So I was sitting in my chair, wallowing in self-pity and watching the Olympics while scrolling through Facebook. Every other post in my newsfeed seemed to be about the horrible school shooting in Florida. I had actually, and unfortunately, seen a video taken from inside the school, showing dead, bloodied bodies lying on the floor. Innocent young people. Beautiful children. I didn’t know it was going to be so graphic and was not expecting what I saw. It gave me goose bumps, and then tears welled up in my eyes. Those were someone’s children. Someone’s little girl. Someone’s pride and joy. Someone’s son who went to school, just like he did every day, but then never came home. My Lord.
I was feeling sorry for myself. And I didn’t like that feeling. But it’s hard. My body, although slowly healing from my accident, feels as though it’s betraying me daily, by not being able to do the things I’ve taken for granted for so long. It hurts my pride. I’ve always been strong and tough, slowed down by very little. So this is humbling, and as hard as I try not to, I sometimes do feel sorry for myself. It’s not a flattering look, I’m sure. But I’m human and I’m tired and I hurt and I’m mentally exhausted.
And in the same breath I looked over to see my girls. My healthy, safe girls. They weren’t sick. They weren’t hungry. They weren’t burdened with heavy, unfair problems that many children in our country, and in others, have to deal with. They weren’t lying dead on a white tile floor, in a classroom where they were just moments before laughing and talking with their friends and classmates. They weren’t taking cover from a mentally deranged psycho who’s just looking to cause pain. They were lying in their beds, watching stupid YouTube videos and laughing. Emma looked at me a little bit funny when I hugged her a little tighter and for a little longer than usual that night before bed. I realized that, yes, I’ve got my problems. My life isn’t perfect. My family has all the same problems as any other family. But at the end of the day, there’s really only one thing that matters to a parent. That truly matters. My kids are safe. They are healthy. They are warm and fed. And all of a sudden, my problems don’t seem quite so bad. They’re still problems, but they don’t seem quite as heavy as they did before.
Right then and there, I closed my eyes and prayed sincere, heartfelt prayers for every person who was affected by the horrible, unnecessary, and pointless violence passed down by this domestic terrorist. I prayed that God would give those sitting at home that night—who were not as fortunate as I was, who were not listening to their children argue and laugh—a sense of peace and help them find some tranquility in this horrible tragedy. And then I thanked him for my beautiful, healthy family and asked for forgiveness for my selfishness. A sense of peace washed over me as I realized that although my problems do exist, I was safe in his hands, and everything was going to be all right after all. Amen.
Siblings
“Your brother and sister are the closest relations that you have in this world. You’ve got the same blood running through your veins. They should be your best friends.” Good grief. How many times did I hear this growing up? Verbatim. Too many times to count. This is what my dad said to my brother, sister, and me each time we had an argument, a fight, or a disagreement of any kind. He said it. Every. Time. And I bet he laughs when he reads this, and he will read this, because he stalks my writing. He reads my Facebook page from my mom’s Facebook page since he doesn’t have one, and then he checks out the local paper’s obituaries to see if he knows anyone who died. Every single day. He’s a man of routine, which I love. He passed along that trait to me.
My sister is four years older than me, although she absolutely loves that I am generally thought to be the eldest of my siblings. And my little brother is six and a half years younger than me. So we are fairly well spread out. Yes, I am the middle child, to no one’s surprise, I am sure. And there is a ten-and-a-half-year gap between my big sister and little brother. So, basically, every time my dad made the statement above, he was talking to me. It was either directed at me and my sister, or me and my brother. Because Shannon and Sky never fought. So I heard this. A lot.
My mom and dad did an excellent job of instilling in us a love of our siblings. We are all well into our adult lives now. Shannon has two fantastic boys with her amazing husband, Justin (who has been my brother now for longer than he wasn’t), and my brother, Sky, and his lovely little bride, Ashley, have a little girl named Becka and a little boy named Hayes. April and I have our three girls, and we are all one, big, close-knit family. Shan and Sky are my best friends. If something good happens, I want to tell them. If something bad happens, I want to tell them. But like most brothers and sisters, this wasn’t always the case. Things weren’t always sunshine and rainbows.
Sure, I always loved them. And they were always my best friends. But sometimes I kind of wanted to kill them. Sometimes, probably even more often, they wanted to kill me. Or at least hit me really hard with something, in the face. Actually, they both did hit me really hard in the face, on more than one occasion. Sky hit me with an aluminum baseball bat while I was lying on the floor reading the comics in the paper, and also once with a curtain rod. Actually to be more accurate, he threw a curtain rod at me and stabbed it into the top of my head. He also came into the room once wearing his spurs, and only his spurs, and spurred me in my lower back. Which did not feel awesome.
And then one time Shannon was walking down a gravel driveway, barefoot, and for some reason I had a walking cane, and I thought it would be a really funny idea (and it was) to hook her ankle with the cane. But it made her step funny onto a rock and hurt her foot. She then wheeled around and brought a Butterbean-style haymaker from downtown, making solid contact, squarely in my eye socket. It even made a cool “punch” noise like on the Dukes of Hazzard, when they would punch people. My eye turned really black, and I told everyone at school that a horse kicked a pipe gate while I was closing it and it hit me in the face. I dang sure wasn’t going to tell them that I had gotten my eye blacked out by my sister. To her credit, she did feel really bad about it as soon as it happened. I was a tough little turd, so even though it was a heck of a punch, it hurt my feelings way more than it hurt my eyeball.
There’s a pretty good chance you have a brother or sister or both, or even a few of each. And there’s also a good chance you have had a few fights, or maybe more than a few. I know, too, that sometimes siblings don’t get along, and that makes me really sad for them. Because I know, regardless of anything I have ever done or any fight we may have ever had, that without fail, if I need my sister or if I need my brother, they’ll be there. It is a very good feeling to know that no matter what kind of bonehead move you make—and I have made more than my fair share—they always have my back. No questions asked. Well, there may be a few questions, but they’ll still do whatever I need from them. April says we are abnormal, because we all get along so well. But I love them. And I like them too. I can honestly say that as adults we have never had a fight or really even an argument. I guess we got that stuff out of our systems as kids.
So, as I watch Abby holding Gracee tonight, as I see her kissing her and telling her she loves her, I smile. And when I see Emma read Gracee a story before bedtime and Gracee’s face lights up with happiness when she sees either of them, it makes me feel like we are, at least, doing one thing right. They are great big sisters. They love Gracee with all their might, and that just tickles me pink. For all three of them. I know they will always have each other.
No, they don’t always get along. Sometimes they fight, and we even occasionally have a minor injury or two. But the other day, you know what I said to them when they were fighting? Yeah, you know what I said. I said, “Girls, your sisters are the closest relations that you have in this world. You’ve got the same blood running through your veins. They should be your best friends.” Thanks, Dad.
My Twisted Road to Fatherhood
As you may know by now, I have the most beautiful five-year-old daughter on the face of the pla
net. Ever. My wife will tell you that Gracee has been equaled only on two other occasions in the history of mankind. I’m a very proud, embarrassingly overbearing papa. I can’t imagine ever not wanting her.
But before I met her mother, I was quite adamant: “I’ll never have kids. Period!” And I stuck to my guns for a long time. Friends, family, even strangers would overhear my declaration and say, “Oh, you gotta have kids! You just don’t know what you’re missing if you don’t have kids! Life isn’t worth living without kids!” Ugh. I hated that. I actually still hate it. Mainly because I didn’t ask for their input. Being successful in my career was more than satisfying. However, as it turned out, their unwanted comments turned out to be true.
Here’s the deal. When it came right down to it, the truth is I was completely terrified of kids. I didn’t know how to talk to them. I didn’t know what to do with them. My basic knowledge of children was this:
They’re loud.
They’re dirty.
They’re really dirty.
And for those of you who don’t know me, I grew up on a ranch, way out in the country, so I am no stranger to getting dirty. I do, however, have a rather large hang-up with “people germs.” So when I say kids are dirty, I’m actually referring to boogers and snot and farts and pee and gross kid stuff like that.
But eventually I got the itch. That feeling. Some of you know what I’m talking about. That feeling when you look at a little girl sitting on her daddy’s shoulders as he walks around, or when you see that little boy and his dad playing catch in the yard. “I think I want that.” Wait, what did I just say?! I think I want to be a dad. Holy moly. I started to hyperventilate at just the thought of it. So when I told April I thought that maybe I kinda, sorta, wanted to, maybe, talk about having a baby, sorta, well, I’m not sure she knew what to say in return. So we didn’t really “try,” and we didn’t really not try. Months came and went, and nothing. We didn’t really talk about it. I’d taken a new job in Texas, and the girls were still in Oklahoma finishing up their school year. Life was busy, and April and I weren’t trying, but we weren’t not trying.
One morning April was acting really funny. She was being really quiet in both texts and on the phone, and I kept asking what was wrong, to which she replied, “Nothing.” Okay. I know enough about women to know that when they say “nothing,” it usually means “something.” And I wasn’t going to stop until I found out. I also had a pretty important meeting that day. I had to do a presentation to our CEO, CFO, VP, and to a boardroom full of others. The meeting was fairly long and boring, and I was still slyly texting her under the table trying to find out what the “nothing” was. Finally, she’d had enough of my nagging and texted a picture to me—a positive pregnancy test! She just sent a text. While I was in my meeting. With the CEO and thirty others. I was pretty new at this job, having only been there a few months. Men, temporary insanity is a real thing. I had an out-of-body experience. I heard nothing. My brain just went into a state of constant white noise. Stunned. Shocked. I had no brain activity. Only a dazed, blank stare.
Now, I’m losing my mind, y’all! My heart is racing at a rate that cannot be healthy. My hands are shaking. I’ve got goose bumps and I’m sweating. Still not paying the least bit of attention to the board meeting. That’s when I hear, “You want to go ahead and give your opinion on this, Stoney?” What?! Is this a practical joke? Are there hidden cameras in the room? Surely they aren’t talking to me right now. But I look up, with what I can only assume is the dazed and confused look of Forrest Gump being asked to do applied mathematics. I have no idea what they are talking about. I don’t even know what subject we are talking about. I’m lost. I’m frazzled. I’m white as a ghost. And now I’m on the spot. Thirty sets of eyes bearing down on me. Unforgiving stares. It’s a defining moment in my life, and I don’t know what to say. Finally, I see some friendly eyes. Oh yes, I know him! He’s my friend! I’m begging him with my eyes, Please help me! He understands and asks the question again! Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus. He asks me a question that even in my temporary mental state, I can answer, albeit stuttering and in run-on sentences. I think I pulled it off! I look around the room to semisatisfied faces. Heads are nodding like “Hey, this Stamper guy’s really got it going on.” I did it! I didn’t get fired!
I look back down at my phone, still on the picture that had caused my near-death experience, and then it starts all over again. I’m going to have a baby! We made a human person! How crazy is that? I need to tell somebody. Anybody. I need to hug April. She’s six hours away! An innumerable amount of questions and fears are running through my head, all at the same time.
And then I hear it again. “Stoney, why don’t you go ahead and do your full presentation to the group.” I’d be lying if I told you I remembered any part of that speech. I have no idea what I said. I’m going to assume I sped through at a pretty quick clip, but other than that, nothing, nada. At the completion of the meeting, the CEO, who happens to be my friend, says, “Dude, what in the world was that all about?” All I can do is show him the picture. He smiles from ear to ear and offers his congratulations.
Although I can’t remember many things that were said that day, I will never forget the sequence of events that led up to the greatest thing I have ever had the opportunity to do. Be a daddy. But do your baby daddy a favor. And trust me on this. Don’t rock his world until after his presentation. He’ll appreciate it.
A House Is Not a Home
Several years ago, April bought me a small sign for my office that reads “Never be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.” I can’t imagine a more fitting adage for yours truly. I spent a dozen years doing precisely what that small wooden sign told me not to. I spent all my time, all my life, chasing the almighty dollar. I was so consumed with becoming successful that I never even realized my life was passing me by. But thankfully, one day April came along, bringing two little girls with her, and they changed my world. They changed everything I thought I knew about life. And they also introduced me to what would become my favorite simple pleasure—coming home.
Let me back up a little bit. I grew up in a great home. We were your normal little happy family of five from middle America. We had a three-bedroom, two-bath house just across the pasture from both sets of grandparents. Aunts, uncles, and cousins lined both sides of Murphy Road in both directions. We were a close family, and Murphy, Oklahoma, was our place.
It’s funny what you remember from where you grew up. When I think of our little house, even though I haven’t lived there in twenty years, I can still hear the screech of the woodstove doors as my dad loaded it up with firewood before we all went to bed. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’d hear my mom try to open the stove quietly so she could add more firewood without waking anyone up, but those doors weren’t having it. They’d screech loudly, no matter how hard you tried to be quiet.
And if you went into the bedroom I shared with my brother, you could look at the trim around the doorframe and see how tall I grew every year from the time I was six years old. Nearly every good memory I have as a child happened in that house. No, in that home. My parents worked very hard to give us a happy home. And they nailed it. Looking back on it now, it wasn’t the nicest house I’d ever been in. It had its quirks. It had this ugly blue linoleum in the kitchen and dining room for years. The toilet made some really funny sounds. And we didn’t finish the back patio for a long time, so it had concrete blocks stacked up to the back door doubling as steps. The funny thing is, I didn’t notice any of those things as a kid. I only notice them now, looking back. It never crossed my mind that it wasn’t the nicest home in town, because, to me, it was perfect. My safe place. My happy place. And still, to this day, when I think about my home, I think of that little brick house on Murphy Road.
I left that home for college in 1997, and other than a brief stint after college, I never really went back. I began
my own journey and lived on my own. I lived in college dorms, a nice duplex on a golf course, an apartment on a lake, and then finally, I bought my first house. It was a small farm just around the corner from my parents and grandparents, a cute little house I was proud of. That year I also took a new job that required me to travel—a lot. It was not uncommon for me to be gone 250-plus days per year, a schedule not very conducive to any kind of home life. My “life” was spent in airports, hotels, and the driver’s seat of rental cars. It wasn’t long before I sold the farm and moved again. My next move found me in a beautiful condo on a Florida beach. From there, I moved to Richmond, Virginia. I bought a beautiful house in a little town outside of Richmond named Midlothian. It was in a great neighborhood with good people all around. The house was beautiful, and I was proud of it. But as I’m apt to do, after about five years there, I got the itch, packed up, and headed back to Oklahoma. Another beautiful house. But as with all the others, there was something missing. They were beautiful houses. I made many improvements on them, built new decks and patios, put in new tile floors. I liked the houses, but I never loved them. I never had the feeling that I had when I was in that little brick house on Murphy Road.
My First Rodeo Page 3