On toilets

When I was ten and living with a freshly-divorced mom, I woke up one night to a screaming, "WE DO NOT LEAVE THE LID UP IN THIS HOUSE!"
I stayed true until I had my own place with two bathrooms and could leave the smaller, closer, less-used one for overnight peeing. It stayed open. And was flushed with great regularity.
Ordinarily, not turning on the light is not an issue. Electric light sends searing shards of consciousness through the pleasant veil of sleep, and it's far better to risk a few splatters on the rim than to risk falling into the conscious world until I either placate yourself with hot chocolate and reading or resign to rousing for the day. So, at night, I somnambulate in, do my thing, and stagger back to bed without breaching dream world.
But then another person--namely the selfsame mother--enters the picture. I know I consciously left the lid up for mid-slumber ease of peeing and have been sleeping without disruption--physical or aural--until Bladder started whining. I shuffle into the bathroom with eyes cracked the slightest sliver, and peek just long enough to see that I'm standing close enough to the wall to hit the bowl.
And then my feet get a shower that takes seven milliseconds to register as self-originating, and I'm jolted past the lucid dream state, past semi-consciousness, to dancing on the points of my heels while trying to pinch off and tuck in because someone got quietly up, let the yellow mellow, and closed the lid.
I guess it's a question of priority. Whose needs are more urgent, which is to say, whose mess will be harder to clean up?
Then again, when in history has, "No, we leave the lid UP!" ever been able to tread water?