With that little jab, I said, “Okay, girls, we’re running late. We’ve got to go!” We rushed out the door and headed for my truck. Abby never uttered another word to me, and Emma didn’t stop talking all the way to school. I dropped Abby off right as the bell was ringing, but Emma was a few minutes late. Right then and there, my immaculate record of promptness came to an end. I called April and told her, a tad disappointed in myself. She laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it. It won’t be the last time.” Boy, how true that statement turned out to be.
Being on time is now some distant memory of a faraway time. Abby is eighteen now, Emma is fourteen, and Gracee is five. And of course, there’s April. With the four of them, things that were once so simple, like going out to dinner, are now much more complicated endeavors. Even the most casual settings call for a fresh change of clothes, makeup, fixing hair, and most likely, changing clothes. There’s always the potential for screaming, the possibility of crying, and the probability of one heck of a big pile of laundry. Usually one of them, if not all four, can’t find their shoes. But over time I guess I’ve mellowed a bit. These days, instead of getting too stressed out about it, I just laugh as I watch them run through the house.
Nowadays, when Emma asks, “Stoney, do I match?” I tell her the truth. “No, honey. You don’t match at all.” But she doesn’t really care because she’s going to wear it anyway. Because I’m just a guy. And guys don’t know if you match or not. At least that’s what Abby said, and I’ve learned a thing or two from her. And I’m still learning.
People Germs
Iwas born and raised on a large quarter-horse ranch in northeastern Oklahoma. Getting dirty was just a given. Fixing fences, cleaning stalls, doctoring horses and cattle—it was all just a part of a normal day. I went to college on an equine scholarship, where, among other things, I became a certified AI technician, which means that on any given day, you could find me shoulder deep in the nether regions of a cow, horse, or pig. No, AI does not stand for “artificial intelligence.”
I can do all those things and never bat an eye. I guess because they seem part of my DNA, I don’t even hesitate. Getting dirty while working the land or handling my farm animals doesn’t bother me one bit. But here’s the kicker. People germs? They make me want to bathe in acid. I do not like touching people. Adults, kids, doesn’t matter. I hate it. And public bathrooms? Good grief, don’t even get me started.
Case in point. I recently had to use a gas station restroom. I drive a lot for my job. And drink loads of coffee. Yes, do the math. I found a station that looked clean enough, and since I was about to pee my pants, I decided to give it a try. Mistake. This bathroom only had an electric hand dryer in it. Not an automatic hand dryer, mind you, but one with a button you have to push. I did not want to touch that button. It looked filthy, and wet. However, I couldn’t leave my hands wet, nor could I use toilet paper to dry my hands. You’re probably wondering why not, right? Well, I would have felt even more disgusted touching toilet paper that had been sitting in the dirty bathroom than touching the button on that hand dryer. I know, weird. But that’s me.
So I washed my hands and pushed the nasty button with my arm so I could dry them. But when I touched the button with my arm, it felt totally gross and skanky, so I then felt the overwhelming need to wash my hands, and arm, again. Back at the sink, I washed to the elbows like I was getting ready to perform an actual emergency appendectomy. But of course, I was still in the predicament of how to turn on the hand dryer. This time, I tried to use my cloth-covered shoulder, but there was a problem. This button was one that you just touch, and it uses the body heat from your hand, or some such sorcery, to turn it on. And my clothed shoulder didn’t have the magic.
Reluctantly, I tried to use my elbow, and it worked. The dryer came on. And I felt fairly certain that if I were to hold my wet hands in front of my face, and blow as hard as I could with my own mouth and lungs, I could’ve dried my hands more quickly. Also, when the dryer started blowing, it put out a horrible, sulfuric smell, which made my hands feel dirty all over again. I knew I had to get out of that bathroom. I turned to leave, and of course the door had a knob, and it had to be pulled open and not kicked open like a SWAT team would, which is exactly what I felt like doing.
I untucked my shirt so I could use my shirttail to grab the doorknob and open the door. Just as I twisted the knob and unlocked it, a dude from the outside hit the door like a Spanish fighting bull, and the doorknob touched my bare belly. And the door touched my cheek. IT. TOUCHED. MY. CHEEK. Shock. Horror. Mayhem. Pandemonium, and whatnot. I rushed as quickly as I could from the restroom to my truck. It was time for total damage control. I bathed myself in antibacterial gel. My hands, arms, and face. And stomach. It burned my eyes and a cut on my hand, so I knew it was working. Then I drove straight across town about fifteen minutes to this big, nice gas station that I knew had nice, clean bathrooms, with the zigzag entrances, automatic faucets, and Dyson Airblade hand dryers. And I washed my hands. Ooh, I washed my hands. And it was glorious.
Unfortunately, this is just one example of the countless stories in my life that end eerily similar to this one. My germaphobic ways were completely manageable when I lived all by my lonesome. I could line my boots up under the stairs just the way I wanted. I could vacuum every night without fear of disturbing someone or waking them up. I could wash my one plate, my one fork, and my one glass, and put them right back into my cabinet. My world was a neatly folded, perfectly kept environment (and lonely).
For someone as particular and completely anal-retentive as I am, moving three women into my house was about the most traumatic thing that could have happened. I can only imagine how unbearable I was to live with those first few months. My neat little world had been turned upside down, and I had no idea how to handle it.
Where I had once found clean countertops, I now found spilled Kool-Aid, bobby pins, and strands of hair. Where I had once seen shiny and clean bathroom floors, I now found an unimaginable pile of little girls’ pants and underwear and socks and towels. Where there had once been a clean kitchen sink, there was now a plate filled with food, just left there. The things I have seen, the messes I have cleaned up, the chaos that is raising children, was something that I could never have planned for. But as God knew and I’m learning, it was exactly what I needed.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I still lose my mind from time to time. I still use antibacterial gel like it’s going out of style. I wash my hands every thirty minutes, all day long, often until my knuckles are raw. I still lock the front and back doors three times before going to bed. I still tap my toes three times into the bottom of my boots before putting them on. Because hey, I’m still me, and I’m still a little odd. Actually, I’m a lot odd. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go wash my hands.
Dad Talk
Ilove being a dad. I really do. That’s a super hilarious thing to hear myself say. And I’m sure anyone who has known me for any amount of time thinks it’s even funnier than I do. But I do, I love being a dad.
For years I swore I’d never have kids. I was certain of it. It just wasn’t the direction I imagined my life would ever take. My friends were parents, also my sister, my cousins. I watched them interact with their children. I saw them doting and swooning over every little thing. Every silly smile, raised eyebrow, burp, or giggle would bring about a round of applause not unlike what you might expect to hear during the encore of a Led Zeppelin concert. The adoring oohs and aahs and laughter of the approving parents were sweet, for a minute. Sure, they were proud. Sure, they thought their kid was the cutest kid on the planet. And the smartest. And the most athletic. I guess that’s just human nature.
I just didn’t understand this behavior. Sure, they were cute kids. I would briefly play with them or aggravate them. I liked to make them laugh. But the first hint of a cry, or a snotty nose, or a poopy diaper, and this boy was out. I wanted nothing to do with it. I have
a horrible confession to make. Don’t think badly of me, okay? When people look at newborn babies and say things like “Oh, he’s so cute; he looks just like his daddy!” or “Oh my goodness, she’s so precious; she looks just like her mama!” or “She’s got her daddy’s nose” or “Look at that little dimple when she smiles. Just like her papa!” Okay, seriously. I don’t see any of that. I try, I really do. I look at them, and I grin and nod my head. But I don’t see anything like that. All I see is a little squashed-up face with wrinkly skin and a bald head with no teeth. I suppose they look more like my ninety-year-old granddad than anything. But I can’t really say that unless I want to be disowned and banished by pretty much everyone.
There were few things I was certain of in life, but I was sure I’d never become one of those embarrassingly proud daddies who gloated over a child’s every move. Or so I thought.
Fast-forward a few years. April came along, with her two beautiful daughters. I took the whole mess of them under my wing, and I never looked back. All of a sudden I was a dad. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe it. I found myself in laughable situations that were unfathomable only a short time before.
Suddenly, I was at the American Girl store, surrounded by thousands of dolls and giddy, squealing little girls. Several hundred bucks later, I found myself outside on the sidewalk wondering what had just happened. I found myself on the sidelines at a peewee football game, cheering on my own adorable little cheerleader, just praying that today would finally be the day she won the spirit stick. I found myself taking them to haunted houses, to the mall, and to little-kid movies. But it didn’t stop there. Oh, no.
I believe being a parent brings out the best in people. It makes you want to be better. It brings out a whole other side you didn’t even know existed. And yes, it brings out the completely goofy. You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? Because your kids make you act goofy too. It’s okay, you can admit it. It brings out the goofiest in all of us. Think about it. Think about holding your little baby above your head, looking at his or her smiling, toothless face. What would you do? What would you say? I’ll tell you what you would say. You would say, “Shmoopy-poopy-dooboo! I wuv you, wittle baby doll! You’re such a beautiful wittle baby booboo!” Or something very similar to that. I guarantee it.
Here is a prime example of just how goofy my own child can make me and of the silly things I say that I never dreamed would escape my lips. The other day we went to our friends’ house for their daughter’s second-birthday party. There were little girls everywhere. Dolls, balloons, cupcakes, and toys all over the place, as is usual for a second-birthday party. Or so I would assume. I guess this was actually the first time I’d ever attended a second-birthday party.
Anyhow, the girls and their mothers stayed out on the patio, went swimming, and played around in the yard while the dads sat inside and watched the Sooners / Tulsa Golden Hurricanes game. We talked about football; we talked about teams’ defenses, their offenses, overrated teams, underrated teams, and who we thought would end up in the playoffs this year. You know—man stuff.
As we sat there talking about all of those “manly” things, our daughters would enter the room for a few minutes, only to turn and run back out again. It wasn’t until the night was over that I began to think about some of the things we’d said when our daughters burst into the room. Our conversations were borderline ridiculous. Here is an excerpt from our football-watching/man-talking/daddy-daughter conversations:
Man 1 (to his daughter): Honey, do you need to go pee pee? Do you need to pee pee? Let’s go pee pee.
Man 1 (to us): We’re going to start potty training soon. INTERCEPTION! Did you see that? Great play!
Man 2 (to his wife): Hey, Mom, do you know where Hadley’s LuLu is? She really needs her LuLu and her bop-bop, and then I’ll put her down for a wittle nap.
Man 2 (to us): GO DEEP! Did you see that sick block? He totally laid him out!
Man 3 (that’s me): No, no, Gracee. No. You need to sit on your bottom or you’ll fall and hurt yourself. Thank you; that’s a good girl. Oh, those are sweet kisses! Smoochy smoochy smooch smoochy! (And then I swooped her up in my arms and kissed and nibbled and blew zerberts on her neck while she giggled the cutest giggle that has ever been giggled.)
Man 4 (to everyone): Hey, does anyone know where her Binky is? We’ve got to find it, seriously. We don’t find it, then stuff is about to get real. No, she doesn’t like that one, the nipple is too small. We’ve got to find the other one. TOUCHDOWN! I think it was a really good move putting Blake Bell over into the tight-end slot. You know he’s going to pick up three or four yards on every play.
So apparently this is just how we talk now. Pee pees and Binkies and LuLus mixed in with football and the occasional cussword. Dad talk. It’s a real thing. If you’re a young dude out there reading this right now and you’re thinking, This is all just so silly. That will never be me. No way. Not a chance, then I say—you wanna bet? Yes. Yes, it will. You will be powerless over it. Don’t feel bad, though. It’s taken down the best of us. But guess what else? You’re going to love it like nothing you’ve ever known. I’ll bet on it.
Don’t Tease the Llamas
So, in the summer of 2012, the girls had finally gotten moved down from Oklahoma, once school was out. It was a fairly traumatic thing, moving them away from their home, their school, and their friends and family. Not just for Abby and Emma, either. April had quite a bit of adjusting to do as well.
To try to make the move as easy as possible, I was pretty much willing to do anything or go anywhere if I thought they might enjoy it. So when I saw the sign for Cherokee Trace Drive-Thru Safari, I knew immediately it would be a pick-me-up, that it was something all my animal-loving girls would enjoy.
So one hot, muggy Saturday afternoon, we made the thirty-mile drive south of Tyler to this drive-through zoo. I’ve been to one of these before but not since I was a little kid. Frankly, there were a few traumatizing events that happened back then, so I’m not sure what it was that made me think this time would be any different.
But I was so happy that the girls were finally with me in Texas, and I wanted to see them laugh, smile, and be happy. So we checked in at the office, I paid our entry fee, I bought us each a bag of food, and we made our merry way into the happy land of goats, deer, deer, goats, a few cows, some ill-tempered Sicilian donkeys, goats, deer, buffalo, and maybe a few pigs. And some goats and deer. Seriously, it was mostly goats and deer. I promise.
However (pause for dramatic effect), there were also some llamas. This changed the entire tone of our time together because I believe that llamas are stupid, sorry, no-count jerks. I realize that sounds very judgmental, but I don’t like llamas. I just don’t.
As we approached the “llama area” in my brand-new truck (did I mention my brand-new truck?), three animals quickly perked up, looked in our direction, and came hurriedly toward us at a high lope. The girls oohed and aahed over the cute little llamas. “Oh, look at them!” “They are so cute!” “Look at their ears; they’re so big!” “Look how long their eyelashes are!” “Oh, I’m gonna feed them!”
I have always been pretty good at doing funny voices, so I began to talk in a voice I felt a llama would use, just saying silly things that would make the girls laugh. And man, were they laughing. I felt great! They seemed to be having such a fun time! They seemed to be so happy! Way to go, Stone!
As the girls began to feed them, it was easy to see there was definitely an alpha among the three, and as is often the way with alphas, he was kind of a jerk. He made a funny hissing noise the girls thought was “so cute!” He pinned his ears back and would stick his head through the window to get the food. Having been around horses all my life, I can tell a surly animal when I see one. And he definitely was. I told them to be careful. I told them he was about to get ignorant. But no, no one listens to me. I’m just their chauffeur and arm candy.
When he came around to my side of the truck, I rolled my window up, because I’m smart. Even with being heckled by all the females in my brand-new truck, I would not roll it down. I said, “Girls, that llama’s not playing! I’m telling you, he’s getting ready to throw a fit!” To which April replied, “Oh, quit being such a baby!” My lovely wife would pay for this silly remark. Unfortunately, we would all have to pay for it.
Alpha llama began to butt his head against my closed window, yet still no one heeded my warnings. He went around to April’s side and hissed. So as you might expect, she gave him some food. He took it and hissed again. I said, “April, darling, I am begging you, please roll up your window!” To which she replied, “He’s just playing, Stoney!”
As soon as April said “just playing,” alpha llama unleashed the most disgusting combination of bodily functions and bodily fluids that have ever been combined on this earth. It was a massive conglomeration of a gassy, belching cough that was filled with slimy green whatever-is-inside-a-llama. I know that’s gross, but that’s what blew in my brand-new truck. Then, to top it all off, alpha llama let out a hair-raising scream at the end. All of this, no more than three inches from April’s face.
In an instant, we went from laughing and having a blast to experiencing one of the worst days of our new lives together. That horribly gross green stuff I mentioned in the last paragraph? Yeah, it was all over the inside of my windshield, all over my dash, and it covered my rearview mirror to the point that I couldn’t see anything in it. My GPS screen, yep, covered. Steering wheel, check. Sun visors, check. My plaid khaki golf shorts? Slimed. I could feel it on my face, my neck, my ears. Everywhere. You may recall I’m a germaphobe.
All this time, April had her hands over her face. The girls were in the back seat, laughing as if they had just witnessed something from America’s Funniest Home Videos. April uncovered her face, and I couldn’t really get a grasp of her emotions. I think she definitely wanted to cry. But I also had the feeling she thought it was pretty funny, even as the gross green stuff dripped from her hair.
My First Rodeo Page 8
