My First Rodeo

by Stoney Stamper

  A ton of water has run under the bridge since then. Abby and Emma have long since accepted me as a dad figure in their lives. Along with the love and comfort we have with each other comes the expectation of the material things a dad should provide for his kids. A few years ago, Abby wouldn’t even tell me what she wanted if I begged her. Now, she asks for everything. I’m talking EVERYthing. And holy moly, all those things are expensive!

  I think back on what Christmas was like for me in the past. Before I had the girls. I pretty much had to get gifts for my mom and dad, and later my nephews, Braden and Joby. A lot of the time, I would simply give my sister money so I could pitch in on whatever she got for them. Christmas wasn’t too difficult, nor was it terribly expensive.

  Until the last few years, I had never heard of a Lalaloopsy doll, a Flutterbye Fairy, a Monster High doll, or a $115 American Girl doll that needed to get her ears pierced and hair done. (It’s a doll!) I vaguely knew what Miss Me jeans were, and Ugg boots and Toms shoes, but I for dang sure didn’t know how much they cost.

  April has always done a great job of providing the girls with the things they want. Still, I like buying the girls things they like and things they will use. Maybe it’s that manly need to provide for my family. I don’t want to spoil them, but I enjoy the fact that I’m able to give them what they need.

  With that being said, when I have spent hard-earned money on something that they “needed” but then never wore it, or never used it, or didn’t even know where in the world it was, my brain spirals off into a realm of frustration words cannot describe. Take, for example, Saige, the American Girl doll that we made a special trip to Dallas for, spent the night at the Galleria Mall for, bought a soccer outfit and a horse for, and who now sits in the closet collecting closet dust. Such things make me question my decisions. I know I’m not alone. I mean, they didn’t build that gigantic American Girl store only off the money they made from me. That place was packed. I spent $250 total. And there were fifty more poor daddies there at the same time I was, doing the exact same thing. Because we love to make our girls happy. We love that look that says, Oh, thank you, Dad. I love you. Even if we spend too much. Then, if only for a moment, it feels like it may have been worth it.

  But I’m learning my best bet is not to focus on the amount of money I have spent on clothes, or dolls, or iPads, or iPods, or shoes. Because when I think about the fact that Emma’s favorite toys are an old wooden set of crutches that April bought for her for ten dollars at a flea market and a cardboard box from a new toilet I had to install in our guest bathroom, well, I have to revisit some of the focused-breathing techniques we learned in our birthing class right before Gracee was born. And when I go into Abby’s closet and find clothes she just had to have that have never been worn and very well may still have the tags on them, then that prescription for antianxiety meds I have sitting in the medicine cabinet suddenly needs to be refilled.

  The very reason for this story comes from our friend. Her name is Alexis. She has two kids, and her daughter Katie is Emma’s best friend. They are inseparable. Katie spends a lot of time at our house, and Emma spends a lot of time at hers. Katie has a remote-controlled dog, and Emma has been begging us to get her one just like it. There’s only one problem: it’s a piece of junk. Alexis says it’s worthless, and her kids never play with it. Even though it cost seventy-five dollars. It was a complete waste of money. You know what Katie and Emma played with instead of the seventy-five-dollar robot dog? A Walmart sack. They slapped and hit a plastic Walmart sack into the air, over and over, not letting it hit the ground. That was the whole game. Don’t let the bag touch the ground! They didn’t need expensive toys. They didn’t need expensive clothes or shoes or anything else expensive. All they needed was a sack!

  With all this new information, my Christmas shopping list just got a whole lot cheaper, and my checking account just got a whole lot fatter. Forget the designer jeans and the fancy toys. Forget the latest iPhone or North Face jacket. We’re going to stock them up with grocery sacks and toilet boxes (or other large boxes, if toilet boxes are not available). Because when it comes right down to it, those are the things that seem to be most important to them. And I like that. Because that stuff is cheap. And I like it when things are cheap. Unless it’s for me, of course. I don’t like cheap stuff.

  The Man with All the Answers

  “Stoney, when was the pocket watch invented?” I shake my head, being brought back into the present with this random question, one of hundreds I’ll undoubtedly be asked this day. I had been daydreaming before I heard the question. I love daydreaming. This time, I was on a hammock, on some remote beach, but there was something peculiar about the scene. First of all, I was alone. That never happens, not anymore. Second, it was quiet. And you’re more likely to hit the Powerball than you are to have any silence in my loud group of five.

  A long time ago, in a galaxy that feels far away, I was a bachelor. My home was meticulously cared for, with a place for everything, and everything in its place. Nothing was ever lost, because everything was always where it was supposed to be. But I admit, my favorite part of living alone was the silence. The absence of noise. You know, like quiet moments undisturbed by the sounds of the Bubble Guppies or Doc McStuffins. Now there’s always talking, screaming, crying, tattling, gossiping, laughing, griping. No matter what, there is always something coming out my girls’ mouths. And most days, I think I handle it pretty well.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I can completely go off the tracks of the crazy train from time to time. But for the most part, I handle their constant buzzing in the background as nothing more than an occasional nuisance. When the girls talk directly to me, they may have to repeat it, because I likely wasn’t listening the first time.

  When April and I married, Emma was a tiny seven-year-old blonde with sparkling blue eyes and an extremely curious nature. When we first met, she wanted to know everything about me. “Stoney, where are you from?” “Stoney, what kind of truck do you drive?” “Stoney, do you have a nice house? Is it two stories?” “Stoney, do you have a dog?” The questions from this little girl were endless. I immediately loved her for liking me so much, but I truly was not prepared for the number of questions she asked.

  The first few times I saw the girls, Emma continued asking one question after another. “Stoney, do you like jalapeños?” “Stoney, why is your house always so clean?” “Stoney, can I play with your guitar?” The stream of questions felt like standing in front of a fire hose with the valve wide open. No mercy.

  One of the more memorable questions came after April and I had been dating awhile. We were on the couch watching TV when Emma dropped this bomb. “Stoney, are you dating anyone other than Mom? Are you gonna be our dad?” Just as calm as she could be, she had just rocked my world. I started to stammer. Now, the correct answer was “No, I’m not dating anyone other than your mother, and oh my gosh, yes, I want to be your dad.” But my nerves got soggy, and I hemmed and hawed trying to answer the question while April laughingly watched. Finally, I answered, and while it may not have been the most eloquent answer I’ve ever given, it was definitely one of the more memorable. And it was the truth. I wanted to be their dad. Oh, and also, I wasn’t two-timing their mom.

  Time has moved on. We’ve added another daughter to the mix. We’ve sure come a long way, but one thing hasn’t changed. The questions are just as prevalent today as they ever were. Questions about horses and tennis shoes and go-karts and show pigs, and don’t even get me started on the homework questions Emma has about math. I’m convinced those math questions are some kind of punishment on the human race, for what exactly I cannot say.

  At this point, I’m willing to bet the questions will never ever end, but I think I’m okay with that. April once asked Emma, “Why do you always ask him questions like that?” Emma replied with full confidence, “Because, Mom, Stoney knows everything.” After I heard that, there’s never a questio
n I won’t answer for her.

  Once again, I’m brought back to reality by her question. “When was the pocket watch invented?” With a quick Google search on my phone, I say nonchalantly, “It was invented in 1524.” Emma says, “See? He knows everything.” Well, maybe with a little help from the internet.

  In the time it’s taken me to write this, my daughters have each come by and asked me a question. I answered each of them thoroughly, and with a smile on my face. Because I know that someday their mama and I are going to be alone in this house. In a very real sense I’ll finally have that quiet I used to crave. And what I expect I’ll find is that the silence is just too much. I’m gonna miss all those questions.

  The Dirtiest Job of All

  Ilove the show Dirty Jobs. Never mind that I have a minor man crush on Mike Rowe. I think it’s really interesting to see all the different dirty, difficult, and odd jobs that people all over the world have. From cleaning septic tanks, to making charcoal, to hauling off dead animal carcasses, he’s done pretty much every tough job imaginable, even if for only a day. But there’s one job that’s left conspicuously off his résumé. He has never been a parent. And I would venture to say that parenting, at least from this dad’s perspective, is the dirtiest job there is.

  Sure, there are books you can read, videos to watch, and classes you can take, but there’s no real way to become qualified, minus having a kid and diving into it headfirst. And while experience is the best teacher, she can be, well, a booger. She has neither mercy, forgiveness, nor compassion, and she has no qualms about letting you fall flat on your face. And even though you don’t have to pass a test to become a parent and I felt absolutely unfit for the work, God decided that me having kids would be a good idea. There was no approval certification, no licenses, no graduation ceremony. I was just thrust into parenthood with zero preparation. And I have left a mountain of dirty situations in my wake.

  My first massive failure as a parent came years before I actually was one. I went a long time with no children of my own, but my nephews, Braden and Joby, gave me a little experience. They are the sons of my older sister, Shannon, and they are great. I loved playing with them when they were small, but I was admittedly not very careful. I’m big and rough and loud, and I play hard.

  One day I somehow convinced my sister to let me take care of them while she went to work at the pharmacy. At the time, they were about seven and nine years old. Our first stop was the Dairy Hut to get some ice cream. Once we were all fully swollen with sugar and energy, we made our way to the local park. We played on the swings for a few minutes, but there was a merry-go-round across the park that was calling my name. It was one of those old heavy steel ones that had sufficient weight to spin you until you puked. They both climbed on. I told them to get a good hold because I was going to give them a wild ride. Braden, the older brother, stood up and held on to one of the pipe handles. Joby, the younger, sat down with one of the pipe handles between his legs, because that was safer, and I was a completely responsible adult, remember?

  So once they each had a firm grip, I began to spin. I mean, I really began to spin. Faster and faster and faster, I pushed until the merry-go-round was a blur. The boys were screaming with laughter, and I felt like the greatest uncle in the world. Then all of a sudden, I noticed Joby had closed his eyes and looked a little ashen. I could definitely see some puking in his future. Just when I thought he would surely blow chunks, he lost his grip on the pipe in front of him, his hands flew above his head, and the momentum flung him backward, with his head landing squarely on the rusty head of an old bolt on the floor of the merry-go-round. Immediately I knew I’d made a mistake, but it was far too late. By the time I got the spinning to stop, Joby’s head was bleeding in only the way a head wound can—down his forehead and all over his hands. I scooped him off the merry-go-round and began to assess the situation. There was so much blood, I was certain his brains must be hanging out the back of his head. I clamped my hands over where I assumed the massive gash would be. And just like Joby, in short order, I had blood running down my hands and forearms. This was years before Carrie’s song, but I was praying, Jesus, please take the wheel.

  My sister worked at the pharmacy only a few miles away. Joby’s bleeding seemed to be subsiding somewhat, so I loaded him into the truck and headed to town. We rushed into the pharmacy looking like something straight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Shannon came from behind the counter in a fervor. I felt like I was seven years old again, with my big sister staring me down like a lioness on a wildebeest. My skin felt as though it would melt off my bones as she glared at me. I’d seen this look before. Many times, actually. And usually when she looked at me like that, it was followed by a solid kick to the shins, or maybe the thigh. And it would hurt. However, once she saw all the blood, her face turned white and she had to sit down before she fainted. The bottom line is, I didn’t get kicked.

  We stuck Joby’s head in the bathroom sink and began the process of cleaning it off. We were finally able to see the huge gash on the back of his head. Wait, what? That couldn’t be the cut! It was a tiny little hole. But it was bleeding so much! Well, we finished cleaning Joby up and washed ourselves off so we wouldn’t scare the townsfolk as we walked back to the truck. By then some of the color had come back to Shannon’s face, which was a huge plus. She even let me leave with her sons once again after we had cleaned Joby’s head up. I took them bowling because that was our original plan, but the hole in Joby’s noggin had given him a headache and a bit of a sour attitude, so we didn’t really have that much fun. To this day, that boy won’t get on a merry-go-round. I traumatized him forever. What a mess.

  By babysitting my nephews, I had already proven I was in no way qualified to be someone’s legal guardian, yet here I am. With three beautiful daughters that I don’t understand. And I never will, most likely. Mike Rowe does Dirty Jobs, you say? Well, la-di-da. I’m a dad. I’ve got snot, slobber, burps and farts, smelly feet, random tumbleweeds of hair floating across the floor, and of course the occasional bloody incident from a cut finger or bopped nose.

  Dads, moms, parents—we’ve got the dirtiest job of all. And as for me, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But listen, when it comes to merry-go-rounds, I’ve hung up my spurs. That was mine, and Joby’s, last ride.

  Waitin’ On a Woman

  The last time I was on time for something? Hmm, let’s see, that would’ve been in August of 2011. You may wonder how in the world I remember that month so clearly, but it’s really pretty simple. It’s because right after that is when I got married. My days of simply taking a quick five-minute shower, getting dressed in three minutes, and getting out the door in ten were over. I was hypothetically stepping off the high dive into the deep end of the pool. I didn’t have a life jacket or an inner tube. I didn’t even have any floaties. And let me tell you something, I dang sure didn’t know how to swim.

  I was drowning. But not in water. I was drowning in women. While most men marry just one woman, I had opted to marry three, sort of. And let me tell you, I didn’t have the best track record with even one woman, much less with three at the same time. So to say I was completely out of my element would be a monumental understatement. This dude was lost. Definitely in love, but lost.

  My family and friends thought it was hilarious. I had always been this meticulously put-together fellow. My home and truck were clean, and I was never late. Never. To anything. But all that changed when I became a husband and dad. My ten-minute routine fell into a downward spiral I have never recovered from.

  Though I’d heard stories from my friends who had daughters, I didn’t fully appreciate them until I had daughters of my own. The clothes, the makeup, the hair products, the hair bows, and the nail polish. And the bobby pins, oh my gosh, the bobby pins! Bobby pins are like small magical paper clips that can take a ratty case of bedhead and turn it into a delightful little swept-back look in a matter of moments. Swept-back look! I�
�m pretty proud of myself right now for even knowing what that is. Anyway, the girls had a lot of stuff. And all of it would inevitably end up scattered across the countertops and floors in the bathroom, and maybe even in the sinks and bathtubs. Not to mention the complete jungle of intertwined electric cords for the curling iron, flat iron, and hair dryer. I can guarantee you, it would have taken an entire group of Eagle Scouts to undo that knot.

  The first time I knew I was in way over my head was one morning before school. In a desperate attempt to connect with the girls, I offered to take Abby and Emma to school for the first time. How hard could it be? Simple, right? All I had to do was get two girls loaded into the truck, drive to the school, and drop them off. Easy peasy.

  No. That was not correct. First, getting them to the truck was similar to herding cats. Especially in the morning. It was mass chaos. Little girls running around with one shoe on, screaming at each other, trying on clothes, then changing clothes and trying on different clothes. Then Abby told Emma, “That doesn’t match!” And Emma said, “Yes it does!” And she came running out of her room and stopped right in front of me: “Stoney, Abby says this doesn’t match, but it does. Doesn’t it?” She was staring at me with those big blue eyes, and I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that no, it didn’t match. It didn’t match at all. But I wouldn’t have hurt her feelings for all the gold in California. So I just smiled and said, “Sure, you look great.” She smiled a big, smug smile and said, “Told you, Abby!” Abby was eleven years old and at the time hadn’t decided if she liked me yet. In fact, she was determined not to like me. With a roll of her eyes and a sideways glance, she said, “He’s just a guy. He doesn’t know if you match or not.”