One of the many things I never really thought of as a stay-at-home Dad was the whole bathroom situation. Never even crossed my mind, not once. Whenever I had to go, when we were out and about, I just held it while Sophie was still in diapers. I hate public restrooms anyway, even for just a quick and simple evacuation procedure. They smell horrible, are covered in filth as a rule, and invariably there is no hand soap whatsoever. Just evenly spread your biomatter and germs around your hands in a furious fashion. I’d rather walk gingerly for the last hour of our outing, thank you very much, and save us both the indignity and infections.
Once Sophie was out of her diapers, however, that wasn’t an option. I became intimately aware of the location and condition of every bathroom in the county, as well as acutely reminded that I had a little girl and would be subjecting her to scarring experiences in the men’s restroom for many years to come.
How had I not realized this? What an idiot! And, by the way, fuck this! In case you’re not familiar, the men’s room is a place of unholy horrors, especially in parks and heavily trafficked areas where they’ll literally let anyone in. Men make it a point to spray urine everywhere, starting with the seat and wherever their shaky little hose has a mind to go if they decide they are too delicate to give the urinals a good hosing. Feces is always around and never flushed, even if there is a functional stall. No toilet paper, no hot water, no soap. Scrawled obscenities and standing “water?” always within reach. Leering vagrants in and out, perhaps there for a smoke or a date or to wash their underwear in the sink. I’ve seen too much and I’m scarred by it. I can only imagine what it could do to my sweet 2-year old girl’s psyche.
But we’ve got to go to the bathroom together. She’s too young, too small, and she literally needs help up, besides the very real possibility of her falling in without the proper leverage. Not to mention that my duties as official butt-wiper require me to be present. Her Tyrannosaurus Rex arms still can’t reach past her tailbone and remain completely ineffective for hygiene. So if one of our genders is going to rule this decision it’s definitely going to be the small female in the fairy garb. Women’s room, here we come.
I had always imagined so much more to the women’s bathroom. A comfortable couch, soft lighting, good toilet paper. Nice music playing, sweet-smelling soap with abundant hot water. And absolute cleanliness, of course. Stall after stall of clean, well-kept toilets that never had a floater and weren’t covered in urine 100% of the time.
Was I ever shocked! I can tell you from extensive personal experience that womens’ rooms are mayyyybe 10% cleaner. On a good day, in a good area of town. The fairer sex is, apparently, nearly as hard on public restrooms as the knuckle draggers. Standing “water?” is still a reliable standby, a floater lives in nearly every toilet, and urine gleams on nearly every seat. I’m still not sure exactly how or why the urine ends up all over the seats, it must be a hovering epidemic. But at the very least, the valley of urinals and leering Neanderthals are kept at bay next door.
So I always wait until it’s empty. Crack the door and call in there to see if everyone’s gone. Then we make a bee-line to the far stall and lock it, hoping no one will come in for the next few minutes. They always do. Oh, well. More grist for the mill. There’s always plenty of grist.
We always got “busted” while we’re washing out hands. Complete with the inevitable gasping double take, the jump back, the dirty look, the “what are you doing in here!?” Once again, I just assumed that there wasn’t going to be a big societal problem with this. It’s quite obvious that I’m not in there for anything other than my little girl’s necessities. Well, to me, it is. I’m not here to leer at your loveliness while you commit your own unwashed atrocities. And I couldn’t make this filth hole any more horrible if I wanted to. So pick a stall and get over yourself.
But all I do is smile and nod down to my little girl in fairy garb washing her hands and singing princess anthems.
“Is this…the women’s room?” She says, with tapping feet and crossed arms and a cursory look back at the door to double check the door picture for a dress, though she knows damn good and well it is. None of my replies ever go over well:
“Yep, that’s where my little woman insisted on goin!”
“Have you ever been inside a men’s room!?”
“Oh, crap, I messed up again. Thought that was a picture of a guy in a kilt! Keep out of the handicapped stall if you know what’s good for you!”
A couple summers ago, a ranger threatened to call the sheriff on me if I went into an empty women’s room in a sprawling public park one summer afternoon. The men’s room was occupied with derelicts, exceptionally abused, and lacking toilet paper.
“What? You’re joking, right?” I asked, convinced that must have been the case.
“You have to use the men’s room. IT’S THE LAW,” she said, resting her arms across her powerful bosoms, jammed into the tan uniform that was at least 2 sizes too small for her.
“But she’s a girl, and she has to go…”
“The adult may not enter in the other sex’s restroom.”
“I’ve never heard of such a…”
“Daddy! Haffa go poop!”
“She’s 2! She needs help, she can’t wipe her own…”
“Then use the men’s room. It’s a-vail-a-ble,” she leaned forward, over-enunciating.
“Daddy, don wanna use da boys bafroom.” Sophie says, hopping and fiercely holding it.
“C’mon. It’ll be OK. C’mon Sophie. This lady won’t let us go in the women’s,” I say as I drag her over to the a-vail-a-ble cess-pool.
“How comes?”
“I don’t know. She’s either having a bad day or she’s just mean like this all the time. You see, Sophie, some people are just unhappy and they like to spread that unhappiness around, much like SOME MEN WHO LIKE TO SPREAD THEIR URINE ALL OVER A TOILET SEAT!” I over-enunciated loudly as we carved a wide berth around the Neanderthal hunched over the sink, washing his brown socks while avoiding the big pool of “water?” that truly brought the room together.
I’ve got to get a work wife to go to the parks with during the day. One that will take Sophie to the bathroom and doesn’t mind wiping her butt until her arms come the rest of the way in. That’s going right on the top of the list.