Bawled Like a Baby

The Flufftric System: How to Rate a Cloth Nappy

NightDaddy and I created a scale for rating cloth nappies. Because we're overly engaged fathers who do things like that.

There needs to be a decent way to compare these things. A standard metric.

The best rating is a 0 and the worst is a 30.

The 8 categories:

Fit

How well does the nappy fit your kid's bum?

0 Second skin.
1 Trim and neat
2 Bubble Butt
3 Red marks/Gaping
4 Shameful and Painful

Function

How well does it work?

0 Bulletproof
1 No major issues, might not contain a poop explosion
2 A bit too loose/too tight/not enough absorbency
3 Leaks, leaks, leaks
4 Might as well be naked

Effort

How easy is it to use?

0 The baby could change itself
1 Sleep-deprivation poses no risk
2 A bit tricky at first
3 Fumble, fumble, fumble
4 Can't even tell which way is front

Fast

How fast does it dry?

0 Dry before it hits the line
1 Line dries in <5 hours
2 Reasonable
3 Hmmm this one's still damp
4 Lapped by faster drying nappies

Feel

How does it feel?

0 Made of angel feathers
1 Oh, that's niiiice
2 Meh, cloth is cloth
3 Scratchy/stiff/weird/pick your somewhat unpleasant adjective
4 Not on my baby's bottom!

Fairness

How does the price match up with the quality of the product, manufacturing conditions and material costs?

0 The price is right
1 Acceptable
2 A bit too high, but decent on clearance/seconds
3 Too high / Too low
4 Either sewn with gold or by very tiny hands

Fancy

How much do you fancy the way it looks?

0 ZOMG GORGEOUS I'M IN LOVE!!!1!1
1 Super cute
2 Nothing special
3 Unfortunate
4 Fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down

Further

0 I have nothing more to add
1 There is some other minor flaw worth mentioning
2 The is some other major flaw worth mentioning

The Week of Fear

One of the privileges of being a native-only couple, is never needing to fear that your family will ever be torn apart and thrown across an ocean because a paper was mailed two days late.

On November 26th I sent the following e-mail to the Swedish Immigration Bureau (I've translated some of the words to English and put them in brackets):

Hello,

I'm writing with questions in regard to beteckning [case] ########.

I gave birth to my daughter September 7th and was thus extremely sleep-deprived around the time that my uppehållstillstånd [residence permit] expired at the end of October. In that state, it was difficult to gather the necessary papers and I thought that as long as I mailed the application on the 29th (day of expiration) it was on time. I have a PhD position and my uppehållstillstånd [residence permit] was based on that. But since I now live with my partner and we have a child together, I chose to change the permission to be based on this relationship. I thought it would be possible to do this application online but it wasn't. The 29th was the very soonest I was able to mail the application after I realized I couldn't do it online.

I received a "mottagningskvitto" [receipt] and the beteckning [case] number. Also a request for more documents. I paid the fee and sent the extra documents. The mottagningskvitto [receipt] says that the application was received on October 31st.

Today I had a very unpleasant conversation with an angry woman at Försäkringskassan [the Social Security Administration]. She said that my child does not have the right to barnbidrag [monetary child benefits] because I do not have the right to live in Sweden because I filed my application late. 

I was in complete shock. I have lived in Sweden for 4 years. My entire life is here. My job. My partner. My child. My apartment. We depend on my förälderpenning [parental leave benefits] from my job while I am on parental leave. Now I am terrified that Försäkringskassan [the Social Security Administration]  is going to cut me off and that I won't be able to return to my job and that I'm going to be forced out of the country.  We were able to sort out the problem of the barnbidrag [monetary child benefits] because the child's second parent (my partner) is a Swedish citizen and is now finally registered as her second parent. But is it true that I don't have the right to stay here? I can send the new papers that show that my child is a Swedish citizen! 

I'm so full of fear and anxiety right now that my family is going to be torn apart and lose our income because I accidentally filed an application two days late. Please tell me that my family is safe and that everything is going to be okay.  

You can e-mail me or call me at ##########.

Sincerely,

[Name]

On December 6th, I received the following reply:

Dear [Name]

Thank you for your email.

An application for extension or a new permit should be handed in before the old one expires. The fact that you applied two days late will, however, not affect your application or your status in Sweden, since it’s only a very short delay from your part. As long as you have an open application you are allowed to live, work and study in Sweden.

Yours sincerly

[Case Worker Name]

The Customer Service

The Swedish Migration Board

I have to be honest, when chain gets yanked like this, it's hard not to feel like a dog. And not a well-loved dog, either. 12 days of terror. All because some angry woman at the social security administration shot off her ignorant mouth. We're still reeling. 

/DD

Christmas for 1st, 2nd and 3rd Generation Immigrant Family

"Babes, we're soon going to be the only flat on our block without stars in our windows. This is getting embarrassing." -DD

"Okay, I'll go get the stuff out of storage." -ND

While I was pregnant, I read Manju Kampur's "The Immigrant." The story of two immigrants from India in Canada struck a chord deep inside. My favorite passage described the immigrant experience of seeing double. She walks into an indoor Canadian market and looks around, but the memories of the open air Indian markets are imposed over scene as if she were seeing both at once. Not a week goes by that I do not share in this immigrant experience.

Walking through our neighborhood after dark, I take in the yellow paper stars and electric candles illuminating the windows and the single strands of white LEDs twined around balcony railings. As I walk, the American memories float up onto the street. Low flats, communal green spaces and neighborhood paths are laid over with a memory of brick bungalows with scrappy front yards and cracked sidewalks. Glowing plastic Santas, wooden nativity scenes and ropes upon ropes of bright rainbow lights dance in my mind, not tied to any place or time other than my hometown and my childhood.

All immigrants have a similar choice to make. Do I prop up a glowing Santa in our window? Frame it with rainbow lights, specially ordered from America? Add a nativity scene on the terrace?

"Do we have one of those candelabra thingies to put in the kitchen window? Or do we need to pick one up at ICA?" -DD

"A Luciastake?" -ND

"Is that what it's called? How do you spell that?" -DD

Night Daddy sits down to Google. Despite having grown up in Stockholm, he went to English school. Polish at home and English at school leads to moments just like this.

"No, it's called an adventsljusstake. All one word. And yes, we have one." -ND

Day Daddy sits down to Google.

"According to this the advent one has only four. That sounds right with the advent candle wreaths that I grew up with. What's the pyramidy 7 candle one called that everybody puts in their windows here? Oh. wait. Here's the Wiki entry. Apparently, it's 'julottestakar.' But I've never heard that." -DD

"No. Nobody calls it that. They're just called advent lights. Nobody cares about the number." -ND

"I saw some windows with these round ornament bobbles hanging on fish line. They looked really nice. I could hang some of those too." -DD

"Here's a package of gold ones and blue ones." -ND

"These aren't blue. They're black." -DD

"They're blue." -ND

"No. Look." -DD

"Huh." -ND

"You have black Christmas ornaments? I'm not hanging black ornaments in our window. I don't care how pretty they are. But the gold ones are nice." -DD

"Whatever, Babes. Here's the fishing line. I'm going to figure out the star lampshade thingies. I've never used them before." -ND

We might be Polish and American, but our little Piggelin is Swedish. Her home should reflect that. I hope one day, she will know that we tried.

Alvehamn Cloth Nappy Review (Tygblöja Recension)

A few weeks ago we went to a "Tygblöjemingel." In the UK I hear they're called "Nappuchinos." There's coffee, cake and parents with their cloth bum clad babies. At this particular meet-up, the hosts were hawking Alvehamn nappies (click here for English), a fabulous, relatively new Swedish brand. Night Daddy indulged in ordering a Christmas-y laminated minky cover and two super soft bamboo prefolds, one for daytime and a thicker one for nighttime use. 

The cover is one-size and our little Piggelin has just hit the starting size of 6 kilos. We snapped down the rise and tried it out. 

The nappy is super soft and easy to put on and take off. It fits her snugly and she seems comfortable. It is however quite bulky on a little 3 month old. The Alvehamn prefolds were plenty absorbent and worked great. However, after we had changed them out, the cover was still clean so we threw in one of our Sloomb prefolds. This unfortunately did not work out so great. It was a middle of the night change so it could have just not been fastened properly, but we woke up to soaked sheets. The pee had collected in the hole of the cover and spilled out one of the leg openings. This would not have happened with the Alvehamn prefolds as they are much bigger and thicker. But it means we can only use those or a fitted nappy underneath.

We ordered directly from a seller and the total for the cover plus the two prefolds and shipping was 303kr. This is... expensive. Prefolds are generally known for being on the cheaper end of the cloth nappy system spectrum, but not these. They're high quality materials and they work great, but an entire stash of Alvehamns bought new would carry a fairly hefty price tag. 

Not a fan of the bulk or the price, but we do like the materials and that it will fit her until she learns to use the potty on her own. And it is very pretty-- almost as pretty as our Piggelin! ;)

/DD

Expat during Thanksgiving

This is the 7th Thanksgiving I've spent out of the U.S. Would have been 8 if I hadn't gone to visit my dad in one year. My mom had kicked him out of the house, decided she didn't want it any more and left it trashed. I went back to help him pick up the pieces. No one should be left to do that alone. Not after 30 years of marriage.

I thought it would be really hard to go back and see my childhood home in that state. The light patch of wallpaper in the stairwell where the clock my grandfather made hung. My parent's closet that had always been off limits, wide open, old shoes spilling out. The unmarked boxes in the attic full of toys, clothes and books, some tied to a particular memory or two. Others completely forgotten. They'd been opened recently and rummaged through. She took what mattered to her. The rest we sent over to the Salvation Army.

That was before I knew that the Salvation Army promoted the killing of gay people. Although my dad would still probably have sent the stuff over there. Just small town folks helping small town folks in need, he'd say. Yeah, unless they're gay, I'd shoot back. No one cares about your sexual orientation when you walk into a second hand store, he'd reason. It's about the power structure! I'd argue and go on a rant about where the money goes and Uganda and so on. But this was before Uganda. Before I got myself involved with helping gay and transgender asylum seekers in Sweden. Back when I'd been out of the closet less than two years and my biggest worry was whether or not my dad would remember to use my new name.

It wasn't hard to be back in that small town. In that old house. It was a relief. The opportunity to revisit an old place as a new person. To sit quietly in old rooms and reminisce. To stroll calmly through the dragon's old lair and check out the bones left behind.

Today, I'm thankful that my mother told me to never contact her again. That as a result we need not face any hate today. No anxiety. No lies. No anger. No screaming. No violence. That my baby girl is in the other room sleeping quietly in the safety and comfort of her Polish Babcia's arms.

I'm thankful for my parents' divorce. Thankful that my dad and sister are having a peaceful Turkey Day with my brother's family. That my dad has a girlfriend who treats him right. That I can call him and chat as long as we want without him having to hide the phone call. Or pretend that he's okay.

I'm thankful for the beautiful Swedish winter. The way the pale sun shines through the soft grey cloud cover, just above the horizon. All the windows in the neighborhood are lit up with Lucia candles and balconies twinkle with strands of white LEDs.  The smell of saffron, gingerbread and mulled wine warms up the crisp cold air. The promise of Babcia's beet root barszcz soup and savory mushroom uszki pastry bites makes my mouth water. And one day soon, our little Piggelin will see her first snowflake.

/DD

About that Baby...

Our little Piggelin was born on September 7th, 2013 after 19 hours of labor (17 at home and 2 at the hospital). And she's the best. I know this kind of goes without saying, but guys? WE LOVE THIS BABY!

The birth and first couple months were a wee bit too intense for blogging. 

There were some interesting matters that deserve a little sharing, a little reflection and since writing here is quite a relaxing platform for expression, they will make their way up here in good time.

We do do things somewhat... differently, around here and we're all for minority visibility.

We're still a two dad family, even though one of the Swedish government agencies has decided that we're not. So we got ourselves a fucking awesome  lawyer and somebody's gonna get schooled. At first we were shocked and angry and outraged. It's DayDaddy writing, so I'm going to switch to the first person. Despite having a male legal designation and carrying a male passport and Swedish law stating that legal sex changes must be fully recognized, the tax ministry has decided to list me as Piggelin's mother in all her records. Now, in the U.S. this would be a big deal. In Sweden, it is absolutely unacceptably awful. Why? Because all records like this are public and they follow the kid around everywhere. Her preschool will see me listed as her mother, social services will see me listed as her mother, the health clinic, the hospital, probably even the fucking library. So? What's wrong with that? I gave birth didn't I? Because I'm a dude. I have a dude name. I have a legal dude gender. I sound like a dude on the phone. I look like a dude in person. And now that I'm back on testosterone, I'm only going to become more dudeish. We are going to be (and have already been!) asked why I am listed as her mother. Repeatedly, over and over again for the entirety of her childhood. I'm not interested in having a conversation about my vagina with the director of Little Sunshine Summer Camp or the coach of her junior high handball team. And I don't even want to know what's going to happen if we try to register her birth with the American embassy with the papers looking the way they do now. 

We're also an international, cloth diapering, elimination communication, baby-wearing, donated milk/glass bottle feeding, co-sleeping, inter-generational, multilingual kind of family. These are the parenting styles we were attracted to before she was born and so far they're going pretty great! We already have some stories around these topics that we're looking forward to writing up :) 

/DayDaddy (who ironically ended up being the daddy who does the night shift)

Swimming at 37 Weeks!

No one is too young for ABBA

A place to sleep

Homebirth

First things first: in case you didn't know, the vast majority of pregnancy/birthing stuff in Sweden is done by midwives. Doctors rarely enter the picture. Midwives have university degrees and are an integrated part of the Swedish healthcare system. Midwives do the prenatal check ups, the ultra sounds, the parenting classes and the deliveries.

The standard Swedish approach to pregnancy is to go to an antenatal clinic about 10 times during the pregnancy where a midwife does routine checks. These checks are pretty simple and generally include: blood pressure, hemoglobin, blood sugar, weight and belly measurements. They also ask about mood, sleeping and advise on any unpleasant symptoms that may have cropped up. No one pokes around in your bits at any point during the pregnancy (I've heard they do this in America). One ultrasound is done at week 18. 

Then when one is in labor, it's usually off to the hospital. The birth is attended by whichever midwives are on call. These are not usually the same midwives as the ones who work at the antenatal clinic. Laboring individuals can eat and drink, have who they want with them and labor in any position they want. The most common type of medical pain relief offered is laughing gas, but "walking epidurals" are also available. Massage, movement, a warm bath, and acupuncture are recommended first. Laboring on one's back is discouraged but respected if it is the person's preference.

We are going about things a little bit differently. An alternative option is to have midwives who have specialized in homebirthing come to one's home and attend the birth at home. We chose this option for a whole myriad of reasons, some gender related and others not.

A brief list of some of the reasons why we're choosing homebirth:

* The opportunity to become well acquainted with the midwives who will attend the delivery. If we need to transfer to the hospital, they will continue to attend us at the hospital. Contact with strangers is severely limited.

* The belief that birth is a natural process that does not need to be unnecessarily medicalized.

* The strength, calm and power that comes from one's home where one is most comfortable, relaxed and "in charge." And a desire to avoid the anxiety induced by the hospital/unfamilar setting.

* Preference for a drug-free birth.

* Preference for a waterbirth. 

* Privacy

*Minimizing the language barrier

The midwife who has taken care of all our prenatal check ups is probably one of our all-time favorite health care professionals. She has embraced us a gay/trans couple and has always shown us the highest level of respect and the best compassionate and competent care. 

Through the organization Föda Hemma, we connected with two homebirth midwives who also attend births at our local hospital's birthing center. Yesterday morning, two beautiful women radiating strength, love and wisdom came to our home, sat our on our terrace with us for over an hour and chatted about the upcoming birth of our little Piggelin. These amazing midwives answered all our questions, discussed our feelings-- our hopes and our fears, our needs and desires, and helped us prepare for both the emotional and practical matters of the birth. In addition to attending the birth, they will also arrange all the follow-up care such as a home visit from a pediatrician a few days after the birth and an appointment at the hospital a couple weeks later for the standard newborn hearing test.

They left us both feeling calm and reassured. We are in the very best of hands!

/DD

What would Taystee Say?

Have you seen Orange is the New Black? No? Really? Are you sure we're friends? 

Today, I hypothesized what Taystee would say if I walked into Litchfield Prison.

If she read me as female:

"Wooooo! That one helluva manly dyke! Look at all that pit hair up in there! And that leg hair is out of control! Hmm-mmm. She even look like she got some stubble goin on. Look at her about to pop one out! Her girl must got somethin wrong with her womb or somethin. That's some luv right there."

If she read me as male: 

"Dude needs to lay off the PBR or somethin. Boy could be cute if it weren't for that big ol' belly-- wait waaaaat? He pregnant? You serious? Bitches be fucking with me. For reals? You mean he a girl? Ahh, yeah, yeah, I can kinda see it now that you mention. Yeah. He kinda girly."

/DD

The Twilight of Pregnancy

                                                               

The best part of Swedish summers is the blue-gold sunsets that linger late into the night. Our flat has a terrace and a set of outdoor furniture because we’re ysggies: young, suburban gays.  We sit out there sharing a Sommersby, soaking in the lazy twilight glow and gossiping about our friends or the neighbors. Sometimes we dream.

I let my eyes unfocus and my mind’s eye recalled one of my favorite memories. It’s a shallow one. It’s a deep one. I’m checking out my upper body in the mirror at the gym after a workout. My shoulders and back look amazing: taut and defined. The scars snaking across my chest have begun to fade and I admire how they show off my life. A guy with scars like that has lived.

“This time next year, I’m going to have amazing muscles again.” I said aloud to myself. But he was also listening. “I mean, I’m always gonna be skinny, but I’m going to have some nice definition going on up here.” I waved my hand over my shoulders. “I’m going to have a nice triangle shape leading down to a tiny hard ass in skinny jeans.” I looked over to him to share a grin. To share the excitement of the future.

”Don’t change too fast, Shmoo.” Apprehension filled his eyes. Tender apprehension.

I don’t remember when he started calling me Shmoo.

His Shmoo has skinny arms, a round belly, wide hips, a baby face and thick mat of straw blond hair. He loves his Shmoo.

I squeezed his hand and let the grin soften to a reassuring smile: “Don’t worry, Merp. The changes won’t happen overnight. And I’ll still  be your Shmoo.”

He nodded and took a deep breath.

“Your muscle Shmoo. Your Mushmool? Your Shmuscle? Shmooscle?” I teased. Anything to lift the weight off the corners of his mouth.

He gave me one of those looks and got up to go inside.

“What?” I called after him. “You don’t want a Shmooscle? What about a Strussel? Those are sweet!”

A quiet chuckle wafted out the door, over the terrace and up to welcome the stars.

/DD

Tanooki

NightDaddy told me the other day that my baby bump is like Mario's raccoon suit. He's still Mario, he just looks a little different and has extra powers.

/DD

No Pupae Allowed

*Translation: Bad = Bathing/Swimming

The third trimester, apparently felt the need to show up at our doorstep with a suitcase full of depression. Mostly DayDaddy size, but NightDaddy was not left out.

Endless hours of tears, anger that slides effortlessly on a scale of grumpy to homicidal and a void of siphoned off joy have become the general state of affairs. Not fun.

There are a few suspects in the line up: pro-longed anemia, raging hormones, constant physical discomfort, gender dysphoria, lack of exercise, moving-in-together stress, eczema outbreaks on hands and feet and sleepless nights. They've been combined to create the perfect recipe for making me as miserable as possible.

NightDaddy often goes for a swim at the local swim hall. After reading how all the lovely pregnant folks over in the baby bumping corners of the internet have been enjoying their summer swims, I decided to give the idea some thought. If you're new to the world of "Transgender Problems" I hereby introduce you to: The Locker Room Issue combined with The Swimming Issue. The crux of The Locker Room Issue is that swim halls have facilities for showering and changing that are separated by gender. Cisgender folks only ever need to think twice about this set-up when they have small children or are perhaps when they are disabled and in need of assistance. For these situations the problem is "two bodies: two genders" with the two bodies needing to stay together. For transgender people the problem is "one body: two genders." The crux of The Swimming Issue is that swim clothes are also gender segregated and reveal much of the swimmer's anatomy.

While leaving aside the philosophical gender discussion about what it means to be a man or a woman or what the differences between sex and gender are... there is a very practical matter to be faced. Sometimes a person has a body with physical features that are usually classified as male or female and they're combined into the same body. Some of things are simply a matter of presentation like hair style and armpit hair and clothing choice. Some things are more physical like the shape of one's face, muscle contours and the presence or absence of body parts like breasts, a penis or a 29 week old fetus.

Without getting into too much detail: I am a collage of gender features. Whether or not a stranger reads me as male or female is a gamble these days. My stereotypically male haircut, clothing and body hair generally direct folks to drop me in the male box, however having been off testosterone as long as I have now and being ridiculously pregnant-- I've gained some fairly significant curves and a generally feminine physique. Not that I can see what's between my legs any more due to The Belly, but I'm pretty sure what's there is just as gender ambiguous as what was there 29 weeks ago.

Back to The Locker Room Issue. Walking into a locker room is not a problem. If it were simply a matter of walking in, I would always choose the men's room. The need to get naked is what complicates the situation. No, that's not really the problem. Other People seeing me get naked is the problem. No, that's not really it either. Other People deciding to be Gender Police is the problem. Harassment is the problem.

Wallowing in the depths of depression the way that I have been lately, I knew that a good swim would do me good. I was craving painfree exercise. Ever tried taking long walks with toes covered in eczema? If you have, you know that option is already crossed off the list. Round ligament pain (that's a pregnancy thing) also makes it difficult to move my body in ways that I find enjoyable. I really really wanted to go for a swim. NightDaddy agreed to go with me to show me the swimhall.

I wish I could say we then packed our bags and went, but that's not what happened. What happened was an hour and a half of hand-wringing and discussion of how to manage showering and what to wear. Do we call ahead to the place-- tell them about our situation and ask their advice? Do we just go and behave as discreetly as possible and hope nothing happens? I drilled NightDaddy with questions about exactly how the locker rooms are arranged and what the swimhall policies are: are there individual toilets with doors? do you have to shower naked before going to the pool? is it one big open room? are the lockers in a separate area? Then came the swimwear discussion. Do I wear the swim trunks I have in the closet or do we go buy me something else? Should I try a women's bathing suit? Will the dysphoria induced by that be manageable? Or completely cancel out the whole point of going for a relaxing swim? After a while of this, I became overwhelmed and cried on the bed for a while. I didn't want to go for a swim anymore. Swimming is only for men and women. No pupas allowed.

NightDaddy convinced me to put on my trunks and a long tank top. He reassured me that we would just go check the place out and if I didn't like it we could come right back home.

The swim hall is gorgeous. It's also a fitness center with training rooms and sport courts etc. At the front desk I asked to buy a day pass and a pair of goggles. Then I took a deep breath, found my inner calm and said "I'm transgender which means my body is a mixture of male and female. Right now I'm pregnant. Do you recommend that I use the men's locker room or do you have a safer alternative where I can shower and change?"

The employee's response was one of picture perfect professionalism and kindness. I have no idea what kind of customer service training this place conducts: but holy shit he was nice! He kindly informed me that there was a third entrance to the swimming hall through the spa department. The spa department has three changing rooms in it: one for men, one women and the gender neutral accessible changing room. I was welcome to have a pass for going through that entrance.

Ok... that was better than expected.

Off the the spa department I went only to be confronted by a sign on the door that informed that the spa department is for women only on wednesdays. It was wednesday. Fuck. I went back to the front desk and asked about the policy. He smiled and said that it was still okay for me to go in because that is the only handicap accessible entrance. From that I understood that if I were a man in a wheelchair, I'd also be using that entrance on a wednesday.

The spa department was a long corridor with changing rooms with their own doors on the right, divided exactly as he described and rooms with showers on the left also divided the same way. The lights were dim and soothing music played. I went into the third changing room and enjoyed the entire space to myself and happily tossed my bag into a locker. Back out in the corridor again, I passed the sauna area which, as it turned out, had two individual showers with their own doors. I merrily rinsed off in the privacy of my own little shower closet. The last room to walk through on the way to the pool held a big beautiful jacuzzi. I popped into it for a second and then headed on out to the pool.

NightDaddy was anxiously waiting for me. We sat for a bit and took in the hall understanding what was where and chatting about the nice staff. Once in the water-- I felt amazing. There is nothing quite like getting into a giant pool of water when one is pregnant. I stretched out my arms and legs and effortlessly cut through the water. It felt like every muscle was thowing it's own little celebration of freedom and movement. After a few laps, I felt relaxed enough to remove the sopping wet tank top. NightDaddy and I chatted some between laps and giggled a lot. We tried not to be too affectionate. I was happy and he wanted to hug my happiness.

When we climbed out of the pool, he went first and then draped my towel over my shoulders as I climbed out. It was nice to have the scars on my chest and my swollen belly covered. We bought hotdogs and sat outside on the deck in the sunshine. I decided I would buy a membership and come everyday.

Then I had to pee. Pregnant people often do. I waddled back to the spa department. Within 30 seconds of walking through the door, a woman from the jacuzzi started yelling at me angrily. She had a long black hair, beautiful brown skin and a heavy accent. Today is women-only day in the spa area. I should get out.

 I was too overwhelmed to find the Swedish words necessary to explain myself to this woman with any coherence. Shocked, I just hurried on past and escaped to the toilet with the big safe wheelchair sign on the door. It took several minutes before my terrified body could relax enough to pee. I took some deep breaths and then I empathized with the woman. Perhaps, she is muslim and having a strange man see her hair uncovered would be deeply upsetting to her. She was of course, wearing a swimsuit, but not all women are comfortable in mixed environments in only a swimsuit. On my way back to the pool, I kept my eyes down and hurried. I don't know if she said anything more.

Back out on the deck with NightDaddy we talked about gendered spaces and what happened. He remembered that the center had a non-gendered policy when it came to staff and this caused some controversey a few years back. Male and female staff members can access all the facilities and perform any of the jobs regardless of their gender. We talked about whether or not it was false advertising to have a women's only day in the spa department if male staff, handicapped clients and transgender people continued to have access. Having attended an all-women's college myself for my bachelor's degree, I am pretty well aware of the need for protected spaces for women. We talked about Swedish attitudes about asexual nakedness and the right for everyone to enjoy good health and fitness regardless of their body type. While far from perfect, the mainstream Swedish attitudes about bodies are still leagues more positive than the small town in the midwest of the U.S. where I grew up.

We both felt for the woman whose spa experience my body had violated. I felt proud of her for speaking up for herself against what she felt was an encroachment on her rights. We pondered the irony of how it is usually people from the most conservative sects of society who are most likely to declare loudly as possible that a person like me is a woman because I have XX chromosomes and can give birth. Yet, they are also the first to judge a person's gender by their clothing and hairstyle. Despite my curvy hips, slim limbs and pregnant belly: all she perceived were my men's haircut and swim trunks. I wonder what her opinions on transgender people are. Had I had the courage to attempting to communicate with her in my shaky 4th language (probably her 4th language too) maybe I would have found her to be very warm and understanding. Or maybe she would label my hairstyle and swimtrunks that I've worn for 5 years because they are mine and I like them, "a disguise." Would she even permit me to be transgender? Or would the only possibility available in her mind be a "woman disguised as a man?"

NightDaddy requested that a staff member escort me back through the spa department on our way out so that I could get my things without making the ladies feel uncomfortable (like I was some kind of pervert invading their space). They gave me a male escort. lol.

In the end, I decided that I would buy a membership and enjoy the hell out of that pool for the remainder of my pregnancy. Just, perhaps, not on wednesdays.

/DD

Gender Dysphoria + Pregnancy = What. Have. We. Done.

What? The second trimester is over? The gorgeous, happy glowing second trimester Nooooooooooooo!

Okay, admittedly, I might be remembering the past few months with rosey glasses. Although the dizziness and nausea of the first trimester were so bad, I wish I could block out those months from my memory completely.

NightDaddy and I have now sailed on into the trepidatious waters of the third trimester: 28 weeks. I went from "I can handle this-- no big deal" to horrendously emotionally unstable in the period of um... about 1 week. And NightDaddy? I thinks he's probably wondering who stole his lovely boyfriend in the middle of the night and replaced him with a raging monster.

Oh. My. God. The HORMONES! This shit is not fun.

To be fair, ND is actually being incredibly lovely and supportive. He calls me his cute pupa and knows that I will grow into a handsome butterfly at some point in the not so distant (even though right now it feels forever and ever and ever far away) future.

Somedays as a pupa are harder than others. I went from being completely unambiguously male looking for 4 years to suddenly having a 7 year old on a scooter ask me if I was a guy or a girl at the bus stop. I went home and cried big manly tears on ND's shoulder.  

Not that I regret the decision to make our daughter this way, I know she will be worth it in the end, but this is way fucking harder than I thought it would be and these days I feel like I'm barely hanging on.

Don't worry-- the appointment to see the psychologist has already been made! 

But for now, all I want to do for the next 12 weeks is hide under the blankets and incubate our little Piggelin. And eat lemon sorbet. I might come out for lemon sorbet...

/DD

Heart Fart

Saturday morning found us cuddled up in bed, NightDaddy with his arm across my belly feeling our Piggelin attempting to kick my bellybutton from an innie into an outie. The following dialogue ensued:  

"You're right it does kind of feel like farts."
"Well, they'd be pretty hard farts by now!"
"Piggelin Hard Fart"
"It sounds like you said Piggelin Heart-Fart"
"No. That's what happens when you fall in love with the wrong person."
"What?"
"A heart fart."

Cloth Diaper Stash!

We got some of several different types so that we could try them out and find out what works best. In the top drawer are prefolds and inserts. In the bottom drawer are some fitted diapers, a couple travel wetbags, some pocket diapers, a couple all-in-ones, two PUL covers, some wool covers and one fleece cover. 

Paternity Jeans

I've dragged NightDaddy along with me to Glasgow for the week. I'm here for a big conference and he's here to keep my pregnant ass company. (Come on we all know it's first-time parent paranoia: WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS?!?)

As our little Piggelin continues to grown, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to maintain my sense of style, particularly in a professional environment. Namely: they don't make pregnancy clothes for men.

I naively thought that since plenty of dudes are walking around with big ol' beer bellies all the time, this would not be an issue. HA! This only works if one is on the larger side to begin with. Turns out skinny gay boys with no butts don't generally tend to also have hearty guts on them.

Yesterday, following afternoon tea with scones at a cafe recommended by the two crusty old men selling newspapers in front of Glasgow Central Station, ND and I wandered into a baby store. We do this sometimes. We pretend we're checking out carseat prices but we're mostly just feeling overwhelmed. 

Lo and behold! There on a table in the middle of the store was a pile of jeans for pregnant people on sale for TWO FOR 10 POUNDS!!! (for our Swedish readers, that's 50,-/pair) I nervously picked up a pair and was shocked to see that they were labeled "Boyfriend Jeans." As far as I know, this concept doesn't exist in Sweden. I don't know if it's because of the dubiously anti-feminist nature of the description or simply Sweden's love affair with skinny jeans, but I had only ever heard of these things on teh internets. Apparently they're "men's" jeans for "women." Bullshit. They still look like women's jeans to me. But they are heaps more appropriate than the floral embroidered, jewel-encrusted, ass grabbing pants usually found on that side of the aisle. 

I tried them on.

I wish I could launch into the "OMG these things are heaven!" exclamations that generally tend to describe these things in pregnancy forums, but to be honest... um, they're okay. The elastic waistbandy stuff is pretty freaking awesome, but after 4.5 years of roomy menswear, the crotch feels...snug O_o

As I handed them through the curtain to ND to try on a different size, I made some kind of comment about how inexpensive these were for maternity jeans.

"Paternity jeans." He quickly corrected.

/DD

Authority

DayDaddy was worried NightDaddy would have a boring time in Glasgow (ha! the city is awesome!) so he very thoughtfully, endearingly, made a little game for ND to play during his stay so that the hotel room and laptop would seem a little less appealing. It worked! The game is to each day pick one Rule, one Challenge, and one Inspiration randomly out of an envelope, and create a photo. So for example, inspiration could be "Authority", the challenge could be to take public transit, and the rule to post the photo on our blog for the world to see instead of it moulding away on my harddrive, as it would usually.

So, I bring you, Authority, in Glasgow, belabored with rain. Also, I was getting mighty hungry around this time...

Some other adventures that day included being asked to leave from a shopping gallery. The security encounter was not unpleasant, although you could tell that the lady was used to more than a little gruff from the would-be photographers that she must routinely dissuade from practising their trade or hobby. All in all I was politely told to stop taking photographs, and that was that. I can't help but wonder whether her job would not be made easier if the no-photography requirement wasn't a little more prominent upon entering - as it is, it's a tiny plaque off to the side, hidden in shadow, dwarfed by the giant no-smoking signs and promotional adverts plastered on every glass door in the vicinity.

It makes you think what the point of such a policy is when most people will simply not notice, and the establishment clearly does not want their no-photography policy advertised. I suspect it's to deter elaborate and disturbing photo shoots, or pro's using the recognisable interior of Buchanan Galleries - "the largest shopping gallery in the UK" - for some insidious purpose such as lamenting the rise of the authoritarian state. 

So here's a photo from the interior:

Seriously though, the security guard was quite nice, once she realised I wasn't there to make a fuss. As much as I may disagree with the enforcement of a no-photography law on "private" property that is de-facto used as a public space, it's not her fault that she makes a living handling dissenters.

It's too bad, because it meant that I didn't get a chance to purchase the rain jacket I desperately need for this Glasgow visit...

/ND

Lingua

My cousin's recent post on her blog, ProjectProcrastinot, about raising children in multi-lingual families got me thinking about our own situation again.

Despite my own dad's concerted efforts to teach us kids Esperanto when we were little (can you tell where my hippy inclinations come from?), I really only spoke English until I was 17. With only a couple weeks of private tutoring from a local Brazilian, I graduated high school and headed to Brazil for a year as a Rotary exchange student. My first host family didn't speak a word of English and I had absolutely nothing to do but learn Portuguese and go to the beach. I learned Portuguese. Spoke it fluently with a northeastern coastal Brazilian accent embellished with the adolescent slang of 2003. With the exception of a couple college courses after I got back, I never used it again. 

Instead I moved to Denmark. I figured out pretty quickly that 1) Danish was a fuckload harder than Portuguese 2) Fluency is not so easy to pick up in a country where everyone speaks English and 3) Balancing learning a language with other  responsibilities is exhausting. I managed to get fairly conversational in this mumblejumble language when I moved to Sweden. 

To someone who had only ever heard Danish, it's cousin, Swedish sounded absolutely ridiculous to my ears. Although, I've been informed ad nauseum that it is actually Danish that is the weirder sounding of the two languages. Trying to speak Swedish felt like putting on a fake BBC accent. I was terrible at it. Absolutely terrible. For 3 and a half years I've balanced work, studying, keeping a roof over my head, participating in local LGBT activism and managing somesort of social life while also attempting to come to grips with Swedish. A big part of the problem is that Swedish is a bit taboo at my work place. International researchers from all over the world come and go all the time, thus the working language is English spiced up with a few Swedishisms like "fika," "Valborg," and "smultron." However, I feel like I've gotten to a less shameful level of fluency that involves being able to complain about the weather, read ads on Blocket.se and understand the announcements on the train intercom. 

And at home our language is also English. NightDaddy was raised in Stockholm by Polish immigrant parents and grandparents. He attended English school as his parents did not have longterm plans to stay in Sweden back then (I can relate!). Despite living his entire life in Sweden, he didn't actually learn Swedish until he was a teenager and he still doesn't feel entirely comfortable with the language. We even met on an English language dating site primariliy used by non-Swedes in Sweden. 

So what on Earth are we going to do with our little Piggelin? English at home? Polish at Babcia and Dziadek's? Swedish at school? Or should we send her to the nearby English school NightDaddy attended? At first, I thought the obvious answer would be the local Swedish school, but we're having second thoughts. Will we stay in Sweden longterm?  What are the consequences of being the only foreign kid in her class? What are the consequences of going to that school while having non-native Swedish speakers for parents? Since both NightDaddy and I are blue-eyed blonds there's not a lot of guesswork in what Piggelin will look like. What are the consequences of being a blue-eyed, blond child with 20 blue-eyed blond peers? At least at an international school there'd be a bit more diversity...

I guess we'll just have to figure out what works best as we go along!

Directed Advertising

What directed advertising looks like when it's aimed at a gay, ex-pat living in Sweden expecting his first child:

cloth diapers, a Scandinavian airline, a Swedish "man's man" fitness competition, g-string underwear for men and Suzuki cars.

/DD

Plushies

DD: We could stop by the apoteket when we're in town tomorrow and pick up a hot water bottle.
ND: Do they have the plushie kind?
DD: I doubt it. Probably just the plain rubber ones.
ND: But those aren't as nice. I won't use it as much.
DD: It's not for you!
ND: Why can't it be for both of us?
DD: The plushie ones are much more expensive and we'd probably have to order it online somewhere. We can just get a normal one and pick up a plushie from Myrona.
ND: *look of horror*
DD: What? We can just replace the stuffing with the water bottle.
ND: *shocked and appalled* You, Sir, have crossed a line!
DD: It's just a plushie!
ND: No! Besides it wouldn't work. How would you fill it up?
DD: *mischevious grin* Just remove the head. We can sew a face on the belly.
ND: You're sick.
DD: It could still be cute! Little button eyes?
ND: *leaves room*

Dreams Come True

On a drive throught the countryside last night, we spontaneously pulled over and hopped out for NightDaddy to take some artsy pictures of a flooded country road. 

The snapshot above was taken by me with my dinky little camera. The challenge with having a professional photographer in the family is that moments of your life can be transformed into incredible works of art, however, you never get those inconsequential "hey, remember this from when we...?" snapshots. I realized a while back that if I want those scrapbook shots, I've gotta grab them myself. NightDaddy, The Photographer, is still working out his relationship with my pocket-size Casio :P

I jogged back to the car last night to grab my camera because someday I wanted to share that moment with our little Piggelin. I'm so fucking proud of NightDaddy's career as an artist! It's not an easy one, but he's passionate and he never gives up. I want to have that fuzzy, roadside momento of her daddies sitting in a tree in a flooded field to show her and say "Look, this is when you were in DayDaddy's belly! And this is NightDaddy seizing the moment!" And I hope that she feels inspired to live her own dreams the way her daddies do. 

/DD

Lions

You know you're a family when everybody gets ill together!

Yesterday sucked.

The Daddies spent the day in bed with miserable colds. However, there was a silver lining! Not commuting in to work monday morning, meant immediate indulgence in this week's episode of Game of Thrones! Our second date ever was meeting up to watch GoT together. It's kind of this thing we do. And it's awesome.

(This is the part where I tell you, we're both avid fans of the books as well, but where I don't tell you that NightDaddy started reading the 4th book after the 1st book on accident and didn't realize until half way through. Thus, effectively ruining every surprise/cliff-hanger/fake death in books 2 and 3. I would never share that horrifically embarrassing story on the internet. Not me. No, Sir.)

At some point a few days ago, I had the bright idea that we should give our little Piggelin* the middlename "Leona" if she comes early because she'd be a Leo. NightDaddy was not amused. I'm pretty sure there was eye-rolling. Maybe even a lip twitch.

Then lo and behold, in the middle of a pee break during season 3 episode 3:

"What about Piggelin Lannister? You know, if she comes early."

/DD


*Piggelin does actually have a proper first name by now. We're just not telling you. I know. We're assholes. 

Spring Bump Exchange!

The internet can be so freakin' fun sometimes! 

Confession: Both NightDaddy and I are Redditors. It was one of the first things we found out we had in common. I believe at some point around date 2 or 3, one of us was trying to impress the other with some obscure current event and the other was like "Dude, I saw that on Reddit too." 

One day during the the trying to conceive period between the loss of our first pregnancy and our little Piggelin coming to be, I discovered the subreddit, BabyBumps, which is hands down, the friendliest, most inclusive, bestest bestest pregnancy forum on the interwebs! 

Being the first pregnant person in my close circle of friends, I don't want to be that guy. You know, the one who:

Whinges about his pregnancy: Ewww, I'm getting fat and gross and disgusting and no one is ever going to think I'm sexy ever agaaaaaaaaaain ;_:

Freaks out about every twinge or headache: OMG my head! Is it possible to get Pre-Eclampsia in the first trimester?!?!? What if I actually have a brain tumor and it goes undiagnosed because they think it's a pregnancy sypmtom?!?!?

And talks incessently about baby crap: Oooooo check out this cool bottle thingy that let's you feed hands-free!

Because let's be honest here. They love me. But they don't love me that much. And I love them too much to do that to them.

Thus: /r/BabyBumps to the rescue!

I just participated in my first ever internet gift exchange; The BabyBumps Spring Gift Exchange. Through a moderator orchestrated endeavor; I sent a pregnant person some baby stuff and some other pregnant person sent me some baby stuff. Check out the baby stuff I got! She even included some super cute hand-me-downs that a friend had given to her, but since she's due in July someplace hot, she figured they would be more suited to our little Piggelin who is due in September in Sweden, where it is April 13th and I am still watching snow fall outside my window.

And she sent a pacifier that says "I <3 Daddy." 

*sniff*

This woman wins at life :)

/DD

We've Been Practicing

YouTube tutorials on how the hell to put these things on a baby have been ridiculously helpful. Unfortunately, the so-called "complicated" diapering systems, like the prefold+cover pictured on Teddy here are frequently described as "not daddy friendly" as opposed to the All-in-Ones which are obnoxiously labeled "Daddy Friendly Diapers." 

Not that we'll be bragging about our mad teddybear diapering skillz at the gay bar anytime soon, but ,yeah, we've totally got this. 

/ND&DD