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?
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