Groupon: 2 kids, $20

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.