I’ve had enough. I’ve given in over and over again. Telly. Vegetables. Chocolate biscuits. I have been trounced on every field of battle. But no more. I am the parent. My three year old son is not the boss of me, and it’s time that I Dadded-up and took charge of this household. I’m ready for the fight. Come on. Test me. Bring it on.
The doctor looks into my son’s ear with one of those ear-light thingies. (I really want one of those. Not sure why. Do I really want to know what the inside of my son’s ear looks like?). He diagnoses an ear infection and prescribes some ‘banana flavoured’ antibiotics. Banana flavoured if bananas where made of plastic and tasted like washing up liquid. Unlike when I was a child, medicine is usually quite nice nowadays, so his disgust and horror when he tastes the banana medicine is a bit of a shock. He goes berserk. Medicine is supposed to taste of strawberries. Not plastic bananas and washing up liquid. He disgorges it onto the floor, and runs away.
Problem is, he has to take his medicine. I can’t go back to the Doctor and say “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get my son to take this horrible ‘banana flavour’ medicine. Can I have the strawberry flavour version please.”. Can I? Does the NHS cover that? I’d be drummed out of the parenting union. Wouldn’t I? He has to take it. Doesn’t he? Yes. He does. Doesn’t he? Yes.
Force feeding him the medicine seems both wrong, and more importantly, completely impossible. I try negotiating. “Will you be a big brave boy for Daddy and take the medicine the nice Doctor gave us to make your ear better?”
“No.” He says, running away.
“You’ll get a special present.” I call after him, out of ideas.
He stops running. He comes back. He gazes at me, eye’s narrowed. “Chocolate Biscuit?”
I go to the shops. It’s three doses of plastic banana medicine, three times a day for a week. This is going to take a lot of chocolate biscuits.