahamba ekukanyen' kwenkos.

We are marching in the light of God

We are marching in the light of God

Last Sunday evening, 3 nights ago, in the brisk North Texas night, it was the last night of November.  Jupiter and Venus were at their brightest and closest over the sliver of the early evening moon; a celestial trifecta occurred.  Inside, four year old Skyler was belting out the tune of the Zulu hymn as he marched around and around the dining room table, lifting each knee high as he reciprocally beat the rhythm on an imaginary drum. In the crowded home, his was a solo performance. Bill, his father, was graciously bidding farewell to the tearful guests, "Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming" as they filed out into the crisp night air. 

Kathleen sat on the couch with an afghan draped across her lap, the windows open behind her and the oxygen tube recently re-aligned so that both nostrils could access the supplemental air. She was warm and had asked for the windows to be raised. "That's a first; she's never been warm before," Bill said as he hurried to comply with her single request. Then she asked for a chicken quesadilla from Taco Bueno and a red-eyed parishioner rushed away to bring her a bite of Tex-Mex.

Her "glorious Sunday" included baptising 36 babies, hosting the youth choir in her den, then hosting innumerable friends, parishioners, and loved ones - like me - as we hugged and said whatever we could.  

Siyahamba ekukanyen kwenkos

We are marching in the light of God.

It was on a steamy Sunday in the summer of 1994, Jackson and I sat on a pew at Greenland Hills and listened as Kathleen preached her first "Glory Be!" sermon.  He was 12 at the time - and about a month away from entering 7th grade at Long Middle School.  Elena was sitting in front of us with her high school friends.  At the end of the service, I watched Jackson tap and count off on his fingers starting with his thumb, "7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th - will she stay here for 6 years?" he asked.

She stayed at Greenland Hills for 7 years and we all loved her dearly.  She was the most powerful influence on Jackson's coming of age - outside of our family.  She stayed until the summer after his freshman year at college. 

Kathleen died yesterday.

On Sunday evening, I sat on her couch and hugged Kathleen and tried to put into words my gratitude for her presence in our lives. How do you thank someone for helping to raise your children? We laughed and hugged and told stories as love reigned over us.

Siyahamba ekukanyen kwenkos

We are marching in the light of God.