Daphne and I have devised a strategy for giving Adi his oral antibiotics: I hold the baby still while she “injects” the antibiotic solution into Adi’s mouth using a blunt syringe. The full dose doesn’t get delivered in one go; it requires several tries to empty the prescribed volume into our wiggly patient’s uncooperative mouth, taking great care not to spill or have Adi spit out the blech-tasting solution. I keep Adi’s limbs from knocking out the syringe from his mommy’s hand, hold his head still, and manufacture all sorts of distractions, while my partner-in-crime finds an opening.
After all the action and drama, we manage to get the antibiotics in. Mommy and Daddy fist-bump! Our baby, face wet with tears, then reaches out his arms to Daphne to be carried and comforted, and turns to me with a look of contempt. Hurt, half-feigned, I look at Daphne: “Hey, you’re supposed to be the ‘bad cop’. Why is he mad at only me?” My wife smiles, Adi’s head snuggly pressed against her.
I suspect this injustice has everything to do with milk. Adi has figured out which parent is indispensable. I leave the room, “I think I’ll just go and try to lactate.”
Actually, I go fix myself coffee and count my blessings.
God bless mothers.