“I’d like to get a shower in after dinner, before we put the child to bed,” you say. Your husband grunts in the affirmative. It annoys you that you have to announce your intention to complete basic hygiene tasks, and your husband even says it’s unnecessary for you to do so. It’s necessary. It’s always necessary.

Dinner is completed and you begin to gather your things for your shower. The child is bouncing off the walls and cannot be left unattended. You glance around for your husband, he is nowhere to be found.

You notice the door to the bathroom with the shower is shut. Maybe he’s just peeing, you think at first. But as the minutes tick by, you are no longer able to deny the reality of your situation. It’s been ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. You would have been able to wash your hair and shave. Please, you silently plead to a higher power, just let me have time to rinse off and I’ll do anything.

Bedtime is approaching. It’s been forty-five minutes. You give in to another episode of Paw Patrol as rage consumes your unwashed body. You fire off a snarky text to your friend about your husband’s unrelated shortcomings that feel suddenly magnified by the sensation of your greasy bangs plastered to your forehead.

It’s been an hour. There is no longer any hope left. You have gone through half the stages of grief. You hear a flush. The bathroom, you know, will be far too toxic to enter for at least 30 minutes without retching.

Defeated, you ask, “why did you have to poop in that bathroom when I told you I was going to take a shower?” His excuse is nonsensical and circular. He says something about opening the window. It doesn’t matter. You have already accepted that you will remain filthy for another night. Your child begs you and only you to begin the elaborate bedtime routine. Your husband openly laments that he is “not the favorite.” He consoles himself by returning the the mobile game he definitely hasn’t been playing for the last hour.