From Gallipoli to Victory

Last night, my son, Juan woke up his mama, Tina, to complain of an itching sensation. Naturally, Tina went right to the heart of the problem and concluded, with all the grim determination of the Joint Chief of Staffs during the Vietnam Conflict, that she would have to administer anti-allergy medicine to alleviate Juan's distress.

Of course Juan, like any other hyperactive two year-old who had been conditioned to view all medicines as "yucky" and all cockroaches as "funny" would rather play with a cockroach than gulp down his medicine. Which he tried to do, to the consternation of the roaches who happened to be in the vicinity of our bed. Thus began a long, epic battle of wills between parents and the parented. Juan kicked, screamed, squirmed, and in the end, hissed and spat. Mama ducked, while Papa was covered in dollops of medicinal vomit. Eerily, visions of Peter Weir's classic movie on the Battle of Gallipoli featuring a young Mel Gibson, Gallipoli , flashed through my mind, along with other such classically inspired military debacles.

But Juan had spat out his last. Weakened, and perhaps awed by Mama and Papa's resolve (No, it was probably because he was weakened; I must consciously remind myself to avoid the pitfalls of all conquerors who seek to rewrite history), Juan grudgingly agreed to gulp down his medicine. Victory! Wait, wasn't that a cheesy, yet indelibly and unabashedly feel-good movie starring Pele and Sylvester Stallone? What the heck. Mama and I settled down to watch CSI: NY. I must remember to upgrade the software on my stream of consciousness ruminations...

Photo Credits:
Picture of Victory comes courtesy of IMDB.