So I'm in the airport with my kids yesterday, waiting to for our flight back to Savannah from Phoenix (I went to my 20th high school reunion; yes, it was AWESOME) and five minutes before we're supposed to board, my daughter announces that she has to pee.

By "announce" I mean she drowned out the flight attendant with the little mouthpiece thingie who was explaining that Southwest doesn't have actual seat assignments; patrons must stand in line and push their way onto the plane like mad cows in the hopes there will be enough room in the overhead bins for their fat little suitcase that now costs $15 to check. Because travelling with children isn't hard enough, right?

Anyway, I leave my son in charge with our pile of stout little luggage and sail into the women's bathroom. Now, generally, I find airport restrooms to be the Ritz Carltons of public bathrooms, constantly being restocked by diligent women with carts of endless rolls of toilet paper, but on this day, in this airport bathroom, whoever was responsible for keeping it clean was doing something other than her job. I'll spare you the stinky details, but when my kid and I finally found an open stall that didn't require rain boots to keep our feet dry, there was no way I was going to let her precious little heinie touch the seat, and there were no seat liners to be found. Which meant it was time for a particularly important life lesson that a mother must teach her daughter: How to cop a squat over a nasty toilet.

I've got plenty of experience, so I demonstrate, but here's the problem: Little kid, tall potty. I try holding her by the armpits and she almost falls in, which would have been funny, except Lord knows what kinds of crazy germs were lurking - this is an international airport, people. Finally, I lay pieces of toilet paper down and she goes (der, I know, should've thought of it first, but I'd been partying like it was 1989 all weekend.) While she's tinkling, she looks up at me and says "Y'know mama, this would've been a lot easier if we could just stand up and pee like Daddy."

"I know, baby," I tell her. "This is the first of many injustices between the genders that you'll come to be aware of. Don't forget to flush."

Manic handwashing and three santizing wipes later, we made to the plane, but this morning I just had to do some research. And guess what? There is a small, inexpensive way to stand up and pee like Daddy. 

I've got to know, has anyone out there ever used one? Are our days of squatting finally done? Will my daughter's generation carry SheWees in their purses next to their tampons and lipstick?