a different sort of strange place

As a parent, you end up in strange places. But as a parent in Sweden, living in a tiny apartment, with no car, I end up in strange places I didn’t see coming.

In America, the strange places tend to be car-related. Scruffy gas stations in Newark to change a diaper. The depths of a mall in Poughkeepsie, again looking for a bathroom. Babies R Us, just in general.

In contrast, this morning I sat under an apartment balcony next to a field on a pallet then frigid concrete in a freezing wind and under a darkening gray sky, gnawing the skin off an apple to feed to NK.

We needed to tire her out. She wandered here and there. She got hungry. She insisted on sitting down while eating. She spotted the pallet under the balcony.

Again, it did not seem all that different, even though I could not feel my hands and NK refused to put on gloves and I worried about the people in the apartment above.

But it was different. And I both liked it and missed running back to the car from the scruffy gas station.

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