When I first tell you I want you to ask permission before you go to the bathroom, you think it's about general control. You think it's about learning that you need to ask permission for even your body's most basic needs.
For the first two weeks, any time you ask, I say yes. It lulls you into a false sense of security. If I'm going to say yes every time, you don't need to worry, right? At first, you asked at the first sign of a twinge in your bladder, just in case, but now you've decided it's okay to wait until you naturally would head for the bathroom.
The next time you ask, I say no.
I shake my head. Your brow furrows. Your bladder is full, but it's not that bad, you suppose. Uncomfortable but not painful. You shift in your seat, not used to having to hold it when the bathroom is right there, but in situations without easy access to a bathroom, you've definitely held worse. You squirm a little in your seat for the next hour until you gather up the courage to ask again. I say yes. You sigh in relief and go.
I let you get comfortable again. Too comfortable.
A week later, we're out running errands, and you don't like using the public bathrooms. It's hot, and you drink the full volume of your water bottle without thinking. In the car on the way home, you try to discreetly press your thighs together. You shouldn't have had so much to drink. The seatbelt is uncomfortably tight against your aching bladder.
The second we pull into the driveway, you immediately ask to go to the bathroom. Thinking--assuming--I'll say yes. Must be I understand what a dire situation it is? But I shake my head. Your eyes go wide.
"Please," you beg. "I have to go so badly. It's been four hours, and I had way too much to drink."
Too bad. Your steps on the way into the house are cautious and slow, not wanting to jostle your full bladder. You stand just inside the door, not sure what to do. You cross your legs. You barely make it fifteen minutes before asking again, but I won't let you. You let out a sob.
"I can't hold it," you plead. "Don't make me wet myself."
Another fifteen minutes, I tell you. Then you can go.
You squirm and shove a hand between your legs, unable to stay still, not used to holding so much. Your bladder screams for relief. Looking at the bathroom door makes it worse, but you stand right outside it anyway, knowing you're going to need to dash in as soon as possible once the fifteen minutes are up.
When the timer goes off, I tell you you can go. You race into the bathroom and slam the door. With the toilet in sight, your muscles quiver, a tiny leak escaping you as you desperately try to get your pants unbuttoned. Please please please. You finally get your pants down and sit down on the toilet in a rush, the pee gushing out of you into the bowl. You look down at your pants--you avoided a big mess, but your underwear is undeniably wet. You hide it in the back of the laundry pile, not willing to admit that you almost didn't make it.
You never know when I'm going to say no. Sometimes I make you drink a glass of water before bed and tell you you better not wake me up. When you wake up in the night with your bladder heavy, you'll just have to hold it. You toss and turn, trying to wait until morning. You cross your legs and wait for me to wake up. By the time I do, your bladder is hard and swollen. You run to the bathroom as soon as I let you.
One morning, I give you a choice. You get two bathroom breaks from now until tomorrow morning. You can relieve your desperate bladder now, but then you'll be stuck with only one chance to go for the rest of the day. You whimper and whine, already needing to go so badly, but you try to hold it. Throughout breakfast, your hips rock restlessly against the chair. The sound of the coffee pot dripping isn't helping. You barely make it to 10am before having to use one of your passes--but now you only have one more for the entire rest of the day.
I remind you to drink: you wouldn't want to get dehydrated. You want to save your last bathroom trip for before bed, but by 5pm, you know you're not going to make it. You ask to go right after dinner, but I make you wash the dishes first. You double-cross your legs and stick your butt out, squirming, the warm water on your hands making small drips escape despite your best efforts. Every so often, you have to stop and shove your wet hands between your legs, no time to dry them off first if you want to prevent a leak. You know it's a losing battle, but you try anyway, fighting your own body's basic instincts.
There are still two dishes left to wash when you feel the hot trickle down the inside of your thigh. Oh god, no. It takes you a few seconds to stop it. Putting your hands back in the water is torture, but you know your only hope is to finish the dishes and make it to the bathroom before your bladder bursts. You're dripping steadily now, your pants getting wetter and wetter as you frantically finish washing the last two dishes.
What a mess, I tell you. You show me the empty sink with tears gathering in your eyes. Fine, I say--go ahead.
You're already wetting yourself, but you run into the bathroom anyway, letting the rest out into the toilet.
You let out a cry of relief, but it's short-lived. No more bathroom breaks now until morning, and it's barely 7pm.
You're not going to make it, but you'll try.
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