Most of the time, I am not a gay woman.

More often, I am a woman in love and I think, overall, I have a pretty ordinary marriage. We fight over the dirty dishes, and who’s going to wash them. We run errands and hope to find a close parking spot at the grocery store. We celebrate birthdays and holidays, and try to figure out whose family we’re going to go see on Thanksgiving. We spend our Sunday evenings on the couch, trying to find something to watch that suits us both, and we read voraciously together before sleep. We go to bed early some nights and stay up too late on others. We cook dinner. We talk about our six year plan, for a house and for children. We tell secrets and repeat stories of our childhood, because we know our other half will still listen, even if they’ve heard it all before. We plan vacations. We know how the other likes their eggs, and what they will and will not eat. We laugh. A lot.

We’ve learned to overlook the sideways glances of passersby. Our step no longer falters when a stranger whistles at us or asks us to let him ‘join in’. At first, these little things were shocking. Why on earth would anyone want to stare at us? We have a pretty ordinary marriage. But the truth is, it’s still strange to some people, that two women can be in love; that they can be married and be, well…ordinary. We still stand out on the packed sidewalks of University, and when we kiss in public people notice. People still stare and people still watch with wide, confused eyes, but we no longer see it. Our vision is blurred by conviction and, more importantly, love. I would never not hold her hand in public.

So often the notice we get on the street is negative, and we’ve learned so well how to block it out, that the bike which veered left on Thursday morning took me by surprise. It jolted to a stop on the sidewalk and the man leaned forward and put his foot down. “I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “for being such positive role models.” He walked with us then, and my heart started to beat quickly as I took in what he was saying. “I’m married. I’m heterosexual. But I have a daughter, and if she grows up to be lesbian, we will support her, and I’m glad there are positive role models like you in the world.” And I couldn’t breathe. I was so completely overwhelmed by what this stranger was saying, that for a moment, I could only just stare at him, wide eyed. I finally managed to utter thank you, and then again, thank you. And finally: your daughter is so lucky.

I think now about how different life would be for so many LGBT teens if they had parents like this man. I wonder how many LGBT teens would no longer contemplate suicide, and how many of them would grow up knowing that they, too, could have a loving, functional, and fantastically ordinary relationship. I’ve always been confused by people who say there is some sort of ‘gay agenda’. I’m pretty sure that my agenda is the same as most of my straight, married friends: be happy, argue less, and don’t forget to pick up milk at the grocery store. I have no plans to indoctrinate children. I have no desire to make everyone gay.

I want to hold hands with my wife. I want to support LGBT teens in realizing that they, too, can be happy. That, as Dan Savage says, it does get better. I want to raise children who know that they can be and love whoever they want. I want to meet strangers on the street who give me hope. I want to be proud of our community, and I want to change minds. I want to show people that there is a community of support, and I want love to be supported.

Love your children. Love them if they are good students, or fantastic artists, or bad at math. Love them if they are born short, or tall, or with a head of wild, black hair. Love them if they fail, or if they succeed. Love them if they are gay or straight or transgendered. You are their parents, and this is your job.