Last year London got a pretty terrific cold. He offered the typical items you see on the kiddie illness menu: high fever, annoying congestion, mucus in an orange demiglaze. I drove to Walgreen's and purchased the most child-friendly tasting goo that might actually fight his symptoms. Granted, they had a lot of colorful new products that looked like they belonged in the confectionery aisle but, when I examined the list of ingredients, I realized that the new grippe gumdrops don't really do much except soothe the throat and send the message that pills and candy are interchangeable. Science has come a long way trying to mask the foul petroleum-tasting meds we suffered as sick children, but it doesn't take a chemist to realize that if it's too tasty going down, the good drugs just ain't in there.
When I got home, London was jammed in the corner of the couch hiding under a blanket. "I don't want medicine," the blanket said, shuddering. It's not good parenting to compare your children, yet in full disclosure I should say that Poppy has a more logical mind when it comes to moments like these. She knows if she swallows some of the nasty red stuff she'll get better, and then we can no longer withhold playdates in good conscience. London's intelligence is more instinctual and less intellectual. He knew when I arrived home what I had in that paper sack and instead of ponying up to the bar to take his poison, he tried to pull an ostrich and will himself toward invisibility.
On previous occasions, Lala and I had poured the proper amount of medicine into a spoon or plastic shot glass, but what that got us with London was a Maury Povich episode of whining and crying, which is not only frustrating (as London's immune system drains and fever spikes) but it's really, really boring. So I decided with Lala's Godfather-like permission to ambush my son and try to shoot it into his mouth with a syringe reserved for infants and dogs dripping with distemper. I held the plunger on safety with my thumb and tiptoed across the toy-littered room toward my prey hiding in a wool blend thicket. Peeling back the blanket, I inserted the nipple into his mouth and pushed, aiming for the back of his throat near the real estate his wisdom teeth would some day briefly (and ironically) occupy. London looked startled for a moment before he machine-gunned the viscous liquid all over my face, shirt, and the blanket covering him.
"Lala, get the stain remover," I called but she was way ahead of me, laughing while holding a spray bottle that had the gall to use "shout" as both a noun AND a verb.
Now my task had grown more difficult. London was fully aware of what we (read: I) were trying to do, so he sat with his arms crossed, attempting to cry without opening his clenched lips. I know this will sound horrible to some parents who believe that you can reason with a 3-year-old, no matter the situation, but I had to resort to the tactics I learned growing up in a house full of manbeasts. I refilled my hollow lance, grabbed an old towel and started circling my prey. London steeled himself against the oncoming attack by putting his body into total lockdown.
"I'm doing this so you'll feel better," I said but my patient wasn't buying anything I was selling that night. "I love you, London." I swooped in and pulled his legs down so he was horizontal, threw the towel over him to immobilize his arms and prevent further collateral stain damage. My left hand managed to pry a small opening in his mouth while titling back his chin. My right shot a stream of syrup into his throat where he was forced to swallow it. When I was sure his mouth was empty, I whisked away the towel like Doug Henning and enveloped him in a hug.
"There you go," I whispered. "All done now. That will make you feel so much better."
He begged to differ. "You are such a bad daddy!" he shouted, and I'm sure that if he were more familiar with the sign language of the streets he would have flipped me off in a big way. But what could this bad daddy do, but go into the kitchen to find my liquid sedative waiting in the fridge and self-medicate?
The column "Daddy Needs A Drink" runs the first Wednesday of every month in SFR. Rob Wilder's book of the same title publishes in April. Read more about it at www.daddyneedsadrink.com.
