She pushed open the door with the stroller and we found ourselves surrounded by women brushing their hair, repairing the damage to their makeup and chatting happily while changing their babies’ diapers. Gino and I stopped our crying and looked around the room in wonder. This was something that had always been off limits to me as an adult. I had often wondered how women’s restrooms were accoutered. The smell of the women’s restroom was unlike anything I had ever experienced; it was an odd combination of feminine perfume and disinfectant. Not like the smell of the nurses I had been near during Gino’s illness. This wasn’t a hospital smell, reeking of science and professional femininity, but different odor entirely.
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