"You're going to wear a shirt tomorrow, aren't you?"

The kids are asleep and we're packing up our swim bag for the morning. A clean outfit for each of us. Four beach towels. A trash bag to hold our wet things. Diapers: both extra swim diapers and normal ones for after we get out of the pool. Wipes. Lots of wipes. And Purell, because it is a public swimming pool, after all.

"Why would I wear a shirt in an indoor pool?" I scoff.

"Well, you know." My wife gestures at my chest.

"What's wrong with my chest?" I'm incredulous. There's nothing wrong with my chest. Ok, well, I'm not an Adonis or anything. My skin never fully tightened up after lipo and there's one weird little indent under my right nipple. But I don't have big scars. Just two little ones, faded and smaller than cigarette burns, under my armpits. Nothing obvious. And my trans-related imperfections are obscured by chest hair and camouflaged by the rest of my nearing-middle-age physical faults. At this point, my bodily shortcomings have more to do with my lack of a gym membership than my lack of a y-chromosome.

"Didn't you wear a shirt when we went to the beach last year?" she deflects.

"That's because I didn't want to burn."

She gives me a look. You know the one.

"No one will be looking at my body. It's a toddler swim class, not a pick-up joint," I insist.

"I just want you to feel comfortable." She's lying. She doesn't want to be outed.

I'm ambivalent enough about swimming in public. It's been seared into my muscle memory that pools mean layers of sports bras and binders and t-shirts that cling awkwardly and chlorine soaked as I try to dry off without venturing into a gendered locker room. Her doubts only stoke the embers of long-cooled insecurities. "I'm as comfortable being in a swimsuit in public as you are," I say flippantly.

She gives me a look again, but drops it. "Suit yourself. How about this for Nora?" she asks, holding up a cheetah-print baby bikini that was a gift from one of her sisters.

"Absolutely not."

She laughs. We move on.

The next day we wrangle the kids into their double-layer of swim diapers and swimsuits and throw them into the car. "God, I'm hot," my wife says as we reverse out of the driveway.

"That's why I married you." I wink and she rolls her eyes.

The asphalt seems to be shimmering it's so hot and I'm grateful for the steady stream of cool air blowing through the car vents. Thankfully, we find a shaded parking spot and are able to peel the kids out of their carseats and carry them into the pool's family locker room without much fuss.

We timed things perfectly. We throw our bag into an empty locker, kick off our Crocks, shimmy out of our shirts, and grab our towels just in time for our class to be called into the water. I don't even have time to feel self-conscious about being bare-chested in public. A half-dozen other parents hold kicking and screaming tots as they wade into the heavily-chlorinated kiddy pool. Our kids, for once, are the best behaved. We smile smugly at this minor accomplishment.

Things are going great. Nora loves being dunked. Spencer splashes on command. They're both naturals. The instructor compliments them and Spencer gives her the best high five.

It's amazing! It's the best pool experience I've ever had.

"Poop! We have poop!" A swim instructor on the other side of the pool yells before blowing her whistle in three short bursts. "Everyone out of the pool!"

Spencer clings to my chest like a monkey. Another reason I didn't need a shirt: I have a toddler as cover.

"The pool needs to be cleared for 45 minutes. Make-up classes will be offered," announces our instructor.

"Well, that stinks," my wife sighs.

"Eh, shit happens," I chuckle in reply.

"Don't curse in front of the kids," she scolds. Another mother laughs at our exchange.

"More pool!" Spencer cries.

"Sorry, the pool needs a nap," I say as we grab our bag from the locker and make our way into a private changing room.

"Bye-bye pool," he whimpers as I change him into dry clothes. Nora just smiles and babbles as my wife changes her.

With the kids changed we attempt to throw on dry clothes ourselves. This seems like a lot of work for fifteen minutes of swimming. Damn pooper.

"Belly." Spencer points at me.

"Yup, good job."

"Toes." He points down.

"You got it, man."

"Boobies!" Spencer proudly announces as my wife takes off her suit.

"Spence, shhh."

"Daddy's boobies," he then says pointing to my chest.

"Daddy doesn't have boobies," I correct him. Not anymore, I think, but my ears still redden at the memory.

I've just pulled my khaki shorts up and am in the process of zipping my fly when Spencer decides he's bored of this tiny cement-floored room and he starts to unlatch the door. "Not yet!" I grab his little hand and re-secure the lock.

Nora claps. At least one of us is enjoying the locker room experience.

I can't wait for next week when we get to do it again. For once, I'm not even being sarcastic.