The Emergency Contact

Chapter Six: I Need to Pee Alone. That’s My Dream.

People talk about bucket lists.

Mine has exactly three items:

1. Pee in peace

2. Eat something without sharing

3. Lie horizontally without anyone climbing on me, crying on me, or asking where their sock is

A full breath without interruption.

A moment where no one needs me to mediate, translate, or reach the high shelf.

Five uninterrupted minutes where I’m not answering a question or wiping something.

That’s luxury now.

Not diamonds. Not spa days.

Just existing, briefly, without being summoned.

That’s it. That’s the whole fantasy.

A hotel room, ideally. Somewhere with blackout curtains and zero expectations.

I wouldn’t even unpack. Just walk in, exhale, and immediately become one with the duvet.

No itinerary. No sightseeing.

Just me, a snack, and a silence so dense it has a pulse.

But dreams are for people who aren’t responsible for other people’s intestines and emotional regulation 24/7.

The kids are at their dad’s this weekend, a brief gap in the chaos.

You’d think I’d be excited. You’d think I’d celebrate.

But here’s how it actually went:

They left.

I cried.

Then I immediately started cleaning.

Not because I’m tidy. (I’m not.)

But because the mess is louder when they’re gone.

Because every toy left in the middle of the floor is shaped like guilt.

Because I can’t rest when I’m surrounded by reminders of how hard we live.

So I cleaned.

And scrubbed.

And did all the laundry like some kind of feral, grief-driven Victorian ghost.

Then I lay down “just for a minute” and slept for sixteen straight hours.

No joke.

Sixteen hours.

I woke up feeling dehydrated, confused, and slightly betrayed by my own body.

I had plans.

I was going to binge a show.

Eat adult food.

Maybe shave a leg.

I even made a list - not a real one, just the kind that floats around in my head like a screen you never quite close.

Things like: exfoliate. Read something that isn’t a school email. Sit in a chair like a person instead of hovering near the edge like I’m on standby.

I thought I’d feel human again by Saturday night.

Spoiler: I felt like soup. Cold, slightly expired soup.

Instead, I just… flatlined.

And then, they were back.

The toddler came in yelling joyfully and immediately tried to climb me like a tree.

The seven-year-old gave me a rock she found and asked if I missed her.

I said yes, of course I did.

And I meant it.

But I also blinked, slow, heavy, and thought,

“Was I even off?”

Because I didn’t recharge.

I reset the room.

I washed the bedding.

I put the cushions back where they belong so they could be immediately thrown to the floor again.

And I peed.

Twice.

Alone.

And it was glorious.

For a full thirty-five seconds, no one opened the door to ask where the remote was.

No one banged on the wall.

No one screamed because I’d “disappeared.”

It was… transcendent.

Brief, but transcendent.

This is what self-care looks like now.

Peeing in silence.

Sitting on the floor with toast I don’t have to share.

Wearing the hoodie that smells like my own skin again instead of banana and cereal.

And yeah, I’d still like that hotel room someday.

Just one night with room service and no one touching my face.

A nap that lasts three business days.

And a bath that no one poops in.

But for now?

I’ll take the micro-moments.

A quiet wee.

A hot drink finished while it’s still hot.

A snack I eat without hiding behind the fridge door like I’m committing a crime.

That’s the dream.