style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">Before I had my first child, one of my biggest fears was taking him to the bathroom at a sporting event. While other men worried about midnight feedings and dropping a baby on his head, I fretted over a trip to one of the satellite offices of Germ Industries.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">Flash forward to Benjamin’s first pro baseball game. With the sun shining and the home team winning, I was in heaven as I sat with my then 3-year-old son, cracking peanut shells. In the eighth inning, Benjamin finished his lemonade, jumped up and did the “pee dance.” My stomach dropped.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">“If you can wait, we’ll be home in a half-hour,” I lied.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">Benjamin’s eyes nearly crossed as he held it all in. So I walked him up the stairs as if approaching the door to Linda Blair’s room in The Exorcist and entered the eighth-level of hell.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">As we moved through an oppressive crowd of beer-drenched guys, Benjamin bee-lined for the urine “trough” and was about to reach his hand in to play with the deodorizing cakes when I pulled him back with enough force to make him cry. After calming him down, we got in line for a toilet, and waited an eternity in the hot, pungent room.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">Once inside a stall, Benjamin was awed by the double toilet-paper dispenser, the sanitary seat covers, and the cool oval-shaped toilet seat.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">“Don’t – touch – ANY – THING!” I bellowed, startling him again.

style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana">“OK, but I have to go poopie,” he said pitifully.