There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather

by Linda Åkeson McGurk

  Many roads lacked sidewalks, and just walking across the parking lot at the mall sometimes seemed borderline suicidal. Then again, assuming that I made it, all the stores I could ever need were conveniently located under one roof. I noticed that some people even went to the mall to exercise, walking or jogging down the long corridors. This phenomenon was so well established that they had a name: mall walkers. I was intrigued. I could understand why some older people would want to avoid slippery sidewalks or bumpy trails in the woods, but I saw people of all ages participate in this activity. What were they doing in here when the awe-inspiring Rocky Mountains—and all that they had to offer in terms of outdoor recreation—were just a stone’s throw away? I obviously still had some cultural codes to crack.

  Since so many people just seemed to be moving from one climate-controlled indoor environment to another, there was no need to dress for the elements, and I found that people often dressed as if they didn’t expect to go outside at all, not even putting on a coat in the dead of winter. In one of my columns for a Swedish newspaper, I wrote that, due to the way American society was designed, most people could probably get by with walking less than a thousand feet per day. Now I was starting to think that this was an overly generous estimate.

  Back then, I didn’t reflect much on what all this might mean if we were to have children. We were too busy enjoying our carefree lives. The biggest decisions we had to make at the time were where to go camping and which peak to hike come the weekend, and we were pretty contented with that. But as I neared my thirties and the idea of having children beckoned, we decided that it was time to move back to my husband’s hometown in Indiana to be closer to family. I was yet again about to embark on a cultural journey.

  There Is No Such Thing as Bad Weather

  * * *

  In Scandinavia, where I was born and raised, it would be very easy to make excuses for not going outside. The northern part of Scandinavia—which truly comprises Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, but for all practical purposes of this book also will include our eastern neighbor, Finland, which shares much of the same culture—reaches well beyond the Arctic Circle, and the climate in the region is partly subarctic. Heavy snowfall is common in the winter, especially up north, although white Christmases are not guaranteed. The Gulf Stream helps moderate the temperature, especially along the western coasts, making it warmer than is typical of other places on the same latitude. Still, anybody who has spent a winter in Scandinavia knows that it is not for the faint of heart. Temperatures can range from Let’s Bring out the Patio Furniture to I Think My Eyelids Just Froze Shut, but one facet of Scandinavian winters always remains constant: the darkness.

  Each year for twenty-seven days, peaking with the winter solstice in late December, the polar nights blanket northern Scandinavia. During that time, the sun doesn’t rise over the horizon at all, and life enters the twilight zone. Literally. The south is less unforgiving, offering up to seven hours of precious daylight per day in January. Even then, overcast skies often submerge Scandinavia in a perpetual semi-dusk-like state that has a way of putting people’s resilience to the ultimate test. How bad is it? Consider that in 2014 the Swedish capital of Stockholm logged just three hours of sunshine for the whole month of November, a new record. “People on the streets are ready to start eating each other,” a friend exasperatedly reported toward the end of the month. “The zombie apocalypse is here.”

  Every Scandinavian has his or her own way of dealing with the dark winters. The Finnish stay awake by drinking more coffee than people anywhere else in the world. The Swedes build elaborate sunrooms and go on vacations to Thailand. The Danish have hygge, one of those unique phenomena that doesn’t translate well but evokes images of a family cozying up in front of a fireplace, drinking hot chocolate, and playing board games. The Norwegians eat cod-liver oil to boost their vitamin D levels and seek refuge in their rustic cabins in the woods. Many a Scandinavian has dreamed of calling it quits and moving to warmer, sunnier, and more hospitable latitudes. Some entertain the idea every winter, and a few retirees actually act on it. But more than anything, Scandinavians get through the winter by maintaining a sense of normalcy. Snow happens. Sleet happens. Ice happens. Cold temperatures happen. Life goes on. The trains may not run on time after a big snow dump, but society doesn’t shut down either. Weather-related school closures are virtually unheard-of.

  In the spring, crocuses and coltsfoots start poking through the ground, the days keep getting longer, and vitamin D stores are finally replenished. In the cities, wool blankets pop up on café patios—a sign as sure as any that the season is about to turn. As the snowmelt starts to drip from the rooftops, survivors of the seemingly everlasting winter flock to the cafés, wrap themselves in blankets, and turn their translucent faces toward the fickle sunshine. The fact that it’s forty degrees Fahrenheit outside is irrelevant; by Scandinavian standards it’s completely acceptable to enjoy a latte wearing mittens. And by June, when Scandinavians celebrate midsommar by making flower wreaths, dancing around a maypole, and worshipping at the altar of the sun that never sets, they are ready to recommit to their homeland, body and light-starved soul.

  In the summertime, the weather can be a toss-up, occasionally sunny and warm in the south, where the majority of the population lives, but quite often cool, cloudy, and rainy. More than three days straight of temperatures in the seventies is pretty much considered a heat wave, and it’s no coincidence that Swedish supposedly is the only language that boasts the word uppehållsväder to describe a break between two periods of intense rainfall. Solfattig—“sun poor”—is another commonly used Swedish weather term that speaks for itself. On those few precious summer days when balmy temperatures and cobalt skies converge in perfect harmony, anybody voluntarily staying inside would be declared legally insane. “Whenever the weather is nice, you really feel like you have to take advantage of it. That’s what our parents always told us, and that’s how I feel with my kids,” says Cecilia, a mother of two in Stockholm.

  Considering the capricious nature of the Scandinavian climate, it’s maybe no wonder that the saying “There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes” originated here. It probably started as a coping strategy, or was perhaps born out of defiance of the weather powers that be. If you were ever a child in Scandinavia, you’ve heard this phrase more times than you care to count, from teachers, parents, grandparents, and other adults in your life. As a result, Scandinavians grow up with a certain resilience to the weather. The children who once dressed in rain gear from head to toe to go out to recess or play in the woods after school turn into adults who feel a certain urgency about getting outside every day. “If I don’t get outside every day, I go crazy. And if I don’t have time to take my son out after work I feel guilty about it. I think it’s a very Scandinavian thing to feel that way,” says Linda, a Swedish friend of mine.

  Several researchers have spent much of their careers trying to figure out why Scandinavians are so consumed with the idea of getting their progeny outside every day. One theory is that it is a form of precaution. We believe that outdoor play is good for kids, but we cannot necessarily pinpoint why. We can tell that it’s not hurting them, and we worry about what would happen if they didn’t have it.

  The government is also heavily invested in promoting outdoor recreation for children and adults alike as a preventive health measure. For example, the health care system in Sweden’s Skåne region encourages parents to get outside with their children from an early age as a way to prevent obesity and establish a healthy lifestyle from the get-go. “We all know that fresh air and movement benefit both your appetite and sleep,” says an informative pamphlet for new parents. “That is true not only for older children and adults, but fresh air every day makes small children feel well too. This also establishes good habits and a desire to exercise.”

  The idea that fresh air and outdoor play are crucial to good health is so prevalent that it has even found some unlikely champions in the
pharmaceutical industry. Kronans Apotek, one of the largest pharmacy chains in Sweden, offers the following advice for flu season on its website: “The first step toward fewer runny noses and less coughing is to let the child spend as much time outside as possible,” the company says. “When children are outside, the physical distance between them increases, which reduces the risk for contagion through direct contact or the air. The more time spent outside the better.”

  Aside from the obvious personal health aspects, having positive outdoor experiences in childhood is seen as a way to build a lifelong relationship with nature. To paraphrase David Sobel, advocate of place-based education and author of Beyond Ecophobia: Reclaiming the Heart in Nature Education, if we want children to care about nature, they need to spend time in it first.

  “Do You Need a Ride, Hon?”

  * * *

  The sweet corn is just starting to tassel when we move cross-country, into a turn-of-the-century home in rural Indiana. We start the mother of all remodeling jobs, gutting the house room by room. Around the same time, I’m starting to feel the ticktock of the infamous biological clock, which is interesting, since I’ve always felt awkward around children and didn’t realize until I was in my twenties that I wanted to have some of my own. Now it’s the only thing I want, aside from a new kitchen.

  In between working as a freelance writer and tearing out carpet, I explore my new hometown on foot. With two black Labs in tow, I quickly become an object of curiosity. People that I’ve never met or talked to come up to me and start chitchatting like they know me, simply because they’ve seen me walking my dogs. Cars slow and people roll their windows down to shout friendly comments. On Facebook I get questions from strangers about my training methods, and people are constantly awed by how well my dogs walk together. (For the record, this is purely an illusion; in reality, they are constantly tugging in different directions. Barney, the youngest, was once singled out by a trainer during an obedience class as an example of how not to behave.) In Sweden my entourage wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, as going for walks is a popular form of outdoor recreation all year-round. Here, I quickly become The Woman Who Walks with Dogs.

  At some point in between refinishing the living room floors and painting the guest bedroom, I take a pregnancy test and finally see the two pink lines I coveted. The guest bedroom, it turns out, is going to be a nursery. I keep walking and prepare for the new arrival.

  With a tiny life growing inside me, I’m heading into uncharted territory. I was never a natural with children and I know it. As a child I was more interested in listening in on the adults’ conversations than in playing with their kids and their Barbies. And the precocious child I once was turned into an adult who gravitates toward predictability and structure. My life runs on a schedule. I’m set in my ways. I make to-do lists and get a kick out of checking things off. The books in my bookcase are, if not alphabetized, then at least neatly organized by category. Given all of this, I realize that I have to approach motherhood from a different, more intellectual angle. I start devouring books about pregnancy, Lamaze, breastfeeding, and child-rearing. It’s a brave new world. Not only does this literature represent my first introduction to the many parenting styles I’m expected to choose from, it’s also full of intriguing new phrases like “baby wearing,” “tummy time,” and “elimination communication.” Despite the fact that my experience with babies is limited, to say the least, and my ideas of parenting mostly stem from the way my parents raised me, I know exactly what I want for this child. Natural childbirth—check. Cloth diapers in gender-neutral colors—check. Homemade, organic baby food—check.

  On a February afternoon nine months into my pregnancy— twelve days before my due date, to be exact—I take the dogs for a walk around the trail that encompasses the town, six miles in total. (Actually, the dogs walk: I waddle like an obese penguin suffering from a bad hernia.) At one point an older guy with a big, dark mustache and an even bigger grin drives by in his pickup truck and honks at this spectacular sight. Toward the end of the walk I can literally feel the baby’s head between my legs. Less than twelve hours later my water breaks and we are on our way to the hospital. The next morning, after an epic sunrise and a not-so-epic pushing phase, Maya is born in a tub of water, just as I had planned. Water birth—check.

  Had I lived in Sweden, my motherhood experience would have followed a predictable pattern at this point. The Scandinavian countries lead the world in terms of paid parental leave, and Swedish parents get a total of 480 days, with a certain quota reserved for the mother and father, respectively, plus unpaid leave for up to three years. This means the chances of me knowing at least a half dozen people who were on maternal leave at any given time would be pretty good, and I would have devoted my days to doing everything that is expected of a Scandinavian mom. In a simplified breakdown, this would be breastfeeding, napping, and caring for the baby. Sometimes I would get together with other moms for fika (generally understood as a coffee break accompanied by a pastry) and take walks in the park or around town, possibly with a stop at an öppna förskolan, or “open preschool,” a free resource that provides developmentally appropriate activities for babies and children up to five years and, maybe more important, gives parents on leave a chance to socialize and treat cabin fever. Then I would have gone home and napped some more. When my child was around the age of eighteen months, I, like 84 percent of all Swedish parents, would enroll her at a government-subsidized preschool and go back to work. As anybody who has ever cared for an infant knows, it is rarely easy: naturally, Scandinavian moms struggle with the same hormonal roller coasters, sleepless nights, blown-out diapers, and bouts with postpartum depression as their American counterparts. But having a stable income without the pressure of going back to work soon after the birth undoubtedly softens the transition to parenthood and gives Scandinavian parents a chance to bond with their baby at a crucial time of their development.

  In the US, I discover that mothers—and fathers, too, for that matter—don’t have these luxuries, as labor laws grant very few rights to parents who want to stay home with their baby. Those who do usually have to do it on their own dime, as the US ranks at the bottom of all industrialized nations when it comes to parental leave, guaranteeing only twelve weeks off after the birth of a child. If you work for the government or a private company with more than fifty employees, that is. Only a little more than half of all American moms meet those criteria, and nearly a quarter of American moms go back to work just two weeks after giving birth. Forget about pay, unless you work for an unusually generous employer.

  Considering the limitations of maternity leave in the US, it’s not a big surprise that I have trouble connecting with other moms after Maya is born. Most of them are probably at work. And those who aren’t don’t seem to think that late winter is a good time to socialize. At least not outside. I see no other strollers during my daily walks. The park, where I would’ve expected to find at least a few mothers or babysitters, is deserted and the gate to the main entrance locked. “I wish it was summer so my baby and I could go for walks,” a fellow mom tells me when she and her son come over to our house for a visit. “When do you think it would be safe for me to take him outside?” I’m puzzled over the question, since I’ve never even considered it not safe to take Maya outside in the cold. Slowly, I’m beginning to understand that my perspective on parenting in some ways is vastly different from that of my American peers.

  Until this point, I had felt, if not as American as a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, then at least like a pretty well assimilated citizen. To get there I had jumped through all the hoops, filled out all the required forms, taken the tests, and spent countless hours waiting with other hopeful foreigners in drably carpeted government rooms that felt like they had had their already dull life sucked out of them. Then, in 2008, I had finally become sworn in as a naturalized American. Sure, I still mispronounced English words like porcupine and adage every now and then, and I’d probably never fully g
rasp the fine print of my American health insurance policy, but overall I had adjusted well to life in my new home country. Even though there were many things I missed about Sweden—seeing my family only about once a year was the hardest part—I was excited about becoming a full citizen, with all the rights and responsibilities that it entailed.

  The naturalization certificate should have made me feel more American than ever. Ironically, the opposite happened, because that same year I also became a parent. I think most moms and dads have an idea of what they want for their children, based on their own upbringing. We pass on our ideas, belief systems, and traditions to the next generation to leave our small imprint on the world long after we’re gone. Our attitudes about parenting are thoroughly steeped in cultural norms, and our children in a way become an extension of ourselves. We try to re-create the good experiences and eliminate the bad ones, giving our children the best childhoods we can feasibly offer them. This is true of most American as well as Scandinavian parents; we just have different ways of getting there. This soon became obvious to me in many ways.