Junior’s going to be two this weekend.
Two! I’ve made it far, man. (For those of you with teenagers, humor me, ok?)
Junior's vocabulary of late consists of “Mine!” “No!” and "I want to be naked!" He’s such a sweet thing. Every moment is rose blossoms and honey suckle.
Just like this...
Are we done laughing? Its funny, right? The idea of Rice Krispie Treats nirvana with your children?
But dammitall, those Kellogg’s people are sneaky marketers. I've had that commercial on the brain for two weeks and last night I finally succumbed.
Junior was particularly unipolar at dinner. I got caught up in red wine, PMS sentimentality, pre-birthday drivel, red wine, blah blah. It suddenly seemed like the perfect after-dinner, pre-bedtime activity. Besides, I could swear there’s a check-list in the baby book that includes “Lovingly crafted Rice Krispie Treats with child,” and if there’s one thing I am, it’s by the book.
I decided to get Junior in the mood by pouring some Rice Krispies into a bowl and dribbling them with milk.
“Listen,” I said. “Snap, crackle and pop!”
Instead of listening, Junior slapped the bottom of the bowl and shrieked, “No! No! No!” He’d just eaten dinner. I’m shocked he didn’t want a bowl of cereal.
Upon hearing food hit the floor, the cat lumbered in (yes, still in her hipsta cast) and started licking up the mess, which sent Junior into a tizzy.
“That’s mine! That’s mine!”
The other cat ran in and swatted at the maimed cat. I nearly tripped on them both.
Most people might have said, “You know what? Tonight’s not a good night” and tabled an attempt at a sticky marshmallow concoction with a tired bipolar toddler as an assistant, but I’m not sure what got into me. I needed to make the damn treats.
So I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I melted the butter and marshmallow.
That’s when Junior saw Chuck mowing the lawn and screamed, “Outside! Outside!” He ran to the door. One cat had Rice Krispies stuck in its fur; the other in its cast. I had goo in my hair. Then, this happened:
The damn spatula broke in half. Still, I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I kept melting the butter and marshmallow dear God would it ever be melted why was it taking so long—“Outside, Mommy! Outsiiiiiide!”— and then finally, it was melted and I was ready to pour in the damn krispies, which were crunching underfoot (or was it the cat’s leg?).
I reached for Junior’s hands so he could help me mold the krispie goo into fun shapes like stars and vodka bottles, but guess what?
Freshly melted butter and marshmallow is hot.
Needless to say, there were no fun shapes. He wouldn’t even take a taste. I shoved enough in my mouth for both of us and washed it down with red wine.
I feel like such a fool. But I did it. And now I know to never do it again. Or at least wait until he's 35.
Happy birthday Junior. Even though we'd never be in a commercial, I love with all my sticky, gooey heart.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.