I came to see an uncomfortable truth last week, and, for the first time, I chose the men's room instead of the ladies'.
It wasn't easy, and it was a long time coming.
For the record, I'm a straight woman. Always have been; always will be. I've been married for 25 years, and I have two grown kids. I'm the last person you'd expect to see in the men's room.
My adult son has disabilities. (Yes, plural.) He needs help in a public restroom. Always has; always will.
When he was little, it was easy — after all, lots of moms take their little boys into the ladies' room in public places. Mostly, people were cool about it. Though there was that one day at the health club when an older woman gave me a scorching look and announced loudly that this boy was too old to be in the women's locker room. (He was 5.)
I took her aside and said that if she was worried that he might see her naked, she was in luck: He's blind. She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, then declared that her real concern was the risk of his "gender misidentification." I laughed.
"If that's the biggest problem we ever have, that would be great."
He's an adult now. He has a deep voice, and a full beard. As he grew, we got more in the habit of his dad taking him to the men's room. But sometimes Dad's not there. Like last week.