Five Kids, One Bathroom – A Horror Story

People say the kitchen is the heart of the home. In my house, it’s the bathroom — but not in a cute, cosy way. More like The Hunger Games, except with more towels on the floor and less chance of survival.

Imagine five kids, one bathroom, and a mom who just wants a pee in peace. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. In my house, going to the loo alone is rarer than a night out that doesn’t end before 9pm.

And before anyone says, “But surely you’ve got more than one loo?” — yes. We do. We’ve got a downstairs toilet. Does it change anything? Absolutely not. Doesn’t matter which toilet I pick, they’ll find me. If I’m upstairs, they’re banging on the door like I’m hiding state secrets. If I’m downstairs, they’re queued up outside like it’s the Glastonbury portaloo queue. No escape. Ever.

Take my daughter. Apparently, whatever she wants to show me is always more important than me actually peeing. I’ll barely get the door shut before she’s yelling, “Mom, look at this on TikTok!” through the crack like it’s a medical emergency. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s a dance.

My toddler? He’s not banging on the door — oh no. He needs front row seats. Like it’s a live performance. There I am, trying to get 30 seconds of peace, and he’s sat on the bath mat with wide eyes, giving me a running commentary: “Mommy you have wee?” Iconic audience behaviour.

Meanwhile, my eldest two aren’t even in the bathroom, but they’re still somehow causing chaos. They’ll be in the hallway, full-blown arguing about what time dinner is, like I’ve hidden the family schedule in the toilet cistern. There I am, sat hostage on the loo, refereeing a debate about pasta bakes vs chicken nuggets.

And the bathroom itself? Always looks like a waterpark explosion. Towels on the floor, puddles everywhere, toothpaste smeared on the mirror like modern art. I once found a sandwich perched on the edge of the sink. WHY? Who is eating mid-shower?

By the time it’s my turn to shower, it’s not just the hot water that’s gone. The shampoo bottle’s been squeezed to death, the bar of soap has been snapped into suspicious little pieces, and the floor is covered in a mountain of soggy clothes that nobody will admit to owning. Honestly, stepping in there feels less like “home sweet home” and more like I’ve wandered into a communal festival shower — minus the music and a strong smell of teenage Lynx Africa..

How I manage it:

• I’ve started scheduling “shower slots” like I’m running a hotel. Nobody sticks to them, but at least I can pretend I’m in charge.

• I bulk-buy shampoo because my daughter uses half a bottle every time she washes her hair. She smells like a spa, I smell like regret.

• And yes, I lock the door just to sit on the toilet in silence and scroll my phone while they bang on the other side. It’s the closest I get to self-care.

At the end of the day, the bathroom isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a battlefield. But I refuse to let it break me. Because not only am I a mom to five, I’m also a human. And if I can’t laugh when my toddler is cheering me on mid-pee, my daughter is having a meltdown about her fringe, and my eldest two are screaming about dinner through the door — then what hope do I have?

If I didn’t make jokes about it, I’d lose my mind. Maybe that’s why I look run ragged half the time. But hey — if you can’t call your 14-year-old a prat for hogging the shower while his brother wipes toothpaste on the walls… what can you doo?