Paging Mike Rowe
Gather 'round, friends, 'cause I've got a story...
I'm just about to call the guy from
I've documented before how my daughter is an Agent of Chaos. And let me tell you, she is miffed that I didn't acknowlegde Autism Awareness Day yesterday. Believe it or not, I wasn't aware. I guess I'm not the only one. I don't refer to or think of Amelia as "my autistic kid" in the same way I don't refer to or think of her and her brother as "the twins." They're just who they are, every day.
Anyway, I guess Amelia must have gotten wind of the big day yesterday, and is apparently upset that we didn't get her a present or something. Never mind the fact that she's never been officially diagnosed with autism. (Or anything more specific than "developmentally delayed," for that matter.) Or that she doesn't understand more than a handful of words. She was ticked off and decided to show it.
Her usual chaotic ways were not enough today. Oh sure, she still took all the cookbooks off the shelf to agressively flip the pages, in her quest to gradually make them unusable... despite being told "Those aren't your books!" for the twentieth time since breakfast, and being led to her very own collection of out-of-date encyclopedias, almanacs, dated hairstyling guides, trashy novels, and anything else that seems suitable for her destructive needs. And of course, she dropped and or spilled snacks that didn't meet her very high quality guidelines. And she naturally dumped folded laundry on the floor as she always does if you leave it for more than a moment.
No, this was a step beyond.
First she found a way to get her hands on a full container of soy sauce. Not those wimpy little jars you usually see either - this was a big, honkin' 1.25 quart jug of the stuff. Then, she found a way to get the cap off. And after that, she found a way to turn that combination into a joyous fountain of reddish-brown, briney, Asian goodness.
Her reward for this creative play was to get a bath. As is so often the case for her, gaint mess = bath. Did I ever tell you about the time she ahd her brother made flour angels on the kitchen floor? Probably not, since that was back in the pre-blog days. Allow me to illustrate:
She also likes to throw her bath toys across the room. And if you don't give her any, she'll reach out of the tub to get them from the basket, so she can throw them anyway.
Oh, and she likes to poop in the bath.
Yes she does. And this isn't some cute little baby poo either. She's almost five, eats a disaster of a diet, and she can really drop a disgusting load.
So it was with a bit of trepidation that I walked up the stairs, not knowing what I might find.
A tell-tale smell made me wince. And hesitate for just a moment.
But as I rounded the corner, I was surprised to find no unsavory surprises in the tub. The bath mat was wet, and the toys were scattered everywhere, but not as bad as I feared.
I walked up to the tub to pull the drain plug out, feeling relieved. And as I stepped up to the tub, I felt an odd sensation on the bottom of my foot.
Did you ever walk in that thick kind of mud that just builds up on your shoes? With each step, more mud cakes on, and your feet get bigger and more unweildy?
Yeah, it was kind of like that. Stuck to the bottom of my foot was a giant clay-like, squishy, smelly clod of poo.
That's right. She crapped in the tub, found it offensive, and so picked it up and threw it on the floor.
Now I've stepped in a lot of poo: Horse poo, goat poo, donkey poo, dog poo, cat poo, pig poo, alpaca poo... but somehow Amelia poo is far grosser to me right now.
Especially in bare feet.
Amelia, Lori and the baby are all asleep right now. And e5 is at his grandparents' house.
And I am in the fetal position, in the darkest corner of the darkest closet, rocking slowly and humming happy melodies to myself as I type this.
Anybody know a good therapist?