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Written by Jeff Stimpson
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Alex got an ingrown toenail -- we don't have any idea, either -- and
the doctor prescribed orange liquid antibiotic. It was thick, and Jill
said it tasted like a Creamcicle. (Some parents make a practice of
tasting everything that goes into their kids' mouths. I'm afraid I
stopped at Pediasure.)
Alex got an ingrown toenail -- we don't have any idea, either -- and
the doctor prescribed orange liquid antibiotic. It was thick, and Jill
said it tasted like a Creamcicle. (Some parents make a practice of
tasting everything that goes into their kids' mouths. I'm afraid I
stopped at Pediasure.)
We started what promised to be another endless 10-day dosage by giving
him the stuff in the mornings, and just before he brushed his teeth at
night, half a teaspoon measured out into a little metal cup (spoons and
Alex and medicine is a combination that's a ways off). We kicked off by
giving it to him in the bathtub, having had a lot of experience trying
to get liquid medicine into Alex and a nearly equal amount of
experience cleaning it up afterward. To liquid medicines Alex tends to
have the same reaction as to exotic foods such as mashed potatoes: a
flailing stiff-arm with palm out and angry, a tornado-twisting head and
explanations of "NO NO NO!". Perhaps he does it test the power of our
Shout to get out the drizzles of grape purple and cherry red down the
front of his T shirt.
Our bathtub worked with the orange stuff, however, smoothly enough to
soon warrant moving Alex to my knee as I sat on the bathroom's most
convenient seat. Just so he knew what I was sitting there for: "Alex,
time for medicine."
I'd set him down and show him the metal cup, hoping he'd take it,
theory being that maybe control of the situation would get him to lower
his hands. His hands were clamped like cement over his lips.
"C'mon, Alex, this tastes good."
Taste schmaste. I get the feeling he's going through all this merely
for principle, giggling and wiggling and using his hands the way a
hockey goalie uses his mask. I hold Alex's arms down with one hand and,
wrapping my fingers around his forehead, tip his face back. Jill leans
in and squeezes his cheeks to make his lips form a little "O," and she
holds the cup to his mouth. First few times we try this, a trickle of
the stuff oozes out around his lips, and he coughs once or twice.
"The doctor said it doesn't matter if he gets every bit of a dose," says Jill. "I liked that doctor."
Alex has a "mouth" thing. For worrisome months he'd eat nothing unless
it crunched. Then he accepted chicken nuggets, then a long while later
pizza cheese, and now he's even known to knock down an occasional
yogurt. I think his mouth thing has something to do with the medicine
aversion, and doctors have been sending medicines Alex's way for most
of his life. First the stuff flowed into him in tubes. A few times
while he was in pre-school, we had to squirt medicine into his mouth
with a syringe - an efficient enough process, but it reminded me of
medicating a cat. Pills were a joke: We could get the first one down
Alex, maybe a second. By the third he'd start pinwheeling when he spied
the prescription bottle halfway across the room. For months now, we've
lived with spoons and metal cubs, and stains on his T shirts.
Then, slowly with this Creamcicle stuff, Alex's resistance melts. It
continues to take both me and Jill; he still covers his mouth with his
hands. But it's as much to stifle uncontrolled giggles as it is to
shield himself from some oral Creamcicle assault. We still have to hold
his hands down; but when the metal cup touches his lips, he actually
seems to begin to sip.
"High five on the medicine!" we cry, and he slaps our palms.
The most severe test comes one evening when I'm alone with the boys.
Alex had a fit during dinner over touching the kitchen cabinet lights -
I don't have any idea, either - and by the time toothbrushing came
around, I was in no mood.
"Alex, put your hands down!" I commanded. He did. They started to come
up again as the cup neared his mouth. "Put your hands down and drink
this!" I gave him a taste, then waited. Then he took the cup, and
drank.
High five. "This is a breakthrough!" exclaimed Jill. "I'm gonna buy him a Creamcicle!"
Bio: Jeff Stimpson's articles and essays can be found on his website at jeffslife.net Jeff has also written a book entitled: Alex: The Fathering Of A Preemie. |
