Ten Threats Bigger than Gay Marriage

On April 3rd, Alaskans go to the polls to cast votes on a Statewide Advisory Vote on a proposed amendment to the state constitution “that would prohibit the state, or a municipality or other subdivision of the state, from providing employment benefits to same-sex partners.” The vote is the most recent episode in the aftermath of the Defense of Marriage Act that our state passed in 1998.

We missed the boat. A number of things are more threatening to marriage than Same Sex Marriage or offering benefits to gay employees’ partners. Legislating against any of these ten threats instead will save many marriages. Please choose one of these and write to you legislator immediately.

Top 10 Real Threats to Marriage in Alaska (and everywhere else):

1. The Weather

Last night it was twenty-seven below. March is supposed to be the month for getting outside and having fun. What happened? Today Fairbanks is a cranky little town full of husbands and wives snapping at each other because we can’t take the cabin fever.

2. Household Remodels

Which sink? Which color? Which tile? Which fixtures? Which paint? Dust. Bruised knuckles. Five hundred dollar plumber bill. Trial separation?

3. Blogging

“Come to bed, honey.” “I just need to comment on this obscure Latvian parenting blog.” Two hours later. ZZZZZZZZ.

4. Television

Lost. Deadwood. The Sopranos. Whatever it is, for your marriage’s sake, shut it off and go have sex instead.

5. The Disney Princesses

Cinderella, Ariel, Snow White, Beauty and other helpless protagonists perpetuate stereotypes that undermine marriage. Girls learn that the only worthy men are handsome and rich. Real marriage has trouble living up to fairytale expectations. Especially in Alaska, where grizzled and filthy is the norm.

6. The United States Health Care System

If money is the number one thing couples argue about, and many bankruptcies are caused by looming medical debt, it seems we sure could save many brides and grooms a trip to divorce court if we re-thought privatized health care. Marriage counseling, it’s not covered. You’ll have to pay for that out of pocket too.

7. Holidays

Christmas, Thanksgiving, whatever you celebrate. Overeating, family squabbles, and long trips in the car with little kids all put a patina on the glow of love.

8. The United States Family Leave and Medical Act

If you’re even lucky enough to be eligible, you get twelve weeks off with no pay. After three months American babies should be ready: sleeping through the night, walking, talking, washing their own dishes. Great policy. It seems our great nation believes new moms and dads can be civil to each other without any sleep.

9. Children

Sometimes it’s hard to feel romantic when the house is filled with plastic garbage shipped from China, you’re operating on fifteen minutes of uninterrupted sleep, and Dora the Explorer underpants are the only ones you ever see besides your own.

10. The War in Iraq

Sending people away for over a year to a place where they are constantly threatened with death damages marriages. So does giving people the job of threatening other people with death. So does extending their tours without notice. Of course war only threatens the marriages of those lucky enough to return or survive. Otherwise the “death do us part” clause takes over.

And a bonus threat:

11. Divorce

Visit Dermot Cole’s column here to learn about this lurking menace threatening your marriage and more about the advisory vote.

If you’re an Alaskan, please vote no on April 3rd. Visit Alaskans Together to help out.

Please comment and alert us all to any other previously unidentified threats to marriage.

The Weather in Fairbanks, Alaska: You Have Been Warned

This from yesterday’s Daily News Miner

The upside of this past month’s bone-chilling temperatures is that the Ice Park is extending its days of operation by a week.

The park’s icy entrance will be open to visitors through the end of the month, officially closing at 10 p.m., Sunday, March 31. Park hours will be slightly shortened from 12 to 10 hours, opening daily from noon to 10 p.m.

Ice Park officials made the decision Wednesday night to extend the park’s operation for only the second time in its 17 year history of competitive ice carving exhibits. The last time was 2004.

Not good news. Even with all our wonderful daylight, despite the passing of the Spring Equinox, we’re trapped in winter here. Yes, we should expect it. We do live in Alaska after all, but March is supposed to the beginning of above zero weather. We’re not having a normal year. Take a look at these statistics.

Subarctic parents are used to snowsuits and layering, but we thought we’d have some relief by now. Today the extra cold added an extra layer of worry to my snowshoe trip with Coral. Bundling a seven month old for a trip in the backpack is an exercise of faith. She can’t tell me she’s too cold or too hot, so I have to guess. Once I heave her up on my back, I can’t see her. I ask, “Coral, are you ok?” but she just yawns.

Today I stopped on the trail to listen to her sleepy breathing every so often. Bright sun slanted through the trees. The snow sparkled in filmic perfection. All I could hear was the occasional jingle of the toy I had hooked to the pack. It was quiet enough to hear a baby sleeping. That’s why we live here. Quiet. Space. Sun. All available on a trail into the woods that starts on the back porch.

I started this post with the idea of complaining a bit, but now I’m feeling grateful. Fairbanksans complain about the weather–too cold in winter, too hot in summer, recently too smoky as well–but that kind of complaint is a luxury. Outside everyone has to waste all their complaining on something as boring as traffic. Here in Alaska it may be difficult to go sometimes, but outdoors is a place actually worth going.

I still can’t wait for the Ice Park to melt into a giant puddle. Perhaps someone can use this wordy warning sign at the entrance as a raft once it’s all gone.

Review: Mary Siah Pool Swim Lesson Sign Ups

I’m going to rewrite The Divine Comedy. Inferno, Paridiso, and Purgatorio. All the locations will be places parents have had to go with toddlers. Instead of Virgil leading Dante, Dr. Spock will be my guide. Famous moms–Joan Crawford, Briteny Spears, Angelina Jolie–will look up from their suffering and talk to us. I already have a start. The bathroom at Fred Meyer East is one of the levels of parenting hell.

I recently found the location for purgatory–the swim lesson sign up process at the Mary Siah Recreation Center. It’s awful, illogical, and frustrating, yet Fairbanks parents repeatedly subject ourselves to it. With everything frozen we have to find a place for our kids to learn to swim.

Here’s how it works.

1. You get up early on a Saturday to be at Mary Siah before 8:00. Sometimes people are lined up outside the building and all the classes are full by 8:00. Other times you can waltz in at 8:30 and still get a spot in one of the lessons.

2. They open the doors at 8:00 and the line moves in.

3. Once you’re at the table, you’re given a number and asked which classes and sessions you want. They add you to the class and give you paperwork.

4. You sit down and fill out papers.

5. You hand in the filled in forms at the desk.

6. It is now 8:07 am. You are done. Your kid has a spot in lessons. You’re ready to get on with your life, but you are not allowed to pay for lessons. You must wait until 10 am when they begin calling numbers. You are not allowed to leave. Leaving will result in forfeiting your child’s spot in the lesson. You sit around with 40 other parents and wonder why you sitting around.

TJ went to the last sign up day. It was thirty below. Parents started lining up outside the building before 8:00. Some kind soul unlocked the arctic entry and people crowded in on top of each other. One man started loudly ranting that this ridiculous process is another example of government failing the people–something to the effect that “We’re bowing to them while they should be serving us.” Everyone looked pointedly forward while one mom tried to tell him it was better than it used to be. The unlocking doors ended the scene. But the echoes of his “crazy talk,” sent my husband home two hours later with a glazed libertarian stare stating “I mean, this guy was the only one making sense.” I decided he couldn’t be allowed to go ever again. He might wind up changing his voter registration to Alaska Independence Party.

No one can explain the wait. When asked, the employees sympathize, but explain that this is the way it’s always been done. They seem a little embarrassed, almost apologetic.

The other parents shake their heads, pull out knitting or books, and settle in. The smart ones eat the breakfast they picked up on the way over. Last Saturday, one veteran mom told me, “It’s better than it used to be. They used to make us sit here once a month. Now we’re allowed to sign up for multiple sessions.”

If it’s your first time signing up, like it was for me, you’re angry. They know which classes are full. They have all our paperwork. We’re all ready with checkbooks, but they refuse to take our money until 10.

I looked around the room at the bunch of moms and dads. A few had to drag toddlers with them. They were armed with bags of busy toys, but their faces showed the frustration of dragging little ones out at 8 am on a weekend for the pleasure of holding them hostage in the pool lobby.

The parents without kids seemed more relaxed. Some moms brought coffee and used the time as a kid-free social time. I had fun catching up with friends, but I knew I was wasting two hours of babysitting chits. I could be at a movie or somewhere I could at least get a gin and tonic. A few moms joked that if they ever change the process, so we can pay right away, they would still tell their husbands that they had to wait.

10:00 arrived. The swim parent’s river of fire–the only way out of purgatory. We paid. We left. Shell-shocked we all drove away, two hours closer to death, with only receipts for next session’s lessons to show for it. Questions rang in my ears the whole way home. What were we waiting for? Why wouldn’t they take our money? Are we bowing to them when they should be serving us?

Getting Outdoors: Subarctic Baby Gear

The cold snap isn’t breaking, but there’s so much light. We should be shedding our big coats by now, but we’re still below zero at night. At least it’s warming up during the day. Stir crazy and inspired by a panting black dog, who is about to start an antidepressant prescription (more on that later), we got out. Out is not easy these days. Three people, one dog, no leash, six socks, four mittens, six pairs of pants, a diaper change, at least one potty check, one sweatshirt. . .unending.

Here’s most of the outdoor gear we wore today laid out on the couch:

Review: World Ice Carving Championships, Fairbanks, Alaska

Every March Fairbanks hosts the World Ice Carving Championships. If you have no kids, perhaps you make it a date. You go out to dinner, maybe Thai, and then drive over to the ice park just after sunset. All the sculptures are artfully lit, Venus is huge in the tangles of spruce boughs, and the dark makes you forget that no one looks sexy in a parka and snowpants.

If you’re a tourist, the ice becomes the embodiment of rugged Alaska. Huge. Frozen. Somewhere you would never want to live. You appreciate the dog sled, mountain goat, and bear sculptures. You’re proud of yourself for walking around in freezing temperatures without complaining. You make small talk with locals and say, “Well, this must not be cold to you.”

If you’re a parent from Fairbanks, you never see the sculptures or the lighting. Your visits are determined by other people’s naps and bedtimes. In March, both naps and bedtime are daytime activities. Your time at the Ice Park is divided between the Kids Park, where you use your body as a block to stop your child from hitting a ten-kid-pile-up at the bottom of the big ice slide, and the concession, where you rub tiny frost nipped cheeks and buy hot chocolate. You fear traumatic brain injury and toddlers peeing inside their snowsuits. Both seem terrifying and likely.

The Kids Park is Cedar’s new favorite place. We’ve been there twice this week. The first trip was a playdate involving three moms and five kids. Two were babies in slings, stowed inside parkas. If you plan a playdate, be sure to convince at least one person who has only one kid to come along (thanks Theresa). You will need someone without a baby strapped to her chest to lift everyone up and down. Also discuss beforehand your collective position on hot dogs. Otherwise, one bad mom will force everyone else into buying them because her kid was promised one (that was me, folks).

The ice park provided me the opportunity to teach Cedar several life lessons. She learned not to fear giant, satanic clowns.

She practiced taking turns with her friends, and she discovered that watching people cut up big blocks of ice with chainsaws is really cool.

On our second visit, as a nuclear family, TJ and I learned a couple of parenting lessons.

First, any time an infant falls asleep inside your parka, you will be compelled to check whether or not she’s breathing. Calm down, she is breathing. Second, don’t let your two year old crawl into the ice tunnels just before it’s time to go home. You will not be able to get her out.

We stood at the exit of the tunnel with a group of other parents pleading, “Turn left and go to the door.” No kids emerged. Through the eight inch thick ice tunnel walls we watched the blurry colors of of our kids’ snowsuits wriggling around. They knew they had the upper hand. One little girl called out, “Mom, I lost my boot!” Cedar eventually crawled out, backwards, and then tried to go back in. TJ caught her by the boots before she made it.

We also learned about this fun and totally legal form of Alaskan child abuse:

If you’re a Fairbanks parent, you’ve probably already been to the Ice Park this year, but if you haven’t, do go. At eight dollars per adult, it’s expensive, but folks under five are free. If your kids are little, skip the overpriced $65 “Ice Family” pass and just pay for the grown ups. You can visit several times and still save a little money for hot chocolate.

Alaska & Daylight Saving Time: Stop the Madness

Asinine. That’s the best way to describe Alaska’s participation in Daylight Saving Time. Alaskan parents have enough to deal with—huge mosquitoes, teaching kids to run from moose, hypothermia inducing water temperatures in our rivers and lakes—we don’t need anyone messing with bedtime. So please leave our clocks and us alone.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. DST has a sordid history in our great state.
In 2006, some wise Alaskans filed a petition to abolish DST in our state (check 06DAY2 for details). We should vote on it sometime in 2008. I wish it could happen sooner.

Here in Fairbanks we’re up to just about twelve hours of daylight and it’s increasing seven minutes a day. We’ve resorted to hanging polar fleece blankets over the blinds in Cedar’s room. Other parents buy special light blocking curtains. It doesn’t work well. In the summers in Fairbanks bedtimes just creep later and later. Daylight Saving Time makes it worse. With one click on the digital clock, naps and bedtimes disintegrate.

Before the time change last week, bedtime was 7:00, leaving TJ and me with an evening to enjoy. Now bedtime has slipped to 8:30 and includes extended toddler monologues about Rebecca Puddle Duck, which people have “nice” voices, and bathing. Worse, in her not-tired-enough for bedtime state, Cedar’s talking again about Cashew, our 14-year-old dog who died very dramatically in September. She’s dealt with her grief and likes to tell stories to remember. I’m not as emotionally evolved. I sit in the dark blinking away tears as the bedtime music drones on the CD player.

I’m thinking of giving up and rescheduling bedtime for 9:00. For many parents in Fairbanks summer bedtime gets later and later. When I first moved here, I worked at a pizza place that closed at 1 am. I remember seeing elementary-schoolers out riding bikes in the parking lot when I walked out after closing. I thought it was crazy. Now I understand.

“We don’t care how they do it Outside.” Isn’t that supposed to be the Alaskan motto? Come on. Get with it. If you’re an Alaskan, please vote to abolish DST in our state. Save the children. Better yet, save the parents.

Woodstove Safety and Kids: How to Make a Pyromaniac

We work seriously on the fire around here. So seriously that last spring, walking through a rain forest of huge trees in Hawaii, Cedar revealed the impact it’s had on her. TJ said, “Look at the big trees, Cedar. She replied, “Cut them down and burn them!” This from a child named Cedar.

Here are some woodstove tips for folks with young pyromaniacs around.

1. Get the good fence. Here in Fairbanks they sell them at The Woodway. If you’re elsewhere, try the One Step Ahead catalog. A friend once told me a story about his one-year-old and a cabin they were living in. He was trapped mid-poop with the bathroom door open while his daughter teetered on top of one of the boxes they were using as an improvised fence to keep her away from the stove.

2. Leave the vacuum in the living room. Wood chips get everywhere. One afternoon Cedar said, “Mama, what’s Coral eating?” I rushed over and pulled out a piece of bark. “Wow, you really ran,” Cedar said, laughing.

3. Buy Eucerin. Your kid’s skin will get dry. We brought Cedar to the Doctor for a mild case of eczema and he called it “Fairbanks Winter Kid Skin.” Grease up your toddler before bed and stick her in 100% cotton jammies. It helps.

4. Expect static electricity. The colder it is outside, the drier it will be in your house. We hover around eight percent humidity with the stove going.

5. Be mindful of your speech. Everything you say in front of the fire will be repeated. Again and again. When you don’t realize that the log you’ve half stuffed in is too big until it’s already burning, and you have to pull it out, run outside, and throw it off the deck into the snow, and you mutter, “Jesus Christ” as you dash across the living room, know that your toddler will walk around muttering, shouting and singing “Jesus Christ” for the rest of the afternoon.

Mortification in a Public Bathroom: In Which our Heroine Innocently Tries to Change a Diaper and Makes the Acquaintance of the Security Guard.

My life is measured out in library storytimes. Today I think it is going well. I’m happy that the most embarrassing thing that has happened is Cedar telling Miss Kitty, “That looks like poop!” as we looked at a book with a chicken laying an egg. I have no idea.

As always we sit on the benches in the foyer and have snack after storytime. Cedar takes an unusually long time eating, almost an hour. She nibbles Cheddar Bunnies, Whole Wheat Bunnies, raisins and part of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My lunch is her crust. Each time I ask if she’s done, she picks up another cracker and nibbles daintily.

She also comments loudly on everyone who walks by.

About a woman with three well-behaved girls walking in a line, “Look mama, three sisters all in a row!” I tell her soon she and Coral will be two sisters in a row. She knits her eyebrows and reminds me, “Mom, Coral can’t walk.” Then she asks, “What’s the mama’s name?”

Of two men having what looks like a private conversation, “What are those men talking about?”

Cedar has no indoor voice. Everyone hears her, smiles and goes on their way. I’m not sure how to tell her one shouldn’t talk about other people while watching them. You’re supposed to wait until after they can’t hear you. I think her volume is embarrassing. Again, I have no idea.

She finally finishes eating and we get the key to the bathroom. I fumble to get it open while trying to drag Coral, the car seat, and forty pounds of snowsuits and coats with me. Cedar runs away, spinning jumping and shaking around the trees. She starts playing “Flow and Freeze,” a game in which one dances wildly on “flow” and stops on “freeze” by herself. She shouts, “Flow!” and continues the circuit around the trees. I get the door open, say, “Cedar, I’m counting to three. . .” and before I can finish, she runs into the bathroom. I think it’s going well.

I strap Coral to the changing table and help Cedar on the potty.

“I need to poop, Mom,” she says. She tells me she doesn’t want any help, so I leave her there, holding herself up over the seat, concentrating on keeping her arms straight. Coral screams on the changing table. I get her a diaper and begin. She calms down a little, but she’s tired. Getting her into the car seat is going to be a struggle. I’m just relieved we made it into the bathroom.

I look back at Cedar, still suspended over the potty on her skinny little arms. She says, “Go out, Mom!” I tell her I can’t. She tells me, “Turn around!”

I do. I decide it’s a good time to put on Coral’s coat and strap her into the car seat. Cedar will be done soon. Coral, who hates putting on sleeves, renews her screaming to protest her impending restraint. She’s recently discovered a high-pitched shriek she likes to let us know she’s really mad. She practices it with gusto.

I look at Cedar. She tells me, “Turn around!”

I do. I decide I should put on my coat, hat, scarf, so we’ll be ready to go when Cedar’s done. The second her car seat touches the floor Coral screams. I immediately begin sweating, whether it’s wearing winter gear inside or the hormonal response to a screaming infant I do not know.

I pick up Coral and commence the quiet the baby bounce. It only lessens her volume a little. I look at Cedar. She says, “I’m still pooping!” I think her arms must be ready to give out and I fear that I don’t have enough extra clothes to dress her if she falls in the toilet.

I turn around and stand there in my sweatshirt, coat, hat and scarf, bouncing up and down hoping Coral will stop crying. I try to keep from putting my back out by bending at the knees. Cedar, seeing me moving, says, “Flow” “Freeze” “Flow” Freeze.” I want to be anywhere but this bathroom.

I decide the poop must be over. I set Coral down, inciting screaming, lift Cedar off the potty and begin the multi-step process that will take us from wiping to washing hands, to putting on a snowsuit.

Cedar whines and screams. She doesn’t want to wash her wands. “Why do I have to wash hands?” she cries. “Because you were just touching a toilet seat,” I reply loudly, to be heard over Coral’s screaming, and I suddenly realize that everyone in the library foyer is listening to our every word—the two women setting up a display in the case, the check out counter employees, the older woman waiting for her ride on a bench and anyone coming or going.

I try to go faster, but Cedar doesn’t want any of it—her vest, her mittens, her coat, and her hat. She cries in harmony with the car seat screamer. I am sweating through my shirt.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. “Is everything all right in there?” It’s the library security guard. “Can I do anything to help?” I don’t know if he’s there because he’s heard the screaming and feels sorry for me, or if someone summoned him, saying, “There’s a horrible woman abusing her children in the bathroom.”

Over the two shrieking girls I yell, “No, the baby’s just in the car seat and I’m trying to get the other one dressed.” He says something else, but I can’t hear him. It’s too loud. I plod on, forcing mittens over Cedar’s clenched hands.

I fear a crowd has assembled in the lobby, arms crossed on their chests, toes quietly tapping their disapproval, glasses perched on the tips of their noses. I imagine the OCS officer waiting to take custody of my children, foster parents on bended knees whispering, “You poor things, we’re here to help,” and a pair of British nannies saying nothing.

I wish I could slip on a black lycra catsuit, climb out through the ventilation system, dragging the car seat and diaper bag. We could come out on the roof, tie all the snowpants together and rappel down, but we have to walk through the door. And before I’m out of library, I have to hand the key back to the woman at the check out desk who has heard every word.

Still Winter in These Parts

Thank you pa2lou for the winter wonderland animation. That’s Coral riding in the sling inside my coat.