Sabotaged

Sabotage is defined as underhand interference with work.  Deliberate destruction, disruption or damage. I think that the root of it refers back to labor disputes and there is a story about disgruntled workers throwing their shoes into machinery to "disrupt" production or "destroy" property.  Appropriate choice of words for how I feel about Matt's behaviors right now.  This will be a whine-post vs. a lesson-learned-post.  Not there yet.

I had an out-of-body experience this morning where I almost could watch myself mid-chaos being completely sabotaged on every front as I attempted to help Matt get ready for the day.  I go to unzip his tent--he leans against it so that I can't get the zipper undone.  I grab his clothes--he runs into my bedroom with his poopy-butt jimmies (as in literally leaking through the material of his PJ's) and sits on my bed.  We walk into the bathroom together--he plops himself on the floor and refuses to stand up.  Finally stands in front of the toilet and attempts to get his hand down the front of his pull-up, but HA!  I caught him.  Point for me.

This next part is not for the faint of stomach.  Gloved and ready, I strip off his poop-drenched footie jimmies and begin wiping his back and scooping (no exaggeration) the poop off of his leg.  Remember that song we used to sing as kids about diarrhea?  It's real.  Running down his leg like a wild scrambled egg. This entire time, he is trying to grab his poop-covered penis and I'm holding his two hands with my one.  He succeeds (point for Matt) and proceeds to rub the poop between his fingers until I can regain my single-handed grasp on his now-brown hands.  He then grabs my watch and starts trying to press all of the buttons.  My one hand loses the slight grip I have on his two while my other hand is wiping him as fast as humanly possible.  I toss wipes into the garbage bag and hit the handle (all I can think is that when I go to tie the bag, I better still have my gloves on because there is now poop where I need to touch).  When I lose the grip, he yells "scratch" and does just that to my hands and arms.  Readjusting, I finally accomplish the task and get him mostly cleaned off at which point he proceeds to pee on my foot.  I don't even wipe it off....I just leave it there.  The poop is the priority--if I attempt to wipe it off, he might step in his affectionately-labeled BM'd PJ's.  So I let the pee dry on my foot.  I'm so grossed out at myself right now.

We are finally cleaned up and I toss him in the tub--he turns the water off.  I turn it back on and start to lysol the floor where he peed.  I then turn to my next, more daunting project--the BM'd PJ's which I start scooping feces from and tossing them, once again, into the garbage.  As I do that, Matt is yelling at me and I keep glancing in the tub to make sure he hasn't pooped again--he likes to do that.  Insult to injury.  He does not....but he keeps turning the water off, getting mad that its off, turning it back on to scalding-burning-piping hot (well, our limited scald--we have a "max temp" set for this very reason, but much too hot for him to tolerate), getting mad that it's hot, but cannot--will not--try to turn it off himself.  Just screams for me to do it.  I turn it off....he turns it on to scald.  I turn it to the right temp....he turns it off.  Seriously.  This charade continues the entire time I'm cleaning  and rinsing his jammies.  I run to throw them in the washing machine finally--he turns on the hot water again.  I want to scream at this point.

Time to get out of the tub.  NOPE.  He refuses.  Will not stand up.  Slippery fish just sits there.  All water is drained and he is naked, smiling at me and laughing (deliberate part of this sabotage exercise is becoming increasingly obvious).  He finally gets out of the tub and we dry him off.  I forgot underwear and when run to his room to get it, he strips off the towel and runs after me, naked, dripping.  We finally get dressed without too much incident and head downstairs.

At breakfast, I go to cook--he stands in my way--like literally goes to the exact spot where I need to stand to flip French toast.  We go to eat--he finishes before everyone else is dished up and is yelling at me for more and jabbing his fork at me.

Time to get ready for school.  I take him to the bathroom and he immediately drops to the ground.  Limp.  Totally.  No armpit-poking (my usual strategy) is working to prod him off the ground.  Just sprawled out on the bathroom floor.  I run through my possible options--kick him (bad choice), try again (vain choice), wait him out (best choice).  So I do.  I stand there and wait him out while that cute face smeared with French toast remnants stares up at me, half-laughing.  FINALLY, he peels himself off the floor and stands in front of the toilet.  If I stand in front of him, he lunges for me and pees on my foot again, so I stand behind him.  He grabs my arms and wraps them around him and immediately starts scratching me furiously.  He leans against me, tips his head up, smiles and says, "scratch."  Ya think?  Seriously....the language is a gift, but labeling your own bad behavior just makes it hurt more.  He then starts to butt-thrust me--jams his naked butt into my legs in an attempt to throw me off balance.  It works, but I quickly recover.  He then starts to scream--acoustics are great for that in the bathroom.  After cycling through a series of about 15 more behaviors, he finally pees, pulls up his pants, and goes to wash his hands.  While washing, he grabs for his tablet (iPad died several days ago and a part of me has died with it because he is throwing all of his frustration over losing his best friend at me), knocks the soap into the garbage, sprays water all over the mirror, toothbrush lands in the dog dish, and I roll my eyes.

Oh yeah....I forgot to include the fact that I have two other children who both wanted my attention during 50% of these activities.  They walked out the door and after the bathroom debacle, Matt all of a sudden didn't need to compete for attention and turned into a little angel.  He put his tablet away, grabbed his book and backpack and we sat on the porch and read until the bus came, which he promptly boarded with joy and enthusiasm and I waved at with equal joy and enthusiasm.

Some mornings are just like this.  Sabotage is an ATTEMPT to thwart--not always a successful one.  His attempts may have injured my pride and my patience a little, but they have not succeeded in shutting down the factory.  Onward and upward.