Yup. June Elizabeth Fehling. Born May 17, 2013. 8 lbs, 14 oz., 21 inches. Page rocked it.
I think she and I are still in shock, now nearly two weeks later. While we both talked the company line of “we’d love either a boy or girl,” let’s be honest, we both wanted a girl. But we also thought there was no way we’d have one. In the weeks leading in we were told by our docs that there was a 60% chance we’d have another boy…then I heard the day before that it was a 90% chance. Really???
So when June came out and everyone looked at me to make the call…wow. Just, wow. I think I blacked out. Then came to. Then asked what happened to his penis.
So, just like every other set of parents that had a girl dropped in their unsuspecting laps, we (read: Fehling, Page) have gone a little nuts with Operation: Pink. Our house looks like it just withstood a My Little Pony stampede. C’mon though, I’ll take it. There’s only so much Batman one house can handle.
So… here we are again. 37 weeks and counting. And counting. And counting…
And this time we’re re-launching “The Preggo Page” via WNCN Today in the hopes that it will trigger labor. Ok, so my bosses are hoping it will trigger ratings. The labor hopes? They’re all mine. And Jake’s. And probably Ford’s and Cal’s. Although they would likely change their tunes if they had anything close to a clue about how much their worlds are about to be rocked when this new kid makes his or her big appearance.
Getting this close to labor again made me think back to my first two pregnancies and what we were up to with them. With Cal it was pretty mild right about now. But this point at my pregnancy with Ford led to one of my all-time favorite memories at the OBGYN’s office with Jake. Not that it’s particularly hard to win that contest (“Oh but remember the time you peed in a cup and then they pricked your finger?! Good times!”), but this visit was one for the record books. I wrote about it in a post titled, “The Joy of Stirrups.” Read on and be thankful you’re not the one giving me an OB examination.
But it’s memories like those and all the other ones both captured here and floating around somewhere in our parentally-clouded memory banks that actually made us decide to do this again. And then it’s pictures like these from last week’s “Bring Your Child to Work Day” at WNCN that make us now wonder what the hell we were thinking.
“You Should Have Left Your Hooligans at Home Day” was more like it
Thank you for making car rides easier, play time lengthier and our house quieter.
We hate you.
You have made bed time the single-worst hour of our lives. The sheer number of times “Likeada Queen” and “Figment Missle” need to be played with, hugged, kissed, put to bed, thrown in the toy basket, and finally, staged as guards of the boys’ bedroom is staggering. We go through this process roughly 6-7 times a night. It’s exhausting and not cute. At all. And we are near a boiling point.
So, please, do us a favor and shut it down. No more movies, no more lunch pails, no more coloring books.
So Page has been looking into weekend activity options for Ford. She’s been gravitating toward dance/martial arts ideas, while I’ve been trying to find a soccer team that accepts three-year-olds with shorter attention spans than 15-year-olds. So far, Page has a laundry list of options, while all I’ve run into are sports leagues that start at age four. Do none of these people have three-year-olds they need to dump somewhere?!?
This brings us to today…when Page tells me that we’re getting a free test-drive from a dance studio in Durham. I could go on and on about the experience, but all you need to see is the video below. Suffice it to say that Ford wasn’t all that interested.
Truly one of the funniest moments we’ve had as parents. This actually went on for about 10 minutes, until the poor instructor looked up at the camera with an expression of disgust and helplessness. We would have bailed her out, but we were too busy…
…cleaning up the human oil spill named Cal. You see, he was too young for the class, so he spent the hour spraying the studio’s brochures all over the waiting room and chucking my completely full coffee across the floor. I’ve never seen tutus scatter that fast in my life.
"This scalding coffee feels refreshing on my face, Daddy!"
Needless to say, it was a memorable Saturday. Big ups to the Riccobonos and Nelsons for putting up with us. Finally, I’ll leave you with a picture of the boys going down a slide with static cling hair, because…well, because no matter how old you are, static cling hair is funny.
Optical illusion: While that hair may look wind-blown, the children are actually in a stationary position.
Snap it up while you can, folks! That’s a savings of 99.9%!
In all seriousness, we would have totally offered our kids up for that deal a few weeks ago. Now, before you call social services, let us explain…
Flash back to Dec. 21. The following day we’re set to go to Jamaica for a family reunion until the 29th. Yeah. We go to church. Ford starts running around like his clothes are on fire. Cal, between haphazard cheers for the band, starts coughing. Then he starts wheezing and coughing. Page and I, now the only parents out in the hallway because we apparently have the only insane kids in Cary, decide to be better safe than sorry and take the little guy to Urgent Care.
OK, now flash back to early 2011. Cal, with a weird rash on his hip and some questionable breathing, convinces us to take him to Urgent Care. We are seen by a seemingly nice woman…who sees the rash and the wheezing and…orders up an ambulance and stretcher. For an eight month old. Who otherwise was in great spirits and having the time of his life. Twas my first ambulance ride ever. Long story short, we get to Wake Med and they tell us Cal has RSV and a weird diaper rash, but that basically he was fine and that the ambulance was a tad dramatic. Needless to say, the Wake Med bills were awesome, and Page and I removed the Urgent Care from our Christmas Card list.
Now, back to the original flash back. We walk into urgent care…and who are we assigned to?
Yep. Her. And I swear on my family this is how it went down:
Me: Hello, Dr. _____
Her: Hello, Mr. Fleming.
Me: So…will we be riding in any ambulances tonight?
Her: We’ll see…so what seems to be the problem?
Me: Well, we leave for Jamaica tomorrow, and Cal has a cough, so…
Her: OK, well let’s take a look…
Cal: [going through an exorcism]
Her: [puts stethoscope on Cal's chest...1 second goes by...then 2...3...] Yep, he has pneumonia. Can you get a refund for the flights?
Me: Actually, can I get that stretcher after all?
All expect for the last line are 100% true. Are you kidding me? Pnuemonia? Two hours, a nebulizer and what had to have been a crying-induced coma for Cal later, we were home. Page and I stared at each other. Are we seriously canceling this trip?
Maybe. The next morning we called the airline. Banged our flight (full refund because it was delayed, which seemed crazy, but apparently that’s a legit loophole) and went to the pediatrician, who then ran me and Cal through the same dialogue above except it ended with:
Her: [puts stethoscope on Cal's chest...1 second goes by...then 2...3...] Nope, he never had pnuemonia.
Incredulous, Page and I staggered out of the doc’s office, rebooked our flight for a day later and made it to Jamaica after all. Just a ridiculous chain of events. One that has left us so ticked off, that we’re debating on…wait for it…yes, writing a letter to the Urgent Care to complain. Are we so old that we’re thinking about writing letters now? Either way, not an ideal way to kick off a vacay.
No one wants to hear about Jamaica, so suffice it to say that it was great. However…the trip was bookended by two days of travel. International travel. With long lines. And extra security. And lax Jamaicans who apparently aren’t fazed by two kids who, in concert, sound like this:
Flat out, Ford and Cal were brutal travelers. The worst. Page and I agreed that those two days of travel (especially coming home) were the hardest two days of parenting we’ve ever experienced. I told someone when I got home that I would have given up both kids for a warm shower and a ham sandwich, and I wasn’t even kidding. They even carried it over into the next day for good measure.
Don’t believe me? Here’s proof:
Ford: Montego Bay Airport
Cal: Montego Bay Airport
Ford: 3805 April Place
Man, we wanted to punt those kids. But we didn’t. We held back. So that we could experience things like what happened last night…
Ford and Cal are bathing. Mom is showering. I am apparently the only clean person in the house, so I’m wrangling the boys out of the bath. Cal goes first. He acts like I’m drying him off in sand paper, then begs like a lunatic for one of his 3,491 trucks on the floor. I pick it and Cal up to carry them to the boys’ room. Ford, meanwhile, is doing what looks like water angels in the bath tub. Naked. Cute. As I say something to Page, Cal decides to hurl the truck down the 6+ feet right onto…Ford’s mouth. Holy shnikees, did it look like it hurt like hell. I stifled an “OH!” and watched as Ford’s face went from bliss to shock to pain to crying to bleeding. Man…even typing this I’m cringing. Predictably, Ford is inconsolable until he remembers that he loves band-aids. LOVES them. Kind of random, but OK. So he says between sobs and blood, “I want a band-aid, daddy.” I don’t have the heart to tell him that a band-aid won’t stick to gums and teeth, so I grab (what at the time I failed to realize was the girliest band-aid in the house) a band-aid and stick it on his face as close to the pain as I can.
We called it a band-stache. Whatever. He stopped crying…but from the looks of it, dislocated his left eye in the process.
We hope everyone had a great holiday season and that you’ve all twisted your ankle on small blue trains as much as we have!