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)