This Is Us
Admitting We Were Powerless Over Tylenol
I’m a recovering alcoholic. I don’t want my son to become one, too.
Earlier this month, I sat on the living room carpet, criss-cross applesauce, singing along with my two-year-old son Avishai to Music Together when I spiraled into panic. My son was dancing around his wooden climbing triangle, clutching an empty Tylenol syringe in his right hand, another in his left, and waving them up and down to the beat.
When my son started teething at four months old, I was nervous about giving him the medication his pediatrician recommended. “Will liquid Tylenol stop working if we give it too often?” I asked my mom. I asked my sister. I asked friends in playgroups. They all gave an emphatic “no.” “Just make sure to give it as directed.”
But when I saw him clutching those empty syringes, I couldn’t breathe. My body throbbed with heat. I was terrified I was grooming him to be an addict. Alcoholism is hereditary.
Now 40, I gave up booze at 24, but many alcoholics are not that lucky. Some sample rehabs until they are 60. Others die.
I had decided to provide Tylenol to my son only sparingly, so he would toughen up and learn to cope.
