As predicted, the thunderstorm broke the heatwave. It's still too damp to mow the lawn, but the playground should be dry by the time breakfast is over. Although, I should probably throw a towel in the stroller just in case.

I'm spacing out, thinking about what I need to pack for the park. The never ending checklist of being a parent: snack, water bottles, sunscreen, diapers... This is a rookie mistake. Spencer realizes he doesn't have my attention and the small bowl that I'd filled with "waffle dip" (also known as maple syrup) goes flying off the table.

"Holy shit." I look at the sticky smear across the tiles.

"Shit!" Spencer parrots.

Shit. "Okay man, I guess Daddy needs to clean this up." Maybe by ignoring this new word he won't keep saying it. I grab a sponge and get to work.

"What happened in here?" My wife returns to the kitchen with a freshly changed Nora.

"Just the usual excitement," I mutter.

We go through the well-practiced dance of finishing breakfast and cleaning everything up. It's a routine that has been carefully choreographed. No words need to be spoken as kids get wiped down, scraps get disposed of, boxes get placed in cupboards, and dishes get stacked in the dishwasher.

Once the curtain has dropped on the cleanup act, I dash out the back to grab the double-stroller from the shed, plop the diaper bag in the bottom, and park it by the side door. Soon we are stuffing small feet into velcroed shoes and securely strapping wiggly arms and legs into 5-point restraints.

Nine sharp and we are ready to roll. "Towel!" I remember and run back in to grab one.

Nine-o-two and we are rolling.

The birds are out. Chirping and tweeting and cawing and I even hear a distant twit-twoo. Squirrels go running up and down branches, chittering excitedly. The kids kick their legs and laugh and point up at the trees. Tiffany's smile is actually relaxed. It seems that everyone and everything is grateful for the slightly cooler temperatures.

We arrive at the park and I'm surprised that more people aren't there. I see the Vietnamese family from down the block with their baby and we exchange polite waves. Two women are sitting on the bench speaking in - Spanish? Portuguese? - as their older kids play independently. And there's a white couple with a toddler. I don't recognize them. They're preppily dressed and fawning over a towheaded boy a bit younger than Spencer. At first they seem suburban nondescript, but something about the guy seems ... different. Yet familiar.

My wife and I glance at each other as Spencer goes running ahead and Nora plops down at our feet. "Trans?" She mouths at me.

"Maybe." I raise my eyebrows to assess.

"Definitely." She nods.

"I don't know." I shake my head. "He's tall."

"Only compared to you." She snickers.

"Hey, I'm 5'8. That's solidly average." I walk away from her to go catch Spencer as he rushes down the slide. Turns out it wasn't wet. Maybe another parent already wiped off the rain.

As I walk closer to the play structure I get a better view of the unknown guy. I try to make eye contact with him, maybe strike up a conversation, but he's watching his kid climb up the mini rock wall. "Spence, go down the slide again."

"Again!" He happily obliges.

I try not to stare, but at the same time I do my best to analyze this guy for proof one way or the other. I break down his presentation in a way I'd never want anyone to do to me.

His cheeks are smooth. Baby faced smooth, not clean-shaven smooth. In fact, he doesn't seem to have much body hair at all. His leg hair is sparse, but he does have some, which means he's not a crazy bicyclist who shaves them. His wrists are thin. If only I could hear him speak, maybe that would clue me in. "Hey, Spence, let's play over here." I try to guide him over. Maybe if Spencer interacts with the guy's kid then I can talk with the guy.

"Swing! Swing! Swing!"

No luck.

We put Nora and Spencer on neighboring bucket swings. I never see Nora smile as wide as when she's swinging through the air. Her mouth is fully open as she squeals in delight. "Watch out, you might catch a fly in there," I tease.

"Faster!" Spencer demands.

"So, have you come to a conclusion?"

"No." I push Spencer higher. "But maybe he'll read me as trans and start a conversation."

"That guy is pre-T. Honestly, he might be a lesbian. That's how positive I am he's not, you know..."

"A cis guy?"

"Yeah. But sorry, there's no way he'll read you. I mean, come on. Look at you. No one would believe it."

She means it as a compliment. Maybe it is one. After all, if I didn't want to pass, then why transition?

Honestly though, I feel like an asshole. Like, there is no way to approach a guy who you think might be trans and ask. If you're wrong, then you just made a fool of yourself. And if you're right, you've just outed someone. There is no good outcome.

It would be nice to know another trans dad, though.

When I first moved to the area I tried attending a trans-male support group held at the community center. I hoped to make some friends. It didn't start off well. The first guy who walked up to me asked if I knew it was a trans support group. He thought I'd stumbled into the wrong room. Even though I was only 24, everyone was younger than me. I felt like an idiot. I didn't go back.

Spencer and Nora are looking at each other and giggling like little maniacs. I think we'll be by the swings for a while. I look back over at the guy - they've moved on the seesaw - and I feel invisible. I wish there was some secret signal trans guys could flash to identify each other out in the wild.

Maybe there is something, but I've spent too long in cis-straight land to know about it.

My wife is fine pushing the kids. I go and sit down on one of the regular swings. Immediately I feel a cold wetness seep through my pants. "Ugh!" I exclaim loud enough to capture two toddlers' attention.

"What hap- ... Oh!" My wife starts to laugh as I stand up and reveal my wet backside.

"Shit!" Spencer joins in the fun.

My wife laughs harder. "Good thing we brought that towel."

"We?" I huff as I go grab it. But as I dry off I start to laugh too.

"Shit!" Spencer yells again, giddy with the excitement of swinging.

I shake my head. These kids really do absorb everything. I need to watch what I say. Next thing I know he'll be screaming "Trans." I guess that'd make me less invisible.