OCCUPIED. | The Most Embarrassing Bathroom Story I’ve Ever Lived

It all started when I became a single mother in my twenties.

Before children, I never once gave a second thought to a public restroom. I walked in, did what I needed to do, washed my hands, and left.

Then my son started crawling.

And suddenly bathrooms became strategy sessions.

I remember standing in a public restroom stall one afternoon, looking down at the tile floor and thinking, there is absolutely no way I am putting my child down there. The floor was sticky in places, damp in others, and I didn’t want to know why.

But when Mommy has to go, Mommy has to go.

So I improvised.

I loosened my bra strap as far as it would go, lifted him up under my shirt, and held him tight against me while I sat down. He faced me, blinking in confusion, little hands pressed against me while I tried to balance both of us without dropping him or losing my dignity.

It wasn’t comfortable.

But he was off the floor.

Victory!

When he got older and started walking, it got more complicated. Walking toddlers want to touch everything, the latch, the hinge, the stall wall, the mysterious metal box that no one understands.

That’s when I introduced “bugs.”

“There are bugs all over everything in here,” I’d whisper with great exaggeration.

His hands would freeze mid-air.

And to keep them frozen, I would turn him toward me and sing.

Not quietly.

Full songs.

“Twinkle, Twinkle.”
“The Wheels on the Bus.”
Sometimes with choreography.

I’d catch other women smiling in the mirror. A few would laugh softly. Once someone actually said, “You’re doing great, Mama.”

I’d nod like this was normal.

Because in that season, it was.

My daughter got the same training.

You wipe.
Then you flush.
Then you wash your hands.

And you never, never, ever, touch the handle.

We flush with our foot.

Always.

So when she came home crying from first grade because she got in trouble for flushing with her foot, I had to call the teacher and explain this was sanitation, not rebellion. Germs are NOT a game.

Soon all the girls were doing it.

Public service…your welcome!

Somewhere along the way, though, something else began happening.

Every time I went to a public restroom, something unusual occurred.

It became so predictable that my husband and kids would wait when I left the table.

They weren’t waiting because they missed me.

They were waiting for the story.

The one that sealed it happened the day we arrived at the beach.

We had just arrived for vacation. After hours in the car and entirely too much water, because hydration feels responsible, I had to go badly.

The burger place was packed. The smell of fries hung heavy in the air. Sand trailed across the tile floor. Every table was full.

The line for the women’s restroom stretched nearly to the soda machine.

I shifted from foot to foot, silently blaming belts and buttons for why it takes women so long.

When it was finally my turn, I rushed into the stall without inspection.

That was my first mistake.

The toilet seat had a deep crack running straight through the back of it, a jagged split I hadn’t noticed in my urgency.

Normally, I am careful.

Normally, I line the seat with layers of toilet paper like I’m upholstering a throne. I do not sit bare on public plastic. I’ve learned that if you skip that step, you may stand up with a mysteriously damp backside and spend the next several minutes spiraling.

Is it water?
Is it not water?
Whose moisture is this?
Was she clean?
Why did I rush?

But this time?

No ceremony.

I sat.

And when I shifted my weight, the cracked plastic snapped together like a hinge, and pinched the back of my thigh.

Hard.

Not a gentle pinch.

A sharp bite that made me gasp out loud.

I froze.

Carefully, very carefully, I reached back.

My fingers brushed the back of my leg and came away red blood.

The cracked seat had actually sliced a small cut into the back of my thigh.

A toilet seat had cut me.

I was still sitting there, stunned, trying to reposition without making it worse, when the next catastrophe struck.

The stall door did not lock.

Someone else, clearly in a hurry, pushed it open.

Hard.

The door slammed directly into my nose.

I grabbed my face.

With the same hand that had just touched the cut on my thigh.

So now there was blood on my nose.

Blood on my hand.

And I was still sitting on a broken toilet seat.

The woman in the doorway froze.

“Occupied,” I said.

She whispered, “Oh my God,” and ran out.

And I’ll be honest, I felt relieved.

Not because of the blood.

But because I didn’t just have to pee.

I was mid-crisis on multiple levels, and the sudden absence of witnesses felt like mercy.

I took a breath and tried to focus.

That’s when I heard it.

A knock.

Two sets of feet outside the stall.

“Ma’am? I’m the manager here and need to know if you’ve been injured.”

Of course she does.

I was holding the broken stall door shut with one hand, because it still didn’t lock, and attempting to preserve modesty with the other.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, we need you to sign a liability form.”

“Can I please finish going to the bathroom?” I asked.

My East Texas roots had a stronger version of that sentence ready to go, but I heard children in other stalls and chose restraint.

Instead of waiting, she slid a clipboard and pen under the door.

Under the door.

Why can’t this lady just wait?

I stared at it for a moment, briefly considering signing a square of toilet paper and placing it neatly on top just to make a point.

But I was a good girl.

This time…

So I picked up the clipboard and signed it.

From the toilet.

I slid it back under the door.

Surely we were done.

Nope.

“Ma’am, I need to see the injury.”

Silence.

“It’s my backside, ma’am.”

A breath.

“And I just signed your paper.”

“I am not going to sue you.”

“You need to go back to your burgers and fries.”

There was a pause.

Then very fast footsteps retreating across tile.

Silence.

When I finally opened the stall door, the room went quiet.
Women stood frozen mid–hand wash.
I gave a small nod and said, “Show’s over, ladies.”

A few awkward laughs floated through the room.

I washed my hands, because I have standards, and walked back out to my family.

They were all watching the restroom entrance.

Apparently I’d been gone nearly an hour.

My husband raised his eyebrows.

“Well?”

And I told them everything.

To this day, if I get up to use the restroom at a restaurant, someone inevitably says, “We’ll wait for the story.”

And somehow…

There usually is one.

Note from PJ:

If this story stayed with you, I’d love to know. Just hit reply!

I’ve recorded a few of my short stories on YouTube, reading them the way I hear them in my head. Sometimes the voice adds something the page can’t quite hold.

If you’d like this one or another favorite read aloud, just reply and tell me. If enough of you ask, I’ll record it.

And if you’re curious, you can listen to the others here.

Playlist Link