TJ is crying in his sleep, which is pretty much an echo of the day, losing those precious bodily fluids that we have been cajoling, begging and bribing him to swallow. I am tempted to calculate the price per ounce I am paying various game Web sites for his grudging compliance. Poor little guy. He has been clinging to me like crazy and retreating into his talking Iron Man helmet every times he sees a medicine cup, nasal spray bottle, ear drop vial or evil Pedialyte pop headed toward his fortress on the sofa.
He has tried holding medicine or milk in the front of his mouth for minutes at a time to avoid swallowing. And I have tried telling him that if he doesn't let me hydrate him he will end up spending the night in the hospital.
We tried to get TJ to eat some dinner: baby food, Chinese dumplings, 3 kinds of ice pops, bread moistened with milk. It was not long after he got his red liquid medicine (administered with a little syringe to the side of his mouth because otherwise it's "too spicy," when the lights went out. TJ clutched the giant flashlight but was uncomfortable around the candles and insisted on going outside where the summer solstice light remained.
He sat on the steps with me, injecting a few milliliters of water into the side of his mouth, having decided that the squirt-gun delivery system beat normal swallowing. His sisters ran to the driveway with the sidewalk chalk.
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