A taste of my own medicine
My mom loves revisiting her memories of my siblings and me as kids, as is her right as mom and grandmother. One of her favorite vignettes features me as a sick baby, refusing to take medicine until I just go ahead and throw up on her while she tries to administer some nasty purple stuff.
I suspect there are many parents with a similar scene that managed to break through the brain fog and stick in their memory. (A couple months ago, I myself acquired a visceral understanding of the term “projectile vomit” that I probably won’t be able to suppress.)
Today - Father’s Day, for the folks keeping score at home - I got a literal (in the figurative sense) taste of my own medicine.
Toby was feeling feverish, but she’s a total trooper. After an extra-long second nap, she persevered through her bottle, and even chipped away at a bland banana-pumpkin purée pouch. Things were looking up, so her mom and I had it all figured out: after a second dose of Tylenol, she’d finish the pouch and settle in for a chill night.
I was set to deliver the dose.
The artificial fruit smell of these liquid medicines still hits me in the gag reflex, but I am also a trooper.
Anyway, long story short: she did not want more medicine and luckily Szuyin was already in swimwear. And baby vomit is easy to hose off of a patio.