Review: Noel Wien Library, Mother Moose Storytime

We finally made it. After months of missed chances, Coral Anna had her first shot at Mother Moose. I was stuck in The Two Kid Dilemma—is baby number two getting enough attention? When Cedar was little we went to every Mother Moose from eight weeks on. So far Coral has had to tag along at Parents and Twos, which she seems to enjoy, but as a mom I couldn’t help feeling guilty.

Cedar was excited to go teach Coral some songs and to see Miss Kitty. I was afraid she’d terrorize all the little babies with her two-year-old dance party moves and her aggressive hugging. Through lucky circumstances, her dad had taken the morning off and was able to come with us. On a cold day we loaded on the layers and headed to the library as a complete nuclear family.

Cedar’s good friend Ellie, her mom and little sister were standing at the desk when we arrived. They had decided to bravely bring big sister to baby storytime too. Cedar shouted, “Ellie and Laura and Josie!” and rushed toward them. I was glad we had a dad back-up as I don’t know what Laura and I would have done as only two moms outnumbered by four girls in a room full of crawling babies.

I didn’t have to fear. As we found seats on the lily pads on the story carpet, Cedar and Ellie started an eerie duet of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Then as Miss Veleta sat down in the front of the room, they entered a not unpleasant zombie-like state. Perhaps their early exposure to Mother Moose sent them both into a pre-toddler mode. I’ll have to remember that for trips to the grocery store when Cedar whines me, “Moooommmmm, we really need some doughnuts. I need to eat them right now.” With a little “Five Little Monkeys” she might regress to a time before she knew doughnuts.

Miss Veleta designs Mother Moose for the shortest of attention spans. It’s part songs and part play. It’s a great way to introduce your little one to our excellent public library. Don’t be late. If you’re waylaid by a poopy diaper, it’s possible you might only be able to enjoy the play portion of the program. Mother Moose is twice a month and there’s no pre-registration. Check the schedule .

The program is a series of songs and rhymes and one story. On Friday, the hello song was followed by rhymes like “Buttons Here, Buttons There,” “I Have a Little Heart,” “Valentines, Valentines,” and “Choo Choo.” We also sang some classics like “Humpty Dumpty.” Although the songs are for the kiddies, the program is really for the parents. It’s designed to remind moms and dads of early literacy things we can do at home. In fact, everyone’s sent home with a lyrics sheet to help out.

The grand finale is baby utopia. Miss Veleta goes into the staff room and rolls out balls of various sizes. She brings out a slew of baby toys and two sets of big soft block climbers with arches, steps, and inclines. Crawling, rolling, and staggering around are all welcome. Coral is completely focused on pulling herself up, which she hasn’t mastered yet, so she loved the stairs. When she’s sitting up, she can just about get on hands and knees, so the balls were a good time for her too, pulling her a little further forward each time they rolled out of her reach.

Just before balls rolled out, TJ took Cedar and Ellie to read on the couches in front of the mural in the main room. Laura and I were able to play with Coral and Josie and let them watch and explore instead of having to stop our firstborns from beaning newborns with balls. When you have a toddler, it’s easy to forget that there was a time you could bring out a ball and be guaranteed that rolling would be its only purpose.

Playtime is also parent social time. After being holed up all week, this is a stay-at-home’s chance to visit with other folks. During playtime Miss Veleta circulates and makes it a point to spend a little time visiting with each baby. She’s very welcoming to older siblings and sometimes asks them to “help” her if they’re having trouble focusing while the little one gets the attention.

We all fear being the person with “that kid” in any public setting, but the Berry Room’s a safe space. It’s a little easier to take Coral to Cedar’s story time. At six months, she can’t run away yet. This outing proved the reverse can be done. Cedar can go to Coral’s storytime. With a little prep about “teaching your sister the songs,” we can do it without backup. Here’s how I will manage it:

1. I’ll leave all coats and the car seat in the main room, so when it is time to go, we will leave the toys quickly behind.

2. I won’t plan on checking out books other than the ones in the easily accessible board book bin.

3. I will have something spectacular for snack, maybe a muffin. That way if Cedar doesn’t want to leave and I remind her about our “picnic under the trees” in the foyer, I’d have something really good to mention.

4. As always, I will wear the sling as a clothing accessory in case I find myself suddenly in need of two hands.

Please comment and share your wisdom if you have any tips for taking the older ones to the younger one’s events.

tags technorati : fairbanks, motherhood, alaska, library storytime

Fairbanks Funk–Back Again

This morning my post Fairbanks Funk aired as a commentary on KUAC, our local NPR affiliate. Take a listen if you’d like.

tags technorati : fairbanks, alaska,

Song Lyrics: Chicken Salad of the Mother of God

Busy. Busy. I’ve been polishing poems for a work sample due March first. TJ has joined February Album Writing Month, so he has 14 songs to write and record in 28 days (he’s on 11). We get the kids to bed and each jump on a laptop to get to work. Of course this means housekeeping has gone to pot. We’ve officially begun to refer to the blue armchair in the living room as “the laundry chair,” the girls have been wearing mismatched socks for a week, and we had pancakes for dinner tonight.

But the house is filled with the creative energy unheard of even in our grad school days. It’s even rubbed off on the girls. Coral has been playing the toy piano with a ferocity that has led to the nickname “Criberace.” Cedar has begun writing songs herself. I want to share her lyrics.

The first is called “Mermaids”

Mermaids are beautiful.
I need it. I need it. I need it. I need it. I need it.
(repeat lines for about 45 minutes)

The second we call “Chicken Salad”

Chicken salad of god.
Chicken salad of the mother of god.
It’s a beautiful mother of god salad.
Flip the candles of mother of god.

mmmmm
say mmmmm
say ohmmmmmmm

mother of god is
sing sing sing.
That’s the words for chicken salad.

I have no idea who says, “mother of god” around here. It’s odd coming from a child so steeped in Buddhist children books that she likes to pretend she’s “Baby Rahula” and I’m Yasodhara. Maybe the Virgin Mary appeared to her in some chicken salad and told her to write this song. However these songs arrived, they’re my new favorites.

tags technorati : lyrics, motherhood

Review: Alaska Coffee Roasting Company, Fairbanks, Alaska

4001 Geist Road, Fairbanks, Alaska

Alaska Coffee Roasting Company opened in 1994, the year I moved here. I remember being surprised by how excited people were. In Minneapolis, the ubiquitous cool coffee shop was something I had become immune too. I expected rather than appreciated them. Looking back, I realize that Coffee Roasters (as we all affectionately call it) was another kind of Alaskan pioneer—the first coffee shop in Fairbanks to aspire to Outside standards.

It’s the coffee shop that is most likely to be called pretentious in a town where pretension is almost impossible. In Fairbanks, people in heels look stupid rather than fashionable. Coffee Roasters doesn’t seem stupid; it just tries harder than other places in town. It’s a little more Seattle than Fairbanks.

Since I arrived, it’s expanded and relocated, taking over an old bank drive through. It’s a beautiful space with blonde wood, marble counters, an elegant curved counter, and a view of the wood fired brick oven. Both the food and the coffee are excellent. For the little ones, a mini-pizza, or better yet, a hot dog baked into a crusty bread are excellent options. If you go for the hot dog, be sure to bring a leatherman to cut it up. It’s big for a two-year-old mouth.

Coffee Roasters is a kid and nursing friendly place with high chairs and a top-notch changing station, but it can be tricky if you’re outnumbered. The first challenge is the line. It’s rare to come in and not find a line winding around the beautiful counter. Waiting in line, staring at all the tasty pastries absorbing the ambience is great if you’re a grown up all alone, but it’s a trial you’re toting a two-year-old. I’ve stood for extended periods of time bouncing an almost screaming six month old in her car seat while trying to keep a bored two-year old from picking up every brownie in the basket and yelling, “I’ll eat this one too!”

I’m not sure why the line is so long. It seems to be a problem with the lack of a dedicated cashier or traffic flow behind the counter. I’ve watched the staff. When they see a regular waiting they greet them by name and immediately begin making their drink, but this doesn’t speed things up. The cashier has to keep leaving the register to get baked goods and occasionally make coffee, so no one gets through quickly. Floppy toddler syndrome is a serious risk.

Another difficulty arises if you happen to visit while the seating area is full. There are a variety of table sizes—a few regular four-person tables, some two-person tables, and a whole bunch the size of a dinner plate. You may get stuck with a teeny-tiny table, making crayons impossible. Broken glasses and spilled coffee threaten. There’s no way to keep the kids away from the full coffee cups when their coloring books are bigger than the tables.

My friend Laura and I headed over together around 10:30 am. Her three year old was at preschool, so our odds were better than usual. Two moms and three girls—2.5, 6 months, and 3 months. The last time we went for coffee we were outnumbered two to one and it didn’t go so well. Three to two worked better.

Laura sat at the table with the girls while I ordered. We managed to get a big table with room for markers and Play-Doh. Cedar drew contentedly. With a blanket propped behind her for support, Coral took her first try at a restaurant high chair. It was perfect. We sat drinking coffee, pretending we lived in a more elegant city, thinking about buying heels, until Cedar got squirrelly.

She started demonstrating yoga poses. “Look Laura, Downward dog! Look, Laura, Tree pose!” she shouted. Our conversation halted. She stuck her hand into some flattened gum on the tile. Other patrons either looked at her lovingly or pointedly ignored her. She lay flat on the floor in the flow of traffic to the exit door in corpse pose and sang, “The light in you sees the light in me. Namaste! Namaste! Namaste!” Her toddler yoga seemed just pretentious enough for the environment. I carried her screaming to the bathroom to wash her hand.

She decided she wanted a muffin. For once, no one was in line. We rushed up. The baristas pointedly ignored us.Somehow everyone was so busy that they couldn’t even pass us a muffin and take our dollars and change. A line sprouted behind us. Cedar grew impatient and Coral, back at the high chair with Laura and Josie, started to fuss. A barista asked, “Can I get started on a drink for you?” as if just getting started made complete sense. I said, “All we want is a muffin,” the desperation obvious in my voice. She looked just a little annoyed, but sold us a muffin anyway. We headed back and all was well again.

My advice—go to coffee roasters with a buddy at an off-peak time. You can tag team the line and there will be big tables open. Bring coloring stuff, books, and toys. Maybe the kids will sit still while you pretend you’re not in the middle of Alaska and complete the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen with your funky glasses perched on your head and your high heel boots dripping snow on the tile. Or maybe they’ll stick their hand in gum. It’s still Fairbanks after all.

Fairbanks Funk–Life in Fairbanks, Alaska

Solstice came and went. We made it through the forty-five days of January. The light has been increasing seven minutes a day, enough to make dinner a daytime activity. We’re headed to the Spring Equinox, and I’ve heard folks appreciating the red sunsets again. Our collective Fairbanks Funk is ending.

Fairbanks Funk is the overwhelming urge Fairbanksans get to move somewhere else. Anywhere else. It strikes as the light decreases in November, increases until December 20, and slowly fades in February.

If you attend a dinner party in Fairbanks during those months, you’re guaranteed to discuss relocating with at least three people. Each of them will have a different utopia in mind and strangely none of the destinations will be tropical. In fact, many in the grip of the funk will come to believe that moving to the ever-cloudy, often rainy Pacific Northwest would provide relief.

In our house, I know it’s set in when the hours my husband spends on realtor.com leave him red eyed and strangely idealistic. “If we only moved to Olympia,” he says, “We wouldn’t be here. Life would be better.”

Suffering the Funk, we bemoan putting kids in snowsuits, plugging in our cars, the cost of heating fuel, the inconvenience of chopping wood, the ever-present threat of burst pipes, the icy roads, and the dark. We believe that it must be better everywhere else.

Even my two-year-old, feels it. The other day, in the midst of a tantrum over having to wear a long sleeved shirt and jeans under her sundress, she shouted, “I’m angry because I’m tired of it being winter.” We all are.

But when we do travel Outside during the Funk, we resent leaving—the long flights, the ridiculous searches, the lack of trees, and sky, and stars. The Funk clutches us so hard that it makes us homesick for the place that brought it on. Friends returning from Hawaii this winter told me, “It was just too sunny and hot there. How can those people take it?”

In the winter months, we may be cranky, but we’re not crazy. You wouldn’t know it to ask a Funky Fairbanksan, but living in Fairbanks is like pulling the weather handle and hitting the jackpot every year. The earth always tilts back and gives us our big payoff—Fairbanks Frenzy. It’s what keeps us here.

The Frenzy starts the third week of February, peaks in May, and runs until August. People come out of their holes and decide it’s been too long since they had a party. Fairbanksans in April party hop all weekend—bonfire to bonfire to bonfire. During the frenzy, Lower 48 isn’t a geographic location; it’s a value judgment.

During high Frenzy, we sit on our decks in the sun at 9:30 pm or 10:30 pm or 11:30 pm after a sunny 75-degree day and wonder why anyone would live anywhere else. We pity our relatives Outside who are trapped in traffic, drowning in humidity, and still looking at the insult of a night sky. We make grand plans for building, writing, painting, canoeing, or hiking. We watch the fireweed climb and wait for those last blossoms to turn to white tufts signaling that we’re about to go through the cycle again.

That’s the beauty of it. There is a cycle, and the subarctic won’t let us forget it. We’re lucky to be part of it. In other places folks lose sight of the fact that they live on an amazing rock spinning through the awesome emptiness of space. Instead they spend their time driving from parking lot to parking lot across vast concrete prairies.

Here in Fairbanks, we do spend some time complaining, but deep down those who stay know how lucky we are. That’s why we’re all still here, biding our time until the next Equinox swings us back around.

tags technorati : Fairbanks, Alaska, Motherhood,

Leftover Salmon Recipe

At dinner Cedar asked, “Why do we always eat salmon fish?” I’m concerned that at only two years she’s asking this question. As an Alaska girl, she’s in for the long haul with the “salmon fish.”

The long answer is that the freezer gets refilled with 30 dipnetted Copper River reds. My husband heads down to Chitina each summer. Folks tie themselves to rocks and stand on outcroppings in life jackets to dip huge nets with 8-foot handles into the water and pull out salmon. That’s too much to explain to her.

And as parents we’re learning about what’s too much to explain to her. This morning as TJ dressed for her preschool, she said, “I’m going to take off my shoes when I get there.” He said, “You have to wear shoes because there might be a fire drill.” Oh, the resulting questions. When was the fire at school? Did the woodstove start the fire? Why was there a fire at school? She looked worried. As they went out the door she was still reeling, saying, “Remember when Miss Pammi was fighting the fire.”

The short answer about why we always eat salmon is: they weigh more than our cat. When we cook one, it lasts for the better part of a week—salmon cakes, salmon chowder, salmon salad.

She woke up from her nap today and demanded, “Mama, make me a salmon cake.” When I told her we had none defrosted, she cried. Counting our blessings during a long week, we’re lucky she still likes the “salmon fish” and we’re lucky she kept her shoes on today.

Easy Alaskan Salmon Cakes
Note: everything in the recipe is approximate. The goal is to make it a consistency that can easily be shaped into patties

a couple of handfuls of leftover salmon (flaked)
one or two eggs
breadcrumbs (from 2 pieces of bread)
about 1/4 cup minced onion
minced garlic (1 clove)
tartar sauce

Mix everything together. If it’s too wet add more breadcrumbs. If it’s too dry add more egg. Shape into patties and fry in a cast iron skillet. Dip in tartar sauce and feel grateful for the salmon that gave itself to you.

tags technorati : salmon, alaska, motherhood, recipe