Claire as snowbunny, Claire as silly.....you decide:
06 February 2009
Stoichiometry of a Pea
So, Sunday night I was at work when my mother called to tell me that Claire was throwing up.....and had been for awhile now. We started the count at 3 rounds of vomitting. I came home and found her still upchucking. I freshed up her pj's and threw her in the car, along with everything that could possibly fit in my backpack. In it I shoved: another pair of her pajamas (unmatched, but who cares), a package of baby wipe refills, unopened. A ziploc bag for when I open the baby wipe refill, an extra pair of her socks (more than likely similarly unmatched) and the biggest handfull of fresh diapers my small hand can grab in an urgent hurry. I strapped her into her sweet flowery carseat, tucked bathtowels all around, under and over her so she could barf on something more easily laundered. (I'm planning ahead. I'm not careless!)
We spent mere moments inside the ER before being seen. I apologized for coming in "just for a kid vommitting" and said that I "knew it wasn't an emergency." The Dr cut me off right there. He said, "she only weighs 26 pounds. 26 pound people can deydrate really fast, it IS an emergency." So, that made me feel a little better. It made me feel like I didn't have to keep apologizing to them, because, really, who would you rather see at 1am this cute snow-bunny looking kid or some whiny-ass crybaby with a gunshot wound?!
exactly.
So, he gave her some Phenergan, which didn't work. Next, he gave her some Zofran, which she promptly refused to take. They crushed it into a powder and I tipped her head back and he said,"you need to let us put this in your mouth". The only word I heard from her all night was right at that moment, "okay". She took it and threw that up, too. I had half a backpack full of clean bathtowels for her to throw up in. The nurse who was helping us watched me dodge Claire's projectile stomach contents with our fine linens and I explained, "by your third kid you no longer think letting them puke all over you is the sign of a noble mother." By the end of our little excursion she had vomitted over 11 times in 3 hours. I'm glad we went.
They decided to send her home anyway with a script for Phenergan suppositories. And this is where our stoichiometric nightmare began.
Wouldn't you know that they were not going to work effectively for this particular bug becuase that part of her anatomy was currently under attack as well. So, I called in a Rx for Phenergan gel.
Evil stuff, that is. Apparently they put the ENTIRE PRESCRIPTION (SIX DOSES!!) in one syringe. Do you know how to do THIS sort of stiochiometry inside your head?
Claire weighs 26 lbs (which is how much in kg?) and her dose is 1/2 of a 12.5 mg suppository. Now, her Phenergan gel Rx is for 0.025 ml of gel, or, as the Pharmacist told me, "a pea sized amount". Have you ever tried to visualize a pea sized amount of a liquid? I am trying to imagine,......if a pea were to ever want to be a liquid, how far and how fast would it spread and would it still occupy the same mass in space? (As I tried to figure this out in my head I chanted to myself, "BE the liquid pea, Cyndi, BE the liquid pea!")
So, the next day Jake comes down with it and I am told to use Claire's suppositories, as her dose was half of a whole suppository and Jake's dosage would be one whole one.
Big Mistake: Jake is now facing Montezuma's revenge as well, so suppositories are out of the question. As I drive back to the pharmacy to pick up his Phenergan gel I wonder how 12.5 mg of the solid suppository translates to 0.50 ml and how to compare this in a more "apples to apples" way. I mean, if someone could show me the diameter of a average pea and then I could convert that to the mass of gel in ml.....maybe.
So, I challenge all of you science geeks to ponder me this:
What is the mass of an average green pea and how would half of it's mass end up as
.025 ml. I am arguing with no one, it's just that us enquiring minds would like to know. Oh, and that I accidentally gave him DOUBLE THE DOSE as I was trying to squeeze the tiny syringe and read it (upside down, mind you!) at the same time. I panicked and wiped it off, while calling poison control. She was all, "Dude, you, like, totally did what I was going to tell you to do. I mean, he is gonna' be like totally fine. Wake him up every 15 minutes or so and if you are stressed out about, like, anything, just totally call us back." She also explained that Jake could start having hallucinations. I had a feeling that my friend at Poison Control had beat us to 'em.
DUDE. She like totally helped and I think we are totally going to be like the best of friends now.
Totally.
We spent mere moments inside the ER before being seen. I apologized for coming in "just for a kid vommitting" and said that I "knew it wasn't an emergency." The Dr cut me off right there. He said, "she only weighs 26 pounds. 26 pound people can deydrate really fast, it IS an emergency." So, that made me feel a little better. It made me feel like I didn't have to keep apologizing to them, because, really, who would you rather see at 1am this cute snow-bunny looking kid or some whiny-ass crybaby with a gunshot wound?!
exactly.
So, he gave her some Phenergan, which didn't work. Next, he gave her some Zofran, which she promptly refused to take. They crushed it into a powder and I tipped her head back and he said,"you need to let us put this in your mouth". The only word I heard from her all night was right at that moment, "okay". She took it and threw that up, too. I had half a backpack full of clean bathtowels for her to throw up in. The nurse who was helping us watched me dodge Claire's projectile stomach contents with our fine linens and I explained, "by your third kid you no longer think letting them puke all over you is the sign of a noble mother." By the end of our little excursion she had vomitted over 11 times in 3 hours. I'm glad we went.
They decided to send her home anyway with a script for Phenergan suppositories. And this is where our stoichiometric nightmare began.
Wouldn't you know that they were not going to work effectively for this particular bug becuase that part of her anatomy was currently under attack as well. So, I called in a Rx for Phenergan gel.
Evil stuff, that is. Apparently they put the ENTIRE PRESCRIPTION (SIX DOSES!!) in one syringe. Do you know how to do THIS sort of stiochiometry inside your head?
Claire weighs 26 lbs (which is how much in kg?) and her dose is 1/2 of a 12.5 mg suppository. Now, her Phenergan gel Rx is for 0.025 ml of gel, or, as the Pharmacist told me, "a pea sized amount". Have you ever tried to visualize a pea sized amount of a liquid? I am trying to imagine,......if a pea were to ever want to be a liquid, how far and how fast would it spread and would it still occupy the same mass in space? (As I tried to figure this out in my head I chanted to myself, "BE the liquid pea, Cyndi, BE the liquid pea!")
So, the next day Jake comes down with it and I am told to use Claire's suppositories, as her dose was half of a whole suppository and Jake's dosage would be one whole one.
Big Mistake: Jake is now facing Montezuma's revenge as well, so suppositories are out of the question. As I drive back to the pharmacy to pick up his Phenergan gel I wonder how 12.5 mg of the solid suppository translates to 0.50 ml and how to compare this in a more "apples to apples" way. I mean, if someone could show me the diameter of a average pea and then I could convert that to the mass of gel in ml.....maybe.
So, I challenge all of you science geeks to ponder me this:
What is the mass of an average green pea and how would half of it's mass end up as
.025 ml. I am arguing with no one, it's just that us enquiring minds would like to know. Oh, and that I accidentally gave him DOUBLE THE DOSE as I was trying to squeeze the tiny syringe and read it (upside down, mind you!) at the same time. I panicked and wiped it off, while calling poison control. She was all, "Dude, you, like, totally did what I was going to tell you to do. I mean, he is gonna' be like totally fine. Wake him up every 15 minutes or so and if you are stressed out about, like, anything, just totally call us back." She also explained that Jake could start having hallucinations. I had a feeling that my friend at Poison Control had beat us to 'em.
DUDE. She like totally helped and I think we are totally going to be like the best of friends now.
Totally.
11 January 2009
New Year's Resolutions
This year I resolve to get in worse shape than I was in last year.
This year I resolve to drive to the bathroom and, in other words, get even less physical activity in my day than ever before.
This year I resolve to do one push-up and/or crunch.
This year I will increase my intake of dark chocolate and decrease my intake of dark, leafy greens.
This year I will drink more hot chocolate and less skim milk.
This year I will have more sex, more leisure and less work. One must balance ones’ life after all.
This year I resolve to never wear pantyhose or anything tight or constricting. I have one life to live and I do not intend to meet death with a tightly cinched waistband.
This year if I want to play hooky from the homeschooling moms get-together and stay home and tap dance on my back patio I will and if anyone wants to say anything about it I will quickly transfer that phone call to my dial tone.
This year I will not waste my time with snooty stuck up know-it-all’s. If I don’t enjoy your company then I won’t spend time with you. (except for my friends that I really WANT to see, but don’t have time for: good luck figuring out which group you belong to!)
This year I will not freak out if my kindergarten-aged son doesn’t read Shakespeare and diagram sentences. I will remember this year that childhood is fleeting and stopping to watch a possum eat your cat’s dinner on the back porch is a joy to behold and should NOT be rushed!
This year I will take a moment to record my two-year old pointing to her brother’s screwdriver and shouting, “snoospida!” That voice, this moment,…..my heart!
This year I resolve to drive to the bathroom and, in other words, get even less physical activity in my day than ever before.
This year I resolve to do one push-up and/or crunch.
This year I will increase my intake of dark chocolate and decrease my intake of dark, leafy greens.
This year I will drink more hot chocolate and less skim milk.
This year I will have more sex, more leisure and less work. One must balance ones’ life after all.
This year I resolve to never wear pantyhose or anything tight or constricting. I have one life to live and I do not intend to meet death with a tightly cinched waistband.
This year if I want to play hooky from the homeschooling moms get-together and stay home and tap dance on my back patio I will and if anyone wants to say anything about it I will quickly transfer that phone call to my dial tone.
This year I will not waste my time with snooty stuck up know-it-all’s. If I don’t enjoy your company then I won’t spend time with you. (except for my friends that I really WANT to see, but don’t have time for: good luck figuring out which group you belong to!)
This year I will not freak out if my kindergarten-aged son doesn’t read Shakespeare and diagram sentences. I will remember this year that childhood is fleeting and stopping to watch a possum eat your cat’s dinner on the back porch is a joy to behold and should NOT be rushed!
This year I will take a moment to record my two-year old pointing to her brother’s screwdriver and shouting, “snoospida!” That voice, this moment,…..my heart!
25 December 2008
Wii had a lovely Holiday
Yep, we got a Wii, because thankfully someone noticed that my prohibition on all things plug-inable can be overidden only by a Wii. Now I get to see just how uncoordinated I am in 3D.
Claire saw her rooster sitting on the sofa just waiting for her this morning and said,"ooh! a chicken!" When Jake saw his darn-near-lifesized Elmo (of freakish proportion, really!) he said,"Elmo's butt is stinkin!" Classy, huh?
Here are some pics:
12 December 2008
Mother of the Year Hatches a Plan
I had a brilliant idea, that of acquiring puppets for the two youngest kids. A perfect Christmas present, I thought, since they are at that adorable make-believe age in which a puppet can quickly become one of your closest friends. So, onto Amazon.com I go in search of puppet perfection. I found a T-Rex for Jake whose name, inexplicably, is Sniffles “because, due to his short forearms, he can’t wipe his nose.”
O-Kay. For Claire I chose a rooster. To this very day I cannot explain to you my reasoning except that the very thought of my baby with a rooster on her hand, making it talk, pleased me.
I was not content, however, to simply acquire the rooster puppet. I thought that the perfect coup de grace would be to dress the rooster in a get-up like Claire wears around the house on a daily basis. Her current favourite, one that has been near and dear to her heart for months now is a pink tutu. So, I thought that a pink tutu and maybe some false eyelashes would set off the rooster ensemble like nobody’s business.
Yeah, you probably figured it out before I did. That night I was trying in vain to achive slumber and I thought that it just wasn’t enough to have the rooster wearing a tutu and false eyelashes and that what this fancy foul really needed was a jaunty hat, perhaps with a feather boa for the finishing touch. As I was considering the rooster’s attire, I thought about how I never saw roosters dressed up on the Muppet Show, although I saw plenty of fancy chickens.
THAT was when it hit me.
I had inadvertantly dressed Claire’s rooster in drag. I didn’t know where to go from here. Do I now dress Sniffles in an overtly masculine costume to compensate? Do I put that poor dinosaur in work boots and chino’s?
We had reconciled ourselves years ago that, realistically, our children’s “college fund” could be more aptly named, “the Therapy Fund” as we are certain to inflict some sort of emotional toll on their psyches, but where exactly does “my mom dressed my rooster puppet in drag” fit in the DSM-IV?
O-Kay. For Claire I chose a rooster. To this very day I cannot explain to you my reasoning except that the very thought of my baby with a rooster on her hand, making it talk, pleased me.
I was not content, however, to simply acquire the rooster puppet. I thought that the perfect coup de grace would be to dress the rooster in a get-up like Claire wears around the house on a daily basis. Her current favourite, one that has been near and dear to her heart for months now is a pink tutu. So, I thought that a pink tutu and maybe some false eyelashes would set off the rooster ensemble like nobody’s business.
Yeah, you probably figured it out before I did. That night I was trying in vain to achive slumber and I thought that it just wasn’t enough to have the rooster wearing a tutu and false eyelashes and that what this fancy foul really needed was a jaunty hat, perhaps with a feather boa for the finishing touch. As I was considering the rooster’s attire, I thought about how I never saw roosters dressed up on the Muppet Show, although I saw plenty of fancy chickens.
THAT was when it hit me.
I had inadvertantly dressed Claire’s rooster in drag. I didn’t know where to go from here. Do I now dress Sniffles in an overtly masculine costume to compensate? Do I put that poor dinosaur in work boots and chino’s?
We had reconciled ourselves years ago that, realistically, our children’s “college fund” could be more aptly named, “the Therapy Fund” as we are certain to inflict some sort of emotional toll on their psyches, but where exactly does “my mom dressed my rooster puppet in drag” fit in the DSM-IV?
What I do NOT want for Christmas
What I Don’t Want for Christmas (with a nod to Laurie Notaro)
Make-up or anything “cosmetic”. I don’t care if Ulta has the Bare Minerals starter set on special, if it involves the implication that I would look better if I would spackle my visage with goop and/or powders, please back away quickly. And, for the record, I got a good deal on Bare Minerals and apparently I am not girly enough to know how to put powder on my face with a brush. Because, I think a more “girly” girl would have known that you don’t put powder all over your face right after you put a thick layer of Carmex all over your lips. Wanna know what happens? Big fuzzy Muppet Lips is what happens.
Never again.
A portable clothes dryer. I kid you not. Now, I have great empathy for the ladies who hawk useless crap on the Home Shopping Network (as well as the other one whose name escapes me at the moment). How they can look perpetually excited about that junk is beyond me, but they manage to do it. Day. After. Day. After Day. Good for them, really, but on the rare occasion that something has looked like a good purchase I stop myself, the words of Mr. Potato Head swimming in my head, “it’s next year’s yard sale fodder, for sure!” I saw this item and was desperately trying to think of an instance in which one might need a portable clothes dryer AND have the means to carry it with ‘one’. You are on the run from an assailant and, as you attempt to hop over the puddle, you stumble and your trousers become soggy with puddle water. Who is going to have time to stop, slip off one’s trousers, find an outlet into which you could plug the damn thing in and then wait for dry clothing? Who is buying this?
A purse in the shape of a denim ass. Again, I am compelled to tell you that I “kid you not”. I only include this particular item because I have received it in the past and, since about twenty years have passed since that particular Christmas, it could be making the rounds once again. I distinctly remember opening the box and thinking, as I inhaled in horror and shock, “ohmygod, it’s a butt with a shoulder strap!” I couldn’t figure out what it was until the giver gushed, “It’s a PURSE! Shaped like blue jeans,…..you know, because you WEAR jeans!”
I said ‘thank you’ before the words spinning sardonically in my head could pour fourth. “Yeah, I wear a bra, too, but I don’t need a purse in the shape of THAT, either!”
I mean, “thank you! Thank you so much!”
I recently saw coin purses in the shape of socks at Bed, Bath and Beyond and I thought of her. I’ll bet she picked up a few as stocking stuffers.
Anything that plugs in. The only exception to this is the year Kirk bought me a KitchenAid mixer for Christmas, but it is because he knows I love to bake, not because he thinks that I should be in the kitchen, barefoot and gestating. I already have a paraffin warmer, so I don’t need anything else that needs to be plugged in. I can’t explain how satisfying it is to dip my hands into hot wax, it just is. Some things can’t be understood. (I am willing to make an exception for a Wii, but only because I really, really like you.)
Any cookie with nuts, raisins or fluorescent “fruit” in it. By the time I pick out all the nuts, raisins and “fruit” I forget what I was going in there for. Hey, Ritalin only does so much during the Holidays. The girls at work make fun of my Christmas Binder, but I gotta’ stay organized and I just have not been able to schedule in any time to pick out undesirable ingredients.
A Hilary Clinton nutcracker. I understand that there are people in this world who think these sort of things are cute and/or campy, but I really have no use for a nutcracker that involves placing a walnut near anyone’s crotch, real or otherwise. This is not a political rant. I don’t want an Obama nutcracker, a McCain nutcracker, or any other person shaped nutcracker if it involves them cracking nuts with their thighs, thankyouverymuch.
A gold glitter purse with mirrors attached. This was seen at a family gathering a couple of years ago. The owner said, “my husband gave it to me for Christmas”. (I am withholding the names to protect both the giver of this hideous gift as well as the receiver who was so inexplicably pleased with it.) Just as I was about to empathize and set her up with resources and the name of a good divorce lawyer she gushed, “isn’t it GREAT?! It’s JUST THE ONE I WANTED!” I looked on, stunned not only by the mirrors that were all simultaneously catching the light and making me feel like I had somehow entered an interrogation suite at a police station, but also by the fact that she was so incredibly happy about it. It was truly one of the few times in my life that I have ever been stunned speechless. (Which, if you knew all the snarky comments flying furiously around in my head, the loss of speech was a godsend!) The rest of the visit I tried to look away, but I kept sneaking glances over at the purse just so I could relay the details to my husband, who was out of the country at the time. If ever there was a lady of the evening searching for a handy way to tote around a gross of prophylactics with a convenient shoulder strap, this was just the conveyance for her!
Make-up or anything “cosmetic”. I don’t care if Ulta has the Bare Minerals starter set on special, if it involves the implication that I would look better if I would spackle my visage with goop and/or powders, please back away quickly. And, for the record, I got a good deal on Bare Minerals and apparently I am not girly enough to know how to put powder on my face with a brush. Because, I think a more “girly” girl would have known that you don’t put powder all over your face right after you put a thick layer of Carmex all over your lips. Wanna know what happens? Big fuzzy Muppet Lips is what happens.
Never again.
A portable clothes dryer. I kid you not. Now, I have great empathy for the ladies who hawk useless crap on the Home Shopping Network (as well as the other one whose name escapes me at the moment). How they can look perpetually excited about that junk is beyond me, but they manage to do it. Day. After. Day. After Day. Good for them, really, but on the rare occasion that something has looked like a good purchase I stop myself, the words of Mr. Potato Head swimming in my head, “it’s next year’s yard sale fodder, for sure!” I saw this item and was desperately trying to think of an instance in which one might need a portable clothes dryer AND have the means to carry it with ‘one’. You are on the run from an assailant and, as you attempt to hop over the puddle, you stumble and your trousers become soggy with puddle water. Who is going to have time to stop, slip off one’s trousers, find an outlet into which you could plug the damn thing in and then wait for dry clothing? Who is buying this?
A purse in the shape of a denim ass. Again, I am compelled to tell you that I “kid you not”. I only include this particular item because I have received it in the past and, since about twenty years have passed since that particular Christmas, it could be making the rounds once again. I distinctly remember opening the box and thinking, as I inhaled in horror and shock, “ohmygod, it’s a butt with a shoulder strap!” I couldn’t figure out what it was until the giver gushed, “It’s a PURSE! Shaped like blue jeans,…..you know, because you WEAR jeans!”
I said ‘thank you’ before the words spinning sardonically in my head could pour fourth. “Yeah, I wear a bra, too, but I don’t need a purse in the shape of THAT, either!”
I mean, “thank you! Thank you so much!”
I recently saw coin purses in the shape of socks at Bed, Bath and Beyond and I thought of her. I’ll bet she picked up a few as stocking stuffers.
Anything that plugs in. The only exception to this is the year Kirk bought me a KitchenAid mixer for Christmas, but it is because he knows I love to bake, not because he thinks that I should be in the kitchen, barefoot and gestating. I already have a paraffin warmer, so I don’t need anything else that needs to be plugged in. I can’t explain how satisfying it is to dip my hands into hot wax, it just is. Some things can’t be understood. (I am willing to make an exception for a Wii, but only because I really, really like you.)
Any cookie with nuts, raisins or fluorescent “fruit” in it. By the time I pick out all the nuts, raisins and “fruit” I forget what I was going in there for. Hey, Ritalin only does so much during the Holidays. The girls at work make fun of my Christmas Binder, but I gotta’ stay organized and I just have not been able to schedule in any time to pick out undesirable ingredients.
A Hilary Clinton nutcracker. I understand that there are people in this world who think these sort of things are cute and/or campy, but I really have no use for a nutcracker that involves placing a walnut near anyone’s crotch, real or otherwise. This is not a political rant. I don’t want an Obama nutcracker, a McCain nutcracker, or any other person shaped nutcracker if it involves them cracking nuts with their thighs, thankyouverymuch.
A gold glitter purse with mirrors attached. This was seen at a family gathering a couple of years ago. The owner said, “my husband gave it to me for Christmas”. (I am withholding the names to protect both the giver of this hideous gift as well as the receiver who was so inexplicably pleased with it.) Just as I was about to empathize and set her up with resources and the name of a good divorce lawyer she gushed, “isn’t it GREAT?! It’s JUST THE ONE I WANTED!” I looked on, stunned not only by the mirrors that were all simultaneously catching the light and making me feel like I had somehow entered an interrogation suite at a police station, but also by the fact that she was so incredibly happy about it. It was truly one of the few times in my life that I have ever been stunned speechless. (Which, if you knew all the snarky comments flying furiously around in my head, the loss of speech was a godsend!) The rest of the visit I tried to look away, but I kept sneaking glances over at the purse just so I could relay the details to my husband, who was out of the country at the time. If ever there was a lady of the evening searching for a handy way to tote around a gross of prophylactics with a convenient shoulder strap, this was just the conveyance for her!
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