In prepping for tomorrow’s Superbowl in which the Patriots spank the Falcons, I decided to make Rice Krispy treats with Simon.
Whatever. I know he’s not playing. Don’t hate on my gratuitous Gronk post when you’re probably going to see the new “50 Shades of Idiot” when it comes out. I digress.
For those of you that aren’t aware, my son Simon has ADHD. Not the kind of ADHD where he just gets a little sidetracked – the kind where he has very little impulse control, where he constantly fidgets, he gets very hung up on things like accuracy and obsesses over details. It’s *kind of* similar to high functioning autism (autism parents, please don’t crucify me for the comparison – I respect the hell out of you and I’m in no way saying ADHD is equated to autism). He has an intelligence that is, literally, almost off the charts. He excels in reading, and despite being in first grade he does second grade work; third grade work for math. He can even divide. He’s six; I didn’t learn to divide ’til I was like 10, and I’m not even a dumbass. Kid got skillz. Thus far in his short little life, he’s been primarily obsessed with trains. He can tell you more about trains than anyone else without an engineering degree. I’ve actually seen the kid have a conversation with a retired Union Pacific train engineer, it was magnificent. He knows details of mechanics that make me step back and think, “Damn, I have given birth to a reincarnate of Rain Man.”
ANYWAY. It’s hard for him to stay on task more often than not. In fact, we have a little saying around our house – “Stay on the rails! Don’t get off track!” (Get the train reference? Believe it or not it helps). I’ve also found that saying “Hocus Pocus” to him helps Simon remember what he should be doing, as he responds with “Time to Focus!”
So he really likes patterns and steps, and it’s good to give him activities that provide this kind of structure.
If you or someone you love has a child with ADHD in your/their life, these links might help; I’ve definitely found them to be helpful and eye-opening.
What better way to give him positive reinforcement and structure than helping Mommy bake?
He was SO eager to help, it made me really happy. He carried a chair over to the stove, and helped me stir the marshmallows in the pot after we melted the butter. He loves sprinkles, so I let him add some to the melting marshmallows. When I say “add some”, my brain envisioned a few dashes in the pot. Nope, he straight up disrespected that bottle of sprinkles and DUMPED them in. I’m not sure how many of you are well versed in Color Theory, but a melted rainbow looks kind of…well…grey. Sigh. Who gives a shit? Simon was delighted. It was great to see him follow along, and he asked questions about why we melted the marshmallows on such low heat, why they melted slowly, etc. This was truly a great activity for him that didn’t last too long. (Later on I taught him how to make a grilled cheese! He really enjoys cooking, and it’s so cute seeing him stand on a chair to help!)
The end product was a semi-periwinkle mass of Rice Krispy treats peppered with un-melted sprinkles. I’m dubbing it “Unicorn Krispies”; I mean, it does kind of look like a drunken wayward unicorn broke into my house and shat in a 13X9″ pan. I’m sure it tastes equally delightful.
As we began to clean up, I noticed the spatula was…different than when I started. The normally black, plastic spatula was now coated in sticky unicorn feces and…was missing a few chunks of plastic. It looked like someone took two tiny bites out of the spatula.
“Fuck, are there pieces of plastic in my krispy treats?!”
Simon swears up and down he didn’t bite the spatula, so I immediately begin searching the pans for rogue pieces of plastic. I HAVE to find these plastic pieces of terror; what if someone bites into one? Or chokes? I mean honestly, there are few things more white fucking trash than knowingly bringing dessert that’s riddled with spatula shrapnel. Like, I guess bringing over a pot of chili with flakes of my meth scabs in it would top that, but man, it’d be close. I may as well put on a Shinedown t-shirt and Betty Boop pants and start the pot of 5-Alarm with a cold Colt 45 by my side.
(P.S. I don’t do meth.)
(P.P.S. But I will drink a Colt 45.)
I frantically looked all through the pan and didn’t see anything, so I resounded myself to my laptop, Spotify, and a cold beer. After they cooled, I cut them into pretty small pieces and inspected those too. Nothing. It’s a god damned mystery; it’s like the pieces of plastic just evaporated into thin air.
…Meh. It’ll be fine.
I don’t know what is more emboldenly white trash; the fact that there are probably pieces of shrapnel in my Unicorn Krispies or that I’m too white trash to sufficiently care.
Go on, throw that shade, bitches. I’m just over here with a cold beer like :