Welcome to Sweden: notes on birthday condoms, home abortions, and hysterical Americans.

• Author: Andersson, Ingrid
• Position: Column

I came to Sweden to research reproductive freedom. I wanted to study family policies in a country where citizens get 480 days of paid parental leave and up to six weeks of annual paid vacation and where, I had heard, the government mails birthday greetings and condoms to young people when they are considered old enough to have sex.

When I left the United States, where I am a home-birth midwife and an advocate for women's autonomy, reproductive freedom, and healthy families, the seemingly intractable conflicts over abortion, sex, and "family values" were raging. I thought getting out of the country might give me different perspectives and maybe even hope.

The first thing I notice, as a mother and midwife landing in Sweden, is the extraordinary attention paid to families. I discover that the narrow parallel tracks running up staircases, indoor and outdoor, are for strollers. I see strollers and wheelchairs everywhere, fitting into inviting and welcoming (beyond merely accommodating) public spaces. Every urban neighborhood has a grocery store stocked with real food that by law contains no unnecessary antibiotics, added hormones, corn syrup, or endocrine disrupting chemicals. Every neighborhood has a local health clinic and youth center.

There are no window decals prohibiting handguns, because Swedes don't carry them. (It is illegal for a civilian to carry a firearm here unless for a specific, legal purpose, such as hunting or attending a shooting range.) A public bench seems to pop up whenever my dysplastic hip needs one. Dedicated bike paths abound. I marvel at how cars stop for pedestrians and bikers at every zebra crossing, and it almost makes me weep. I have seen cars hit bikers and pedestrians in America, and an eleven-year-old boy was killed recently along the very same traffic corridor where my son walked to school (and about which neighbors and I complained for years). This feels bigger than family friendliness. This is flesh-and-blood, money-where-the-mouth-is striving for humane and inclusive quality of life.

I say "striving" because democracy is a dizzying business, riddled with argument and debate. The American in me balks at the 25 percent value-added tax, higher even than Norway's, as well as the "rules are rules" mentality that drives Swedish behavior. I cannot count how many times I've been told, "regler ar regler." For the first time in my life, I have been pulled over by police and asked to blow into a breathalyzer. And I never, ever fail to come to a dead halt at stop signs, because even on a vacant road there can be a traffic camera, and fines are steep.

But the American in me decides she is happy to pay high taxes and play by Swedish rules on the first day of public school.

My son's teacher said he did not need to bring anything apart from his curious, well-rested, breakfasted self. School will supply all his school needs, including an iPad and hot meals made from scratch. His first lunch --eaten over an hour at a round wooden table, sitting on a real wooden chair, in an actual dining room filled with windows and art--is baked salmon in rich cream sauce, dilled potatoes, steamed broccoli, salad with homemade dressing, bread, butter, and organic milk, served in all-you-can-eat buffet style. The kitchen uses 30 percent organic ingredients, locally produced when possible. My seventh grader is disoriented but delighted by trusting adults and an open campus with unlocked doors. (Every morning since Sandy Hook, my son's school in America was all locked up by the time the kids were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.)

Three weeks after school starts, teachers, parents, and students in my son's class, all on a first-name basis, come together with the principals and play party games. Torsten...