You know you have a child with ADHD when…

It’s almost 6pm, and we are supposed to be somewhere for dinner in five minutes.  Rosie and I are sitting at the table in the kitchen as she does her first reading log.  The phone rings.  It’s Nicole, Hannah’s mom, and she has 101 degree temperature.  We were just with them so I tell John about Hannah and ask him to go wash his hands.  ”Please use warm water and do it for the whole length of ‘Happy Birthday to You.’ I know you don’t want to get sick.”

Rosie is struggling.   I’m grateful for John’s compliance as he asks from the sink, soap to his elbows, if he is doing a good job. I can barely see him from where we are sitting.

“Yes, that’s awesome!”

When Rosie and I are done and walk into the kitchen  to wash our hands, I stop in my tracks.  I was so focused on Rosie that I had forgotten the sink was holding a huge pot of spaghetti sauce. I spent the afternoon making it then letting it simmer.  It’s cooling, sitting in the center of a sink filled with water.

There’s water everywhere of course, like there always is when an eight-year-old boy does a great job washing his hands.  The counters, the wall, the sauce.  Hey, there were still six or eight spare inches in which to wash his hands.  So why mention there’s a giant pot of sauce in the way?  Honestly, maybe he didn’t even really notice it.

I try to skim the water off the top.  At first I am annoyed — how could he not notice?  Then I look closer.  There doesn’t seem to be bubbles in the sauce.  It doesn’t look soapy.  We are late.

“Forget it,” I say.

I stir it in.

“We’re eating it tomorrow regardless. I’ll boil it again to kill any germs or soapy taste.”

I stick it in the fridge.

I made the spaghetti sauce, using the basic recipe I learned from my  mom.  She learned it from her Italian neighbor in the two years she lived in Mt. Vernon, NY when she was 22.  

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