In which Tristan lacks a role model

When Tristan was four or five years old, he had some sort of bacterial infection that required an antibiotic. Since he’s shown signs of sensitivity to penicillin, he’s usually prescribed an antibiotic that is known for its particularly vile aftertaste. Family legends are made of the epic struggles we had getting the dreaded “milk medicine” down his gullet, and to this day it is the yard stick of all medicines. Buckley’s cough syrup would be ambrosia by comparison, according to Tristan’s “milk medicine” scale lo these many years later.

When Lucas had pneumonia a few months ago and again when he was sick last week, he was also prescribed the “milk medicine” antibiotic and I cringed as both the doctor and pharmacist warned us of the horrendous taste and ways to mitigate it. To my surprise and delight, Lucas took his medicine like a trooper, agreeably opening his mouth for each dose in exchange for a jujube reward. Some days he even declined the proffered glass of water to wash it down.

We were dallying over the last of dinner one night last week, and discussing how impressed we were with Lucas on the last day of his seven-day prescription. As we had a few times, we gently teased Tristan about the epic battles we had over milk medicine, and how placid Lucas was by comparison.

“Well,” said Tristan, an ever so slight twinke in his eye. “Of course Lucas is better at taking his medicine. I never had a role model when I was his age.”

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