Daddy Means Business...
Well, DADDY means business.
Long story shortened: Gleek wakes up with a fever and some snot-induced gag vomiting. Not a full stomach purge. Not flu. She needed some fever reducer and some night-time meds, and was unwilling to drink it.
Sandra and I fought with this for 20 minutes, wiping gag-vomit from the kitchen floor, and catching a double-handful as the only barely-preferable alternative to cleaning vomit from the carpet, before I finally got fed all the way up. Her tantrum was preventing her from getting medicated, and she needed to be snapped all the way out of it.
So in a somewhat quiet moment, and with just the right hint of anger in my voice (no need to feign it... I was upset) I explained to this three-year-old that there were three ways she could take the medicine.
1) drink it yourself.
2) Mommy squirts it in your mouth (and makes you gag, and you barf in Daddy's hands again -- option #2 is ruled the Hell out)
3) Daddy takes you to the Doctor and they give you a shot.
"Are you going to drink it yourself?"
Tears, negation-noises, kicking and screaming.
"Okay." I scooped her up. "Let's go to the Doctor and GET A SHOT."
Within 2 minutes I had her drinking her medicine enthusiastically. Because Gleek knows that Daddy Means Business.
I've washed them twice. My hands still smell like barf.