Recently a friend of mine was seeking Mommy advice regarding getting her infant to swallow Baby Tylenol. I immediately recalled the days of getting my babies to swallow their medicine and realized I might have some worthwhile pointers. Despite not being a Mommy, I decided to weigh in.
I used to use the plastic syringe that came with the medicine for our girls, never mind that, sometimes I still have to use a plastic syringe. The tough part is dealing with that incredibly flexible and agile little wormy tongue. Once I got it past there, I would shoot it straight down her throat, denying her a chance to spit it back out.
How that happens can be a frustrating and ugly process. There were times where the act required both parents, with Annie holding the little one down as I squirted the medicine down her throat.
This is just one of the ten-thousand things that never get mentioned in baby classes.

I remember when Annie and I were in the market for our first baby. One weekend we met up with some friends for a day-trip. Their daughter was still a stroller-bound baby at the time. I’d say we spent a majority of that day observing, studying and taking mental notes of them. We watched them keeping an eye out for places to change diapers, we noted the stroller, we noted stroller tips & tricks, we noted snacks, we noted as much as we could.
Well, how bad can it really be? They’re making it look so easy!
There was so much we missed. There is so much that can only be missed.
Once when Annie was pregnant with our first, we were wrapping up an appointment with the midwife.
She asked us, “Do you two have any questions for me?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “How do you give a newborn a bath?”
She smiled, “YOUR way of giving a bath is the CORRECT way.” I didn’t really want that answer, I wanted instructions. My eyebrows scrunched together. She recognized the expression instantly (yeah, she’s met my type before) and went on, “Listen, there is no correct way to give a baby a bath. There is only your way. If the baby is alive and is clean when the bath is over, then you did it right! Your way is the correct way. The baby doesn’t know any better! The baby won’t be judging you.”
I would not be deterred, “But! But…” Annie smiled, took my arm, thanked her, and we left to go have lunch and talk about our baby.
If we had known then how much we would miss just the two of us having lunch together…
We went to baby classes at the hospital. They taught us how to have and keep a baby. We learned about breathing and birth massages. We learned about sleep cycles, and breast feeding, we also wrapped dolls in swaddling blankets and practiced putting diapers on those dolls. I kicked butt at that. I looked very paternal and in charge.
My very pregnant, very hormonal wife was swooning at my mad skills, she kind of wanted to make out with me and was convinced I’d be the best Dad in the world. I suppose she was right. I am the best Dad in the world! After all, the kids don’t know any better, they’re not judging me (I don’t think they are). She kept scanning the room, secretly trying to get our classmates to “inadvertently” look over and see the awesome job I was doing at swaddling–a doll.
What those classes didn’t really bring up was that the baby often has a different agenda.
I know, I know! It ought to go without saying that real babies move around a little bit more than a doll, as in babies move 100% more than dolls. But still, they could have at least reminded us of that, maybe warn us and then mention that they might be understating the squirminess of the baby.
They never taught us about a wiggly escape artist’s take on the swaddle. They never told us about the incredible and horrible things that we would be finding in those diapers. They never mentioned we would be going through so many diapers. They did mention lots of diapers, I wish they said “lots” with the Caps Lock button engaged. We listened, we took note and we were still unprepared.
I remembered being in my friend’s exact situation the first time our daughter had a fever; yet another thing they didn’t teach us this in the “How to have and keep a baby” class. My little baby Lydia had an ugly head cold. “The Crud” as it’s called around here. Is it called “The Crud” elsewhere? She needed medicine to combat that bug, she needed that medicine in order to just…sleep…through…the…night. That’s all! We wanted her (and us) to just sleep through one stupid night. She kept spitting it back.
I was frustrated, bordering on despondent. All my efforts to reason with her were failing. Reasoning with her? Wait! You can’t reason with this little creature! That was when a turning point in my parenting life happened. “I’m in charge here, I’m the adult. I have been given responsibility over her health and life, and I will not allow this. I will save my daughter.”
I’d like to think that’s what I thought; it sounds so heroic and strong and paternally protective. Doesn’t it? I think it was more like, “Now listen here you little (expletive deleted). You are going to take this (expletive deleted)ing medicine. You will (expletive deleted)ing swallow it and not (expletive deleted)ing spit it back out! By hook or by crook…this will happen. You have no (expletive deleted)ing say in this matter! This will happen because your Daddy is losing his (expletive deleted)ing mind. Seriously Daughter…I’m about to ugly-cry over this situation!”
I stopped being gentle. I held her down, I pinned her down. There was some Macho Man Savage action going on. I pinched her mouth open. I pushed that syringe past that agile little tongue of hers and I squirted the medicine out at a point that was beyond the reaches of her spitting ability. She made heartbreaking noises and the open sound of her throat working that medicine down was kind of gross. But she got her medicine, she slept through the night, and was practically free of her illness the next day. I won, despite having caught The Crud myself.

I continued reading the comments on my friend’s post. She was worried about torturing the baby. What really is torture? Back when I had that “new parent scent” (which, by the way, is not a pleasant scent) torture equated to pretty much anything that caused my baby any sort of discomfort. Fly off the couch every time she cries! Sanitize your hands! Don’t get her face wet! She might drown!
It did not take me long to reconsider what “torture” really is. I began to rethink what a baby actually is. We all talk about the toughness displayed by a Mother giving birth, and that is something I will never discount. But I tend to think that the Mother is actually the second toughest player in the act of birth. Have we ever considered how tough you need to be to have your entire body pushed (unwillingly I’m sure!) through an orifice that is only a fraction of your body size? Have we ever considered how traumatic birth would be if it were to happen to someone with a more developed mind? Think about it—forty weeks of knowing nothing but being encased in dark warmth, food delivered with no effort on your part. Then to be suddenly thrust into bright lights, noise, and frigid temperatures? Then shortly afterward to feel hunger for the very first time? Egad…all of us had a first time of feeling hungry! It must have been incredibly upsetting! The whole thing sounds hellish.
I’m amazed I made it through the whole thing!

Babies are tough.
Over the years, I have watched our girls fall over, I’ve watched them land on their butts hundreds of times. They’ve suffered cuts and scrapes, bumped heads and countless “owies”, real and imagined (yes, I’ll give it a kiss). To be frank, they are designed to fall and be bumped and bruised and hurt. They are designed to heal quickly, they are designed to bounce back. I do not think she developed PTSD from the experience of force-fed medicine.
Yes. I held her down. Yes I restrained her, and with incredible Love I forced her to swallow the medicine that would help us bring her back to health. I looked really heroic and sexy and in control of the situation when it happened, just like they taught us in baby class.
At least that’s how it happened to the best of my recollection.
(Crap! I hear coughing in the other room!)