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%!
Sigh.
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.
Cal: [wailing]
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.
Boom.
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!
We’ve blogged about this before, so we’re not going to hit you over the head with it again, but Monkey Joe’s is incredible. $5/kid for unlimited inflatable action.
But don’t take our word for it. You could also ask Ford, who apparently repeats “Monkeyjoesontheweekend!” so much and so breathlessly at daycare during the week, that his teachers at Spanish for Fun have begged us to either buy a pet monkey or to find another daycare.
Considering the fact that Russian for Fun does not sound fun at all, it looks like we’re buying a baby chimp.
Oh, and then there’s this video, which is long, but is hilarious. Cal can walk now. Barely. So asking him to walk from one side of an inflatable to the other is borderline child abuse.
Ah, the beach. With the sand, hairy backs and sand…what’s not to love? Not much, frankly (double negative?). It’s awesome. For my money it’s up there with Chili’s Quesadilla Explosion Salads and Carolina hoops. Yeah, I love it that much. Gone are the days, however, of actually enjoying said beach. Gone are the days of “reading books” and “just heading down to the beach for a quick stroll.” Gone. Gonegonegonegone. Instead, let’s give a warm round of middle fingers to the days of the beach plus diaper-saddled kids.
Although we may appear happy, Page and I vehemently loathe these new days.
Sure, the kids are cute. They love the beach. But come on, this is ThePreggoPage.com. We keep it real here. I don’t want any of you to come back at me saying that we should be cheerier, blah, blah. Bottom line, the beach is no longer the beach. It’s rope-a-dope plus a sandy butt crack.
Allow me to explain.
1. Ducking the paparazzi, aka my wife.
The S.C. beach smog epidemic has become a real problem.
Page loves her some pictures. Loves them. As do most women, I’ve found. Most men? Seriously, get the camera out of my face. Now, of course, it’s always fun to see my fat, hairy ass frolicking with the kids after the fact, but in the course of action, it always gets me a little salty. “Oh, what, another one, babe? Hold one sec while I try to corral the greased pigs that are your sons.” “Nope, no, it’s not a problem for me to balance both boys on my shoulders while executing what is essentially a ‘reverse warrior’ yoga pose.” And then there’s the foggy camera lens issue, which rendered all of our pictures useless until we found out the beach trick of putting your camera on the deck for 30 minutes prior to use. As a side note, it actually felt that thick/foggy out there this weekend with those 100+ degree temps. Lord.
2. To nude-ify or not to nude-ify?
Ford's face here is truly disturbing.
This one needs to be defined for us. Please. It’s not a point of contention for me and Page, but we definitely differ. First let me say that neither of us care if our kids are walking around naked in public. “Just let it happen” is a personal Fehling motto (case in point: two kids within 15 months of each other). But I am far more conservative than Page when it comes to letting our boys flash complete strangers. Page? Let ‘em hang. Me? Let’s wrap a towel around those things, shall we? Maybe it’s the fact that I’m from Pinehurst where I grew up being belted over the head with rules like your shorts “must be bermuda length or you will be shot,” or maybe I’m just a prude. In all seriousness, would love to hear people’s thoughts here.
3. I feel sorry for my parents and brother.
Run for your lives!!!
I think I can safely speak for them when I say that sharing a beach condo with me and Page is no longer “fun.” Welcome to your 6:45 a.m. wake-up call, kiddies! Yeah. By the end of our four days together, my brother had downloaded a sound machine app on his phone and my Mom was openly thanking us for taking the boys to the pool one morning. I nearly responded by apologizing that we didn’t just head back to Raleigh after leaving the pool. It was a rough stretch of mornings for the lil’ dudes. Ford gets cabin fever in about 14 seconds and Cal is cutting no less than 37 teeth. He also likes to eat anything in sight, and if someone around him even looks in the general direction of food, he turns into the equivalent of a grunting car alarm, where instead of keys you have to insert Goldfish, London broil and a gallon of milk. Together. He’s a machine. Either way, consider this your apology, Watson/Fehling Family.
I, of course, am being slightly – OK, very – melodramatic. It’s the beach. It’s not work. It was great. I actually got through a chapter of my book and took two naps. I ate about four liters of jalapeno pimento cheese and tried peach Firefly for the first time. Finally, it’s always good to see the fam. My 90+-year-old grandfather was there along with about 40 of his offspring and his offspring’s offspring. We do group dinners at about 10 p.m. every night, and I’m convinced that if there was ever a Family Feud-style charades game, we would smoke all comers. I actually have practiced what my pose would be as the “FEHLING” curtain is pulled back when we’re introduced…
First and only take. Nice work, Watson/Fehlings.
So there you have it. The be-ach still rocks. Sure it takes more effort (and by more I mean every ounce of your being), but watching the kiddos get hours of enjoyment out of making sand castles, smashing them, building them, smashing them, sigh, well, it makes it all worth it.
I feel like our boys got older this weekend. I mean, I know they literally got 48 hours older, but there were randomly several major milestones over the past couple of days that got me all sappy thinking about the little dudes becoming not so little. Let’s take a look back, shall we:
1. Cal gets his first haircut. Good lord was this horrible. Page had to hold him, and I think she ended up in a sweatier mess than he did. The woman at Great Clips – God bless her – was very patient, but after doing a relatively good job blowing through the majority of his head, she turned OCD and was convinced that the necessary cherry on top was “snipping that little rat tail of his.” Cal doesn’t have a rat tail, folks. By the end of the #12minutesofhell (as it would be hash-tagged on Twitter), Cal was at his wits end. He was pissed at getting a haircut and even more pissed at the mere mention of a rat tail. When the barberette (woman barber?) was done and the faux tail was snipped, Cal immediately simmered. What a disaster. His dome looks good though. He looks like a little boy now. Crazy.
Seriously, was it really that terrible? (YES.)
2. We take our first walk through the mall together (not ever, just in a while). Can someone tell me when black, calf-high socks and Sperry Topsiders TOGETHER became cool? I seriously felt like I was 80 on Saturday. Every single person in the mall was on their phone, and I think I saw about 47 people (yes, one solo) having sex in H&M. What in the hell were Page and I thinking having kids?! It’s not like I don’t go out in public on a daily basis – hell, I’m around teenage kids all the time with our baseball tournaments, but seriously, you would have thought that the memo of snap-back hats, neon everything and pants that would cut the circulation off even a horse jockey would have crossed my path at some point (see video below – apparently, I’m a jerk). It took me about 11 seconds before I put the weather shield over the stroller. No way are my boys gonna catch crabs at Crabtree Valley Mall.
3. Ford drinks from a normal person cup for the first time. This happened like an hour ago, and while it may sound silly, this could quite possibly have been the highlight of the weekend. To this point all of Ford’s drinking devices have needed a steel-latched lid, as he tends to fire his cups across the house as if they just set fire to his little hands. And every time he does this, Page and I turn into CSI detectives trying to follow a blood splatter. “Do you see where the milk leads, Detective Fehling?” “Yes, Detective Fehling, he threw the effing milk clear across the room. It is currently resting – and dripping – on what looks like a laptop.” “Aw hell.”
4. Cal advances to a forward-facing car seat. Now, I know we run the risk of being publicly scolded for not having him rear-facing until he’s 17 years old (who writes these rules anyway?? What? Doctors? Crap.), but everything we’ve read, heard, seen, feel like doing, tells us that it’s time. I remember switching Ford out…and…man, it’s crazy seeing that face staring at you in the rear-view for the first time…especially when a 1-year-old flips you the bird for what I can only assume is the disgust that it took us this long to put a tank-sized kid into a decently-sized seat. To be fair, it has been a little hard to buckle him lately (for the past four months), but I digress. So now we have double-barrel toddlers in our second row captains chairs. If it didn’t feel like we were chauffers before, it definitely does now. Monkey Joe’s it is, kind sirs.
Guys, seriously, this is so not worth a photoshoot.
5. And finally — one more for Cal — little man gets a passport. Technically we’re filing everything tomorrow, but he had his picture taken today. I posted it to Facebook earlier, but come on, how can I not flaunt this beauty again. Could he be any more pissed? They ask you to “not make a facial expression” for the photo, but come on, they HAVE to waive that for kids, let alone ones Cal’s age, right? God I hope so. If we end up on YouTube as Cal is getting molested by the TSA while Page and I are firing off obscenities in the background because of this picture, well…well, that would be awesome.
Do NOT let this child on your plane.
So yeah, big weekend. Not to sound too corny, but with all of those milestones, plus my future flashing before my eyes at the mall, I definitely was thinking a lot about the next few years, fatherhood, etc…
And then I pissed my pants a little.
And no, that’s not a first.
Jake
p.s. Honorable mention: Ford requesting (demanding) ice cream for the first time. Not that this is a big deal at all, but he called it “ass cream.” “I WANT ASS CREAM!” he yelled over and over before we finally caught our breath and gave him some. We’re horrible parents.
We’re baaaaack. You remember us, right? The obnoxious, over-sharing, overly-dramatic Fehlings? Yeah you do.
We’re dusting off the blog and tweeting some more. Or at least trying to. Don’t worry, we fully plan on making another post like this in a few months re-re-introducing the blog and talking about how dedicated we are to posting and reminding you how funny it is all over again. Again.
To get things (re)started this time, we offer you a review of the Asheboro (N.C.) Zoo. And for you “Sports Guy” fans out there you’ll appreciate this…I went all Bill Simmons and kept a running diary. And away we go:
6:58 a.m.: Cal crying. Awaken. Swift heel into my right hamstring tells me my wife would like me to handle the wake-up process this morning. I swear, she has to be a blackbelt in under-the-cover back heels.
7:27: See first weather report. No bueno. On and off rain all day. “Mostly on,” says the forecaster as if he knew that I would eventually write the previous sentence. I’m discouraged and want to push to Sunday. Page’s parents – Susan (aka “Swen” to me, “Danny” to the grandboys) and Dennis (aka “Big D,” “D,” “Grandpa D,” “the Diesel,”) – both offer a look of, “don’t even think about it, we’re going.” I flash back a look of, “why are we flashing looks at each other but not speaking?”
8:52: Inform Page about the diary idea. “Cool,” she responds. Translation: You’re an idiot, but if it keeps your nose out of meaningless fantasy box scores, I’ll take it.
8:53: After checking if coast is clear, plunge nose firmly into previous night’s fantasy box scores.
9:00: Load the Diesel’s electric wheelchair into the minivan. Five minutes earlier Page had asked me to “grab D’s wheelchair and put it in the car.” She failed to mention it was electronic and weighed roughly as much as D himself. I somehow manage to make the transfer, while also ensuring myself a purchase of one such chair in the near future. As a sidenote, D’s back is in rough shape (say a little prayer this week, folks, as he goes in for surgery), so the wheelchair is a necessity. It’s also awesome.
Where do I sign up for one of these?
9:03: Pack into the minivan. I’m driving. D is riding shotgun. Swen is bookended by the sparkies in the second row. Page is wedged into the single seat of the third row, spooning both the double stroller and the wheelchair. She definitely drew the short straw. Let me take a minute here to again recommend minivans, people. They may not be sexy, but re-read this paragraph so far. This thing carried a Fehling, three Crawford-Fehlings, two Crawfords, and two massive stroller/wheelchairs. Suck it, MDX owners.
9:04 – 10:37: I can’t diary-log and drive, so suffice it say that Ford spends this time yelling back at Page, alternating between “Tia” (Spanish for aunt) and “Mudder” (redneck for Mom). Can’t put a price tag on that randomness.
10:38: Pick up pieces of Ford’s exploded head following his seeing three life-sized elephants staged just outside the entrance.
10:40: Unload van and wheel our way to the Africa entrance of the zoo. You get to pick what side of the zoo you want to enter: Africa or North America. Moose, bison and elk or monkeys, elephants and rhinos, not to mention the only-for-a-limited-time albino alligators? It’s a no-brainer. Africa, baby.
Click here to get yourself in the proper mindset. (And then click here for the hell of it. One of the funniest stand-ups ever).
10:40: First “Man, it’s hot out here” comment from Page. For those of you that took the over at 17 seconds on Page’s hot weather complaint line, sorry, you missed. By 15 seconds.
10:41: Toto’s “Africa” playing at the entrance. Gonna be a good day.
10:41: “…I bless the rains down in Africa…”
10:41: Look at the sky. Ominous. OK, so maybe this is gonna be just an average day.
10:45: D sets the pace in his wheelchair. We literally can’t keep up. Cal doing the Titanic routine on his lap. Clubhouse “having fun” leader is Cal…by a huge head.
10:47: Buying tickets and notice more fake animals. Hmmm. We are going to see some real wild life here, right?
10:48: Cal makes first groan/stretch/reach/whimper/shift move in his seat. Rut roh.
10:54: Mind blown (again, for Ford). After you make it through the entrance there is a small courtyard, you veer slightly to the left, the trees open up and you come face to face with about four giraffes, six zebras and a flock (?) of ostriches. Boom. Just like that. I’m a grown man and I was impressed. Ford and Cal are little, ungrown men, and I’m pretty confident they filled their diapers. This also marked the debut of “OH NO!” from Ford, which instantly became his zoo catchphrase. Whether it was animals, the bathroom or umbrellas (spoiler alert, they eventually make their way out), Ford greeted everything with a hearty and high-pitched “OH NO!” While it somehow never got old for us, it had to have been riding the nerves of each and every other person there into the ground. I’m pretty sure I saw a family flee to North America at one point to get away from the walking broken record.
As a side note, let’s just get it out there that as into it as Ford was, Cal might as well have been at Target. He was generally having a good time, but it wasn’t as much for the elephants et al, as it was for doing things like “being strolled around” and “crapping his pants just to mess with his parents.”
11:03: Elephants. More OH NOs. This zoo thing is pretty legit.
11:11: Walk by a “jungle helicopter” display. Ford does his now patented, whimper, run away scared, grab a parent’s leg move. Let me get this straight, bud, you’re good with the elephants and zebras but a parked, mini helicopter scares you? I’m not quite sure what to think here.
11:13: What’s that smell? That would be Ford and Cal. With clean diapers. Didn’t know it was possible for kids under 3 to have B.O. Looks like the zoo is rubbing off on them. Literally.
11:15: Walk under a mist machine. Great, except for the fact that I already have major swamp ass and the mister shooting up from the ground got me right where I didn’t need to get got.
11:17: Rhinos and antelopes. Kind of. Whereas the earlier exhibits had the animals in a relatively small area, there were ACRES of land for these guys. Whoever did their contract knew what they were doing. “Are they napping rhinos or a collection of boulders?” We still don’t know. Tough to discern from 40 clicks.
11:22: Luke Scott Orioles shirsey sighting!
11:24: D stalls and tries to restart his wheelchair on an incline. Nearly had a man overboard situation. While it normally would have been funny, we all remember that his back hurts worse than my swamp ass, so we keep moving.
11:25: Wheelchair breaks down. Too much weight on an incline, apparently. We free him of Cal. OK, now am I allowed to laugh?
11:26: “MONITOS!!!! (MONKEYS!!!!) OH NO!” I feel like I’m at the zoo with Pitbull and Lil’ Jon. I blurt out, “WHOA KAY!!!” in response. Somewhere Lee Trevino is shaking his head silently.
11:40: I am being told the albino gators are to be called “swamp ghosts.” Seriously? I counter with “how about freak shows?” The zookeeper is not amused.
Booooooo!
11:42: Baboon boner. Finally, a juicy diary entry. Page and I exchange a silent look/understanding that yes, this is funny, but we need to be responsible parents. Another monkey enters the frame, approaching the aforementioned aroused monkey. Something is happening…something inappropriate…something I really shouldn’t write about. Page and I are flanked by two families who, to our sheer delight, decide to make this a learning experience.
Family 1 parent: “Look kids…hehe, I think he peed on that other monkey.” What’s sad is that she really thought that that was what was happening.
Family 2 parents: “Oh snap, those monkeys are f%*&##*.” OK, maybe there was no F-bomb, but you get the point. There was no sugar coating here. I’d like to think that Page and I offer our kids a bit of a hybrid of these two families, trending more closely to number 2. I hope.
11:46: A couple of really weird displays. 1. Something that I can only really describe as a fake botanical explosion and 2. A massive painting of a unicorn. Did I mention we’re currently in an aviary? I’m lost.
Ford gets horned from behind by a fake unicorn. In an aviary. At a zoo. Moving on.
12:04 p.m.: First pit stop of the day. Diapers changed. Cal tries a changing table routine that Michelle Kwan would have struggled with, while Ford runs pantless through the rest area screaming about hairy monitos and hairy Dada. Sigh. Yep, get used to it, kiddo.
12:14: Leave aviary to double-back to the lions. Pass the monkeys again, or rather, where the monkeys were when we entered. No monkeys. They’ve all taken shelter. Take a look at the sky. “Threatening” would be only a slight understatement. Monkeys 1, Humans 0.
12:16: “I WANT TO DUNK IT!” I look around and see nothing even close to resembling a ball or hoop. “I…um…want to dunk it too, Fudge.”
12:20: Gorillas. Highlight of the trip. One giant gorilla sleeping in the center of the exhibit. Ask Ford and Cal to trust us that the snoring, hairy, black mass in front of them is a huge gorilla. A couple of yawns are all I get in response. Seconds later, the heaping mass rouses, turns and walks straight at our 20’x12’ glass peephole. He apparently has had enough of the fishbowl routine. We all subconsciously slowly back away from the glass. He walks right up to it, stops, and then in one motion does a 180 and sits down, back against the glass. Phenomenal. Try this view on for size, ladies and gentlemen. Ford and company lose their mind over the performance and right when we think we’re having the time of our lives, Swen notices a foot-long crack in the bottom corner of the glass…
12:22: 30 adults and 7 strollers flee the gorilla exhibit…
12:22: …as it starts to pour.
The lasting image of one of the all-time great power moves of our generation.
12:24 – 12:32: Lions and lightning and lemurs, oh my.
12:33: Find shelter at the lone restaurant in Africa. Wolf down $56 worth of chicken fingers and fries. Finally found the catch. I’m told that we could have brought our own food in and picnicked. I slap the person that tells me this.
12:34: As if on cue, Ford and Cal start to self-destruct.
3:02: Pull into the driveway. Happy. Satisfied. Relieved. Beaten. Saving you the details from the last two and half hours, because they were pretty brutal. Tears, whines and demands for sixth and seventh readings of “Curious George Goes to the Toy Store.” And that was just from Dennis.
So here’s how we’re going to rate this thing: five categories, scales of 1-10. The categories are:
1. Is it educational?
2. Does it wear them out?
3. Can you fit it in before meltdowns ensue?
4. Enjoying for the kids?
5. Enjoying for parents?
The Asheboro Zoo was strong. Real strong. Here’s where it checks in:
1. Educational?: 7. Definitely. Learning about animals, their habitats, etc. is always good to know. Not a ton of hands-on opportunities, but learning that monkeys get aroused just like us is really helpful stuff.
2. Wear them out?: 7. Sure. Simply because of the time elapsed. Ford ran most of the time so he was completely done by the time we stopped for lunch. Cal was just antsy. He’s always good for a nap, though, so he gets an N/A here.
3. Fit it in?: 5. Not so much. We only did Africa. Even if the weather would have held, we probably still would have bailed. 2-3 hours is about all these kids have in them. On the other hand, we are now technically left with a completely new zoo trip. I can’t wait until I tell the kids that we’re going back to North America!
4. Kids dig it?: 10. Are you kidding me?
5. Parents?: 8. Page and I hadn’t been to the zoo in years. Come on, it never gets old seeing giraffes and white alligators. OK, fine…the baboon is worth an extra point. Let’s go 9 here.
TOTAL: 38
So there you have it. A 38. Highly recommend. Next review: Playing Wii at home in the manroom while your wife watches the kids.
Yeah, so maybe we got out a little over our skis with this blogging thing. Who knew that with two kids under two we wouldn’t have any time to blog about, um, having two kids under two. Blogging takes more than :27 seconds, which, as any other (insane) 30-something couple with kids knows very well, is about all the time you have to do anything. Seriously, anything at all.
So…we’re taking this baby(ies, literally) to Twitter, where in :27 seconds you have just enough time to hammer out the requisite characters that convey the madness that is consuming you at that moment. Did Ford just throw a sweet potato fry at an 85-year-old woman at lunch today? Did Cal’s upteenth bowel movement of the day just blow out into his white pants? Tweet, tweet.
You can follow us @ThePreggoPage, and if you aren’t on Twitter, no worries, as we’ll be including a Twitter feed here on ThePreggoPage.com.
So we know it’s not news anymore, but yes, all 10 pounds 5 ounces of Calloway (“Cal”) Beck Fehling is finally here! And, um, the dude is a tank.
If you haven’t heard the delivery story, it goes a little something this: Blew past Saturday due date…went to doc on Monday morning for check…scheduled us for a Tuesday delivery, checking in Monday night…came home, got some work done, psyched each other up…check-in to hospital…start the “pit”…insert epidural…head starts peeking out…doctors realize that Page is about to birth a linebacker…Dad pushed to the sidelines…head out…then shoulders…doc and nurses yell “holy $hit!”…Cal pops out looking like he just crushed a Thanksgiving spread.
That was May 11. About two weeks later all is well at the Fehling household. As I type this Page is watching Oprah on DVR while attached to the rhythmic hums of the booby trap, er, breast pump. I can’t wait until we’re done with this whole having kids thing so I can beat that thing down a la the copier in Office Space. I’ve already picked out the background music for it.
Ford is starting to figure out that the “crying lump from the hospital” is going to be a permanent fixture at April Place. The first couple of days were…well, this picture pretty much tells the story:
We have been desperately trying to teach Ford the word “gennnnnntle,” and he’s starting to get it, but he’s still averaging about 4.6 pimp slaps to Cal’s face a day. He’s coming around…slowly but surely…baby steps…ba-dum-ching. I’ll be here all week.
We have been overwhelmed by family help and gifts and trays of lasagna. We can’t thank everyone enough. We will, however, be excited when it all calms down, so that Mommy and Daddy can have a few minutes of “us” time again. Hell, we had a PG make-out session in the third row of the minivan the other night – while it was parked in the garage – because we realized we pretty much hadn’t even held hands since we left the hospital. We felt like we were in high school again…that is, if we had two kids, a combined 80 extra pounds and a minivan in high school.
And so life with Cal begins. He’s eating and sleeping like a champ, and man, how about that head of hair. Right after he was born the nurse came in to give him a bath and afterward gave him a killer Mad Men-esque part to his hair. Minutes later Cal had seduced her, started chain smoking and launched a brilliant ad campaign for Rex Hospital.
First of all, the title of this post comes from a rather awkward moment at Page’s OB the other day. Our 5,391st appointment of the last three weeks was over, and we were walking out past a collection of docs that up to that point I thought had a good sense of humor. They asked how it went, and I replied “they told us to hurry up and wait!” Well, apparently I had forgotten the one simple rule of “no one gives a $hit about you, Dad,” and the response to my witty retort was blank stares and a collection of eye rolls. Good lord, ladies, so sorry for speaking. Page thought the silence to my comment was high comedy so she tried to stifle a laugh. I panicked, kind of half-stopped walking by them, and, like an awkward toaster at a wedding, tried to fill the dead air. What came out was even worse – “Yeah, um, that’s what they told us to do….” Wamp waaaaa. So awkward. Page lost it. I think even Ford was laughing at me.
So, yeah, we’ve been to the OB a lot lately. About three weeks ago Page’s BP shot up, and it was a Friday (no inducements over the weekend), so all of the docs went nuts. “Let’s rush her to the hospital,” they screamed (yes, screamed), “her BP is through the roof!”
No kidding, Page and I thought, we just broke our necks to get to you on time, yanked a flailing 15-month-old from the car and high-stepped it up a flight of stairs. Usain Bolt would be winded after that. So the solution is to send us to the hospital. We jet across the street to Rex where Page is hooked up to the chill machine – reclining bed, steady beeping of the monitors, TV, comforting nurse. Bingo. BP down.
A few weeks, probably 10 check-up visits and one due date later, it’s time. This morning they scheduled us for inducement tonight. Crazy, right? I’m about to be a father to two human beings. Somehow this can’t be legal.
And it couldn’t come a moment too soon. Page and I have been two walking figures of lame since that first hospital run. That, and I’m not sure if we could handle any more advice about how to ramp up the labor process…or having our collective cervix checked. Sorry…that would be Page’s cervix.
Alllllrighty then.
A few observations from the past three weeks:
1. The list of things to do to bring on labor is, we have discovered, ENDLESS. Spicy food, sex, jump on a trampoline, speak Russian, speak Russian backward, play backgammon, thumb wrestle, watch a Washington Nationals game. We’ve heard it all. And guess what ladies and gentlemen? None of it works.
2. Page and I are shattering the record for consecutive lame Fridays. Seriously, Friday nights have turned into the most boring night of the week for us. This past Friday, for example, we had all intentions of watching a movie on the On Demand cable movie channel. 37 previews later, not only had we not decided on a movie (and never did, for the record), in the time it took to watch those previews, we could have taken in the Godfather Trilogy. From there we kind of wandered around the kitchen muttering, “so…what do you want to do?” as if we could just head downtown for a beer. I know, I know, where can I sign up for a night of fun like that, right?!?
3. When you know the sex, the nicknames are much worse. The first time around we didn’t know if it was a boy or girl, so names like, “The Flinglet” and the now famous “Fudge” were born.
This time we know it’s a boy, and better yet, we know who he is – Cal. Best nickname in the clubhouse? Drum roll…….Calbert Cheaney. The former Indiana star and Blue Chips extra…and NBA retread. Seriously, we call him that. I mean, yeah, wow. Lame.
4. Knowing that a delivery could be “any day now” for 21 straight days will turn you into Bob Vila. If Cal did come three weeks ago, I can’t imagine what our house would have looked like. Now, I’m not saying we’ve added a bathroom in that time, but Page is sufficiently nested and I’ve done really important things like put a kick plate on the front door, tighten our light switch screws and touch up the paint in the garage. OK, so yeah, we’ve been bored (see #2).
And that’s just to name a few…
And the end of the day, the onset of bambino #2 has been much more of an adventure than Mr. Fudges debut. Both versions have been unforgettable in their own way, though, and we can’t wait to welcome Cal into the world. For now, though, we wait. The hospital – which also doubles as Time Warner Cable apparently – has asked us to “hang out” from 6-9p and wait for a call to come in to get the ball rolling. The whole thing seems bizarre, but it’s kind of nice. I got to plan a run, pack, shower and type this post.
Weird to think that in less than 24 hours, Cal will be here…and I will be responsible for him. Shnikees.
It’s the timeless debate that every growing family struggles with…
I’m thinking something like this (not red though, people):
While Page is still hanging on to something like this (not necessarily a Yukon, but you get the picture…also, for fun, imagine this SUV fading into other lanes, the rumble strips, double-parking, etc…sorry, Page):
We need thoughts, advice…help!*
*Page informs me that we could very well have 15-20 more kids after Cal, if that helps in the decision making process.
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