In the aftermath of Kyle’s bullying incident, things have gone much better for him at school. His schedule was re-arranged so that he would not attend class with the two boys who harassed him. He started taking a life skills/cooking class—which I was hesitant about at first, because it was specifically for cognitively-impaired kids. The curriculum consists of activities like learning to use public transportation and purchasing items at a grocery store. Perhaps I just hoped if I pushed him along, despite his autism, Kyle would be able to stay very close to the mainstream, only needing a bit of assistance here and there. Something about a life skills class seemed beneath him, somehow. Kyle has superb life skills at home. He is totally independent with dressing and grooming himself, making his own lunch, doing his homework, and keeping to a tight schedule. Well, I’ve learned that sometimes moms need to let go of certain notions and just accept. A life skills class would be very good for my son.
He came home last week, grinning, telling me he can make macaroni and cheese. As proof, he handed me a blue slip of paper where his teacher indicated he had cooked it three separate times in class and afterwards, each time, “devoured the whole box.” The paper explained that to pass off the assignment, Kyle needed to now make macaroni and cheese at home. So, great, Kyle would cook dinner for the family tonight, I decided.
Chef Kyle was fun to watch. He filled the pot with water to some invisible level that he eyed, squinting, several times to hit the imaginary mark. He carried the pot to the stove, then adjusted the pot so that it perfectly covered the burner. He then adjusted it again. And again. We turned up the heat and I questioned him about safety just to make sure he already knew obvious things he needed to do to avoid burning himself. “Now tell me when the pot is boiling,” I said.
“How do we know if it’s boiling?”
This seemed like an odd question for a kid who had already cooked macaroni three times, but I answered. “When there are bubbles popping in the water.”
“Bubbles popping?”
“Well, when there are bubbles rising up and swirling around in the pot, and steam is coming out.”
“Bubbles are rising up? What kind of bubbles? What do you mean, steam?”
Hmmm. “Kyle, you know what it looks like when the water is boiling, don’t you?”
“No. Wait—Wait–I mean, when there are bubbles popping in the water.” He imitated my words, peering into the pot.
“Didn’t you boil the water in your class when you made macaroni and cheese?”
“Yes.”
He stood over the pot, not taking his eyes off it for a second. After several minutes he said, “Does this mean it’s boiling?”
“Yes. It’s ready now.” He went on to drain, add, and mix the ingredients by himself. The only trouble next was convincing him that he’d made it for the whole family, and he needed to share. “I made that, so it’s mine,” he said a few times before giving in.
The next day we filled out the blue sheet of paper, which Kyle happily put in his backpack to take to school, as proof of his achievement. “Hey Kyle, maybe you can be my full-time chef,” I said.
“But next time, I’m going to make muffins,” he replied as he bounded out the door.
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