My First Rodeo

by Stoney Stamper

  This is the point in my story when April and the girls come in. April and I had known each other since childhood, had reconnected, started dating, and then later decided to get married. April had two daughters, so I was now going to be a family man. And a good family man can’t travel 250-plus days per year. So April and I discussed our options. I had an offer for a great job that would allow me to stay home, but it meant relocating—to Texas. After lots of talking and prayer, I took the new job in Texas. Yes, it was a terribly difficult decision to move our family, but ultimately, we felt it was best for us. April found us a new house, one with seven good acres, a four-stall barn with a tack room, and a nice-sized arena built out of solid pipe. That sounds great, huh? Well, yes and no. The house was a fixer-upper. Fences needed to be built, and the barn needed new siding. But once we were done with it, the value of the property doubled, at least. To us, it was worth the sacrifice.

  For several years we put as much sweat equity as we could into that house, and it turned out pretty nice. At the very least, I stopped feeling embarrassed to have company over. But most important, it was in that house I began to sense the one thing I had been looking for, for more than twenty years. When I walked through the door at the end of a long workday, I set my briefcase down, and our youngest daughter, Gracee, would run to me with arms wide open. Abby and Emma would tell me funny stories about their day, and April would stand at the end of the line, waiting to give me a kiss and welcome me home. Man, there’s no better feeling on this earth. And yes, that’s right. I said home.

  Life in a Small Town

  Igrew up in the small town of Locust Grove in northeast Oklahoma. Last time I checked, the population was around fifteen hundred people, and I doubt that has increased much over the years. Picture in your mind a small rural community. You’ll likely envision a narrow main street lined with some barber shops and beauty salons, a burger joint that serves some of the world’s best ice cream, a bank, an insurance agent’s office, and probably an auto mechanic’s shop or two. You’ve pretty much just described Locust Grove to a tee. Quaint, friendly, nosy, helpful, caring, and supportive. You like how I snuck nosy in there?

  I love my hometown. Most of my favorite memories in life go back to that little town. From the annual Founder’s Day Parade, where the whole town showed up to celebrate with live music, old cars, and Indian tacos, to Charlie’s In-N-Out store, where I would walk to buy candy or a Dr Pepper in a real glass bottle. Charlie knew the name of every person in town, and watching him expertly flip the coins into the air from the cash register to give you your change made him epically cool. On to Twin Bridges that crossed Spring Creek, where the water was so painfully cold that you couldn’t breathe for nearly ten minutes after jumping in. And then Low Water Dam, where we’d steal away as teenagers to build bonfires. And on occasion we’d drive out even farther to Phillip’s Lounge, where we’d pick up the dad of one of our friends, a dad who’d had a few too many drinks. It’s like that line from “Small Town,” the song John Mellencamp made famous: “No, I cannot forget where it is that I come from.”

  Looking back on my childhood, there are so many great things about growing up in a small community. But as a kid, especially as a teenager, it didn’t always feel like a good thing. Especially if you were a kid who tended to get into mischief, which I just happened to be. Secrets in small towns tend to spread like wildfire. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone is usually kin, either by blood or by marriage. If you want to do something you don’t want your mama to know about, you’d best go out of town to do it. Even better, completely out of the county—and even then, there are no guarantees that your secret is safe. I once got a little out of control in Oolagah, Oklahoma, over an hour away from home, and my mama knew about it before I got back to the house. My second-grade teacher was my dad’s high school girlfriend. My Future Farmers of America (FFA) instructor was my dad’s best friend since childhood. This was way back when a teacher could paddle you without giving it a second thought. And I certainly got my fair share of paddlings. There was an unwritten understanding between my parents and the school. If a Stamper kid needs some licks, spank his butt. My FFA instructor took this very literally. And he enjoyed it. He would call my dad in the evenings at home, and they would laugh about it. It’s hard to imagine this happening these days, even at a small school like Locust Grove.

  When I graduated high school, I headed to Miami, Oklahoma, to attend Northeastern Oklahoma A&M College. After two years there, I moved on to Stillwater, Oklahoma, so I could fulfill my dream of becoming an Oklahoma State Cowboy. After college, I begrudgingly went back to the ranch for a couple of years, but I wanted something different. Something bigger. Something more exciting than what little old Locust Grove could provide. I wanted to get out of the town that only had Ranch House Pizza, Cook’s Restaurant, Country Cottage, or Jerry’s Dari-Ette as dining options. I didn’t want to have to drive an hour to go to a real city where I could shop in real stores, eat at real restaurants, or watch a real movie. I wanted more. I knew something more important, more real was waiting for me out there somewhere.

  In 2004 I got my chance. A friend of mine had just bought a new manufacturing company in the Florida Panhandle. He called and asked to meet up to discuss my working for him. I discussed it with my dad, who wasn’t very excited at the prospect of my moving that far away from him, so we decided to price myself high. If my friend wanted me bad enough to pay some big bucks, then I’d gladly take them. So I sat down with my friend, told him what it would take to get me to move everything I owned, and my dog, to Navarre Beach, Florida. I named my price, and he quickly asked when I could start. Hot dang, I thought. It’s really going to happen. I’m leaving Locust Grove, finally. My parents, brother, sister, and her family waved goodbye as I drove away.

  Remember in the opening scene of Perfect Strangers when Balki Bartokomous gets on the wagon headed for New York? It was kind of like that. Except I was in a truck and not a horse-drawn wagon. And I’m not from Mypos. But like Balki, I was setting out on my journey. I was going out to find whatever it was that had been calling to me for all those years. So I pointed that Dodge truck east and headed toward Florida. It was a very surreal feeling, leaving everything I had ever known, every comfort, headed toward a town in the Panhandle of Florida where I did not know a single solitary person. I felt excited by the prospect of living somewhere new, seeing new things, meeting new people. A real life. But I also felt something else, something I didn’t expect. Even though I was so excited about the adventure that lay ahead of me, I also felt an unexpected hint of sadness, although I wasn’t exactly sure why. I was where I wanted to be. I was doing what I wanted to do.

  Fast forward about fourteen years, and I still haven’t made it back home to Locust Grove, although I’m certainly closer now than when I lived in Florida. Having a wife and kids now, I’m responsible for raising girls. They go to a good school in Texas, but it’s big. Instead of forty to sixty kids in their grade, they now have four hundred. It’s minutes away from the nicest restaurants, the best shopping, and a half-dozen movie theaters. There are a lot of people in town that I don’t know. Heck, I don’t know most of them. And even though the convenience of living in a bigger city is definitely a plus, I find myself wishing for my girls the small town life that April and I had the privilege of growing up with. That’s right. I said privilege. But there’s a verse in the Bible about getting everything you want but losing yourself. I understand that verse now.

  When Mama’s Gone

  Some people just seem born to be parents. They just fall effortlessly into the parenting routine as though they’ve been doing it all their lives. The feeding, burping, diaper changing, bathing, and getting these tiny little people dressed in their itsy-bitsy, impossible onesies with buttons, zippers, and flaps out the wazoo can be unbelievably overwhelming. Yet some of these superparents seem to perform these daily challenges as easily as Simone Biles doing a cartwheel.

 
; I was not one of these people. I was thirty-three years old when Gracee June was born, and since she is my only biological child, I had never tackled even one of those previously mentioned parental duties before March 29, 2013. Gracee came along and I was lost. Scared. Confused. You name it, I didn’t know how to do it, any of it. But as time went on, I changed countless diapers and made thousands of bottles, and soon I became a fairly able-bodied caregiver for my little munchkin. But it wasn’t without some major speed bumps. There were days when I wondered if God second-guessed himself when he thought I could one day be a dad.

  One of those days occurred on May 16, 2013. Yes, I remember the exact date. I relive the whole scene in my mind often. It was the Thursday after Mother’s Day, and for her special day I bought April a spa package at a local salon. She was to be pampered with a manicure, pedicure, and massage. The whole works. It was completely her day. Gracee was only six weeks old, and for the very first time I was going to keep her at home, all by myself. You caught that last phrase, right—“all by myself”?

  From day one, Gracee and I have had this amazing connection. I have always felt that I could look at her face and see exactly what she was thinking. Seriously, like the two of us are on some other wavelength. So, on that special first day together, my six-week-old daughter and I began having a conversation. We were lying on the couch, and she looked at me with questioning eyes, and I’m convinced it went something like this:

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy. Where’s Mama?”

  Me: “Well, she’s getting her Queen-for-the-Day spa treatment that you and your sisters gave her for Mother’s Day.”

  Gracee: “Oh, well, that’s cool. Thank you for watching me today while she goes and does that. She really deserves it. Oh, and, Daddy? There’s just one more thing that I wanted to say to you…”

  And then Gracee projectile vomited straight up into the air.

  It was astonishing, like a puke fountain at the Bellagio. It covered her face and hair and eyes. It was in her ears, all over her clothes, and all over my clothes and arms. The volume was impressive considering she’d only eaten about four ounces. At this point, I jumped up and got her to the bedroom to start getting that stuff off her face and hair. I took her clothes off, wrapped her up, and headed to the kitchen for our first solo bath. I figured I could do this. I’d seen April do it dozens of times. So I placed her on a towel on the counter, and she was all happy and smiley. And for a few seconds there, I truly thought everything was going to be okay. I really did.

  I started clearing breakfast dishes out of the sink while I held my hand on Gracee’s belly so she wouldn’t roll off the counter. And then my sweet six-week-old daughter began communicating with me again, what I refer to in retrospect as the “Hey, Daddy” deluge.

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy, what’s this little plastic rack with all my bottles on it? I think I’ll throw it so all the bottles and nipples loudly crash on the floor. Hey, Daddy, all those bottles flying around and banging off the tile floor for no apparent reason? They just scared me really bad, so I’m going to scream real loud now for a while.”

  Me: “No, baby, don’t scream. Please don’t scream. I’m just trying to get the water to the right temperature for you. Please don’t scream.”

  Gracee proceeded to scream her lungs out. Finally, the water was dialed to the right temperature, so I peeled her diaper off, picked her up, and proceeded to ease her down into the water. But then, at the last second, I decided that the water was a tad too warm, so I held on to her and tried to cool it down just a bit.

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy? I’ve really got to pee.”

  And then she peed, all over my T-shirt and belly. I quickly set her down into her little bath chair thingy and started running the warm water over her. She smiled so pretty at me.

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy? I love baths. They make me so relaxed. I think I’ll go ahead and make a poop.”

  Me (pleading again): “Please, Gracee, no!” (But like that Ray Stevens song about Ethel and the streak, it was too late.)

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy? I feel much better.”

  To make a long story just a bit shorter, I grabbed the three different kinds of baby soap by the sink and, just to be safe, we used all three of them. I scrubbed her up really good—lather, wash, rinse, repeat, and then we were done. I looked around. We survived. No one was hurt, nothing broken that couldn’t be fixed. Yeah, that’s right, easy as pie.

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy? You did good.”

  I felt deep within my bones that I pulled out a win. A huge win. Then, with a smug look of victory on my face, I glanced over at the clock on the wall. April had only been gone thirty minutes. She wouldn’t be home for at least another three and a half hours.

  Gracee: “Hey, Daddy?…”

  The Only Certainty

  It was a gorgeous spring evening in East Texas, and my little family was enjoying our first taste of nonwinter weather in months. The temperature was perfect, there was a gentle breeze coming out of the north, and the sun was beginning to slowly sneak down behind the trees in our backyard. I was having one of those moments. You know what I’m talking about. One of those moments when everything in life just feels perfect. Everything was in its place. I had no stress about work, no worries about money, nor was I fretting over the long list of things that needed to be done around the house. Instead, something very uncommon occurred. Something that is truly very rare in my life. I was at peace. I felt calm. My busy, crazy, anxious mind found a brief moment of wonderful solace.

  I looked around proudly at my family and my home. The older girls, Abby and Emma, were running through the green clover in the pasture chasing each other and laughing as their mother watched, smiling from the porch swing. Then my gaze focused on my beautiful blue-eyed toddler, Gracee. Only a few weeks had passed since her second birthday, and she is the apple of her daddy’s eye. A true sight to behold. Gracee’s eyes caught mine and she smiled, and then in the most adorable southern belle voice I’ve ever heard, she said, “Hi, Daddy.” And just like that, my heart nearly burst wide open. How could I be so lucky to be blessed with this life? Why in the world did the good Lord see fit to give me this little piece of paradise?

  Then, as if Gracee could hear those peaceful thoughts running through my head, I watched helplessly as she raised a chubby little hand to her lips and, staring me dead in the eyes, put a big, fresh, wet pile of chicken poop into her cherubic mouth. Panic quickly replaced my blissful serenity. “Gracee, nooooo!” I yelled. But I was too late. The damage had been done. I stared at her blankly, in shock at what she’d just done. She grinned at me, smacked her lips a few times, giggled, spit what remained into her hands, and instantly wiped it on her shirt. She then looked at me and said, “Eeeewwww, Gracee. No, no!” After all that, she laughed and laughed as she walked away, as though absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

  I wish I could say that was the first time something like that had happened. But that would be a lie. A big lie. Because the truth of the matter is something like this seems to occur on a near-daily basis. Countless times in the last seven years have I been completely horrified by something I’ve seen or heard these girls do.

  Having lived a long time with no children, I led a very clean, neat life. I tended to be fairly uptight, and according to my nephew Joby, “Stone’s got lots of rules.” But that was then, and this is now. And “now” is a house filled with girls and their beautiful mother and hair bows, cheerleading, bobby pins, smelly shoes, and science projects. In a baptism of fire, I was forced to learn what it means to be a parent. My approach to life is always be a student, always be learning. So I read every parenting article I could find online and pored through countless books on the subject. Topics included “How to be a good stepfather and earn their trust” and “Teaching your kids to be well mannered and kind and confident.” Tall orders, huh?

  But it was Albert Eins
tein who once said, “The only source of knowledge is experience.” And I have found that to be especially true when it comes to being a parent. No matter how hard you try, some things just simply cannot be learned without experience. Sometimes things happen and absolutely nothing in the parenting manuals, articles, or videos will ever prepare you for that moment, like when your one-year-old daughter smooshes an entire plate of refried beans and rice in her hair. Or when she breaks wind in a restaurant and informs the entire restaurant of what just happened.

  The only certainty I’ve come across in parenting is that you never know what’s going to happen next. Parenting is one big pile of uncertainty, so to speak. And once you’re done being disgusted, flabbergasted, and/or embarrassed, you’ll usually smile quietly to yourself and think, Wow, I never saw that coming.

  I Fought the Mall, and the Mall…

  I’m a good gift giver. I’m not bragging or anything. I’m just saying, I’m amazing, maybe the best ever. Maybe that’s bragging a little. But I pay close attention to the things the recipient of my gift wants, and then I plan and shop for the best deal, well ahead of the special day. It’s a wonderful, thoughtful process.

  No, no, no. That entire first paragraph is a big fat lie. I don’t do any of that stuff. I wouldn’t say I’m the worst gift giver in the world, but I definitely leave a lot to be desired. I may have an idea of what someone may like, but there’s no way I plan it out early. And I’m just as likely to pay double what something’s worth than shop early and get a good deal.

  Of course, when it’s the day before your wife’s birthday and you’ve got nothing, worries about cost go straight out the window. Your only focus is having a good gift for her birthday. Four hundred dollars for a purse? Sold! I can’t speak for all men, but I’d gladly pay four hundred dollars to stay out of the doghouse. But maybe that’s just me.