My wife’s birthday is February 11. And the older two of my three daughters, Abby and Emma, wanted to give Mom their own presents, ones they picked out, in a store you have to drive to, and neither of them could drive. Now, I’d rather get in a bare-knuckle bar brawl with Mike Tyson, circa 1985, than go to the mall. But that particular year I’d put it off as long as I could. So on the day before April’s birthday, as much as it pained me to do it, I picked the girls up from school and, with the bravery and courage of a kamikaze pilot, headed to the mall.
Excitement oozed from their pores as we pulled into the parking lot. There was nonstop giggling and talking. “Dad is taking us to the mall! This is so much fun! We’re going to spend all his money!” As we walked in from the parking lot, I established the ground rules. “Okay, girls. Stay together. Do not run off by yourselves. We aren’t here to shop for you. Let’s find some presents your mom will like, buy them, and get out of here as quickly as possible. We all clear? Okay. Ready. Break!”
Before we even got into the main section of the mall where all the stores were, I could tell my ground rules were going to be very hard to enforce. Emma took off at a near run. “Emma! Get back here!” I screamed, as she headed directly into a fancy jewelry store. I had nightmarish visions of broken glass and thousands of dollars of damage as my energetic little blond-haired tornado whirled around from one display to the next. I rushed in and escorted her out. “Emma,” I said. “Don’t run off!” She was completely unfazed by my instructions and headed off in another direction. Abby, although older and calmer, looked like a racehorse just before the gates open. I gathered them together in front of the food court to reestablish my ground rules and make a plan.
Unfortunately, I chose to do this right in front of Cinnabon. As I was talking, I noticed Emma was having a hard time paying attention. “Emma, are you listening?” I asked. She replied, “Can I please have an Oreo chocolate chip diabetic energy explosion?” (Okay, that’s not really what she called it, but it was something like that.) My knee-jerk reaction was a resounding “No!” But then they teamed up on me. “Pretty please, can we have one?” The flutter of long eyelashes and adorable smiles got the better of me. To put on a smidge of authority, I said, “Girls, you don’t need one of those. They’re big and expensive, and we’re going to eat dinner when we’re done here.” But as you might guess, that was all for nothing. They knew they were getting the two-thousand-calorie milkshake before the words even left my mouth.
So I’d spent fourteen dollars already, and we’d yet to actually do any shopping. It was high time to get down to business. “Where do we need to go first, girls?” I asked.
“Let’s go into Journeys!” they yelled.
“Girls, Journeys only has clothes for girls. Your mom is turning thirty-three years old tomorrow. I doubt there’s anything in there she’ll want.” But much like the milkshake moment, my authority and opinion were ignored, and we journeyed into Journeys.
“Girls, remember. We are shopping for your mother!” They giggled at each other and continued looking at clothes—for themselves. Yes, I was being taken advantage of and realized the only way out of there was with brute force. So I rounded them up and marched them through the doors, both of them looking back over their shoulders. “Hey, there’s the Sunglass Hut. There’s a pair of Coach sunglasses your mom’s been wanting. Let’s go look over there.” The girls were about as excited as if I had just asked them to go do their math homework. I found the ones I was pretty sure April wanted, so I asked Abby for her opinion. She was thirteen at the time, and pretty fashionable. She was also kind of hormonal, and pouting because I’d just embarrassed her by dragging her out of Journeys. I asked again, “What do you think of these?” as I held up the sunglasses. She responded with a less than ecstatic “I dunno.” I said, “What do you mean? These are cool. I think she’ll like them. I’m pretty sure these are the ones she wants.” Abby said, “I don’t like them. I don’t think she will like them.” Only seconds ago, I had been pretty confident about the glasses. Now my confidence was wavering. “You don’t think she will like them?” I was deflated. I thought I had done so well. Abby shrugged. “I’m going to go in Claire’s.” Emma screamed “Yes!” and away they flew.
Well, what now? I didn’t really want to go the gift card route, but I also didn’t want to spend a couple hundred bucks on a pair of sunglasses April wouldn’t like. So with a bruised ego, I bought a gift card and made my way into Claire’s, where the girls were again abuzz with energy, gazing at the wonderland of hair bows, earrings, necklaces, headbands, and bracelets. On one hand, most of that stuff is cheap. On the other hand, it’s mostly a bunch of glittery, sparkly trinkets. I found the girls, each with their own shopping baskets, full of wonderful things they’d selected for their mom. I didn’t think any of it looked like anything April would like. It looked like stuff that nine- and thirteen-year-old girls like. I smelled a conspiracy. But in the daily classroom of “learning to be a dad,” I’ve learned not to argue about it. We got the gift card for the sunglasses, and the girls each had several things to give their mom, just from them.
Hallelujah! The end was in sight. I thought I might just survive the mall after all. I ran a half marathon once, and that was just how I felt when I could see the finish line. My heart was racing. I was filled with adrenaline. My confidence was soaring. And then, as it usually does when Emma and I are involved, disaster struck. Emma dropped her seven-dollar milkshake. It landed hard on the tile floor, and the cup split in half, exploding all over the floor and racks of merchandise. I jerked spastically to try to catch it, and when I did, I knocked over a rack of headbands, sending them scattering across the floor. The lid flew off the cup, and cold, sticky milkshake managed to cover anything and everything in a ten-foot radius. That included me, Emma, and a nice lady who just happened to be standing a little too close.
I looked around apologetically to anyone who would make eye contact. I snapped into action, grabbed some paper towels, and made a miserable attempt to clean up the horrible mess we’d just created. I gave a handful of paper towels to the unlucky but nice lady standing near us and apologized profusely. I paid for our things, quickly, and got the heck out of there before we tore anything else up.
I was then in as big of a hurry to get out of the mall as the girls were to get into the mall when we first arrived. Emma was behind me, trying to keep up, and she suddenly yelled, “Wait! We need to go to Build-A-Bear!”
I said, “Emma, your mother does not want anything from Build-A-Bear. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, she probably doesn’t want any of this junk we got her at Claire’s either, but we still got it for her!”
That is a very good point, Em. Sorry, April. Better luck next year.
The Art of Stepparenting
If you’re reading this, then there’s a pretty good chance you are a parent, were at one time a parent, or you’d love to be one someday. That being said, there’s also a pretty good chance you are a stepparent. According to the Stepfamily Foundation and the US Bureau of Census, there are at least thirty million children in the USA alone living with one biological and one nonbiological parent. That’s a lot of families—and a lot of confused little kids—having to learn to live with, and trust, someone who is not their “real” mom or dad. It also makes for, in my case anyway, some very confused stepparents.
First off, if you are a stepparent, let me tip my hat to you and say “Thank you.” You deserve it. Knowing there are millions of others out there, losing their minds, struggling with some of the same “you’re not my dad” issues I was going through daily, gave me a certain amount of confidence. It’s an “if they can do it, I can do it” kind of thing. I don’t think I am any better than anyone else, but I don’t think I am necessarily any worse, either.
I have two beautiful “step” daughters. That’s what the law calls them. I just call them my daughters. My girls. They are no less my daughters
than my biological daughter, Gracee. I love them, and I would do anything for either one of them. However, it’s been a long, screwy ride to get where we are today. April still laughs at how uncomfortably I acted the first day I met Abby and Emma. I am a fairly capable person. I can generally handle myself adequately, and with confidence, in nearly any situation. Very few things can make me shake in my boots. But that day. That day I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I couldn’t sit still. I was up and down, walking around. A jittery mess. I was terrified. The gravity of the situation, to me, was crushing. Afterward, I realized I was nervous on many different levels.
First, apparently this awesome, beautiful woman that I really liked a lot liked me so much she wanted me to meet her kids. That, in itself, made me get a little shaky. Oh, and she had never introduced a man to her kids before. To me, that screamed commitment, which made me feel like there was a cable clamp around my esophagus. But then I began to think about other things. Like, Okay, I really like her. Love her, even. (Gulp.) But what if her kids don’t like me? Will she still want to date me? That’s heavy. Talk about pressure! I’d had a hard enough time trying to get one woman to like me for any extended period of time, much less three! And what if I didn’t like them?! I know that sounds a little harsh, because they were just little girls, but let’s be honest: some people are kid people and some aren’t. I never had been. Ever. So the thought of really liking April, and the possibility of these kids jacking everything up, was a pretty legitimate fear. And even though others may not admit it, I know I am not the only one who has felt that way.
Abby and Emma are quite different from each other. In fact, they couldn’t be more opposite. First, we’ve got Emma—a blonde with bright blue eyes. She is spirited and wild. The next thing that will come out of her mouth? Well, your guess is just as good as mine. I’d calculate that about 60 percent of the actual words that come out of her mouth probably make their way onto my blog—The Daddy Diaries. If you happen to have an itch to write a daddy blog, well, Emma is a stinkin’ gold mine. I have to write down the funny things she says because she says them so often, I’ll forget them if I don’t. She’s also very outgoing, very loving, and very easy to get to know. She’ll talk to anyone and will tell you all about herself in the first ten minutes you meet her. Not long after we met, she would sit on my lap, give me a hug when I would leave, and when she first told me she loved me, I thought I might pass completely out. As far as making me feel comfortable, Emma did great.
Then we’ve got Abby—a brunette with hazel eyes. And definitely a tougher nut to crack. She has an excellent, very dry sense of humor. She is quiet, calm, and mature for her age, and extremely laid back. Now, don’t get me wrong. She is completely capable of going off the rails of the crazy train, but she is also very cautious. She and her mom have quite the unique relationship, and when I first came along, Abby was scared I was going to somehow affect that. She wasn’t necessarily mean to me, but she was totally and completely indifferent to my existence. She would act like I wasn’t in the room. She refused to look at me and would only speak to me in muted, one-syllable words, and then only if her mother made her. She made me so nervous.
It became my mission in life to make her like me. I mean, c’mon, everyone likes me. Well, almost. So surely I could make this little girl, ten years old at the time, like me. I was determined to make this happen. I tried being sweet. Nope. Not even close. I tried being funny. Nope. She’d go out of her way not to laugh. I tried buying her things, to which she would say “Thank you,” because she has good manners, but nothing seemed to crack through her shell. For months I tried and tried, and I didn’t seem to make any progress whatsoever. It began to really upset me, although I did my best to not let Abby know it. April did try to make me feel better about it, but I was at a loss. She said, “Just ignore her. She’ll come around eventually.” But that was impossible. I couldn’t make myself ignore her. So I just kept trying.
And then one day she came and sat down by me on the couch…
And then she told me a story of something funny that happened at school…
And then she laughed about it and said, “Isn’t that funny?”
And then one night she asked me if I’d take her to Sonic to get her some ice cream…
What I am getting at is that she finally began to trust me, a little at a time. She realized I wasn’t there to steal her mother away from her. Or to steal her things or kill her dog. She realized I just genuinely loved her mom but that I also genuinely loved her. She realized my attitude toward her wasn’t an act but it was who I really was and how I really felt. I was there because I wanted to be. Not because I had to be. And finally, it worked!
So if you’ve been lucky enough, as I was, to inherit some children from a previous relationship, and you’re slamming your head into a wall or something, just hang in there. Just keep showing them that you are there for the long haul. Be nice to them; try not to be too awkward or uncomfortable like I was, because that probably ain’t gonna help a whole lot. But if I could only give you one solid piece of advice, here it is: The most important thing you can do, by far, is show them you really love their mother (or father). Once they see that and believe it, I promise you those kids will fall in line. I truly believe that. Now, I know some of you will have a harder time with this than others, but perseverance is the key. The King James Bible calls it longsuffering. But yes, perseverance sounds a little more upbeat.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we are still very much a work in progress. We continue to have our days when we all want to clobber each other. But that’s how family goes. And perseverance is the key.
Buckle Up, Dad
They (I’m not sure who “they” are exactly) say confession is good for the soul. All right then, here goes. I am a control freak. There, I said it. It feels good to get that out in the open. I like to be the boss. Scratch that. I need to be the boss. I make the decisions. If something needs to be done, I do it. Not in a chauvinistic Ike Turner kind of way. Just an “I’ve got to take care of my family” kind of way. It’s an inherent characteristic that’s built into my DNA, just like the ancient cavemen clubbing saber-toothed tigers to protect their young, although there really aren’t too many saber-toothed tigers running around these days. Not in East Texas, anyway.
My control freakishness has been a relatively good asset to my career. I’ve always been a go-getter who got things done. I’m good at managing my time, and I’m good at prioritizing. I’m exceedingly good at handling upset people and making them feel good and important and calming them down. I’m a voice of reason, logic, and a problem solver. For the most part, I’m respected and well thought of, minus the rare occasion when I feel the need to bluntly set things straight or simply cut ties with someone, which I am not opposed to doing when necessary. Work is relatively easy for me. I’m just kind of built for it.
But until seven years ago, my job was really all that needed managing in my life. I was single with no kids (sounds weird, huh?), so my home life was pretty simple. But then I met April, and she had Abby and Emma, and then a couple years later we had Gracee, and my whole world turned upside down. I soon learned a very important and painful lesson: I may be the boss at work, but I’m not the boss at home. I like to think I am, of course, but the truth is, a flutter of their eyelashes, a pretty smile, plus throw in a hug and I’ll do just about anything they ask. Usually it’s fairly small. Take them to the store. Help them with their homework. Help them with their FFA projects. All things I can generally handle without too much problem. But here lately, there’s been another task added to my fatherly duties, and for the first time, I am not 100 percent sure I am up for the task. For a control freak like me, this is the ultimate test. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, is quite so humbling and frightening as relinquishing control of your motor vehicle to your fifteen-year-old daughter. Never in my thirty-eight years of life has it been so difficult to sit idly by an
d watch someone else do something. And in my truck? You’ve got to be kidding me!
Unfortunately, this is my new reality. My daughter will be old enough to drive soon, and I can either teach her the right way to do it or pay for lots of repairs and an insurance premium that keeps reaching for the stars. So even though my heart was screaming No! my brain was telling me I had no choice. I started Abby off slowly, letting her drive around the pasture. I’d watch as she made slow, lazy circles around the field, and occasionally she’d throw it in reverse and try to back up to something (usually it was unsuccessful). Because I’m old, I didn’t have to take drivers’ education classes, but since it’s mandatory now where we live, April and I got her enrolled. I had this crazy idea that when she was done with her three-week class, she’d be a knowledgeable and competent driver. Boy, was I wrong. So wrong. I’m not really sure what she learned in there, except that a red octagonal-shaped sign means stop. The class did do one thing, though—it made her feel much smarter.
She became a worse backseat driver than her mother. “Stoney, you’re following too close!” “Stoney, you’re speeding!” “Oh my gosh, Stoney, you totally just ran that red light!” That got old, and fast. But still, even after the class, she had no real experience behind the wheel.
That training, my friends, fell on me.
Abby in the driver’s seat of my truck. Me in the passenger seat, sweating bullets. “Okay now, put on your seatbelt. Adjust your seat and mirrors. Okay now, put it in reverse, and back out slowly. Slowly! I said SLOWLY!” That was me before we’d even backed out of the driveway, and she was already going too fast. But then, once we got on the road, she was going way too slow.
“Okay, go a little faster. Whoa, okay, a little slower. Get back in your lane! Oh my gosh, Abby! Stay in your lane!” Then she screamed back, “Stop yelling! You’re making me nervous!” And so I replied, “Well, you’re making me nervous!”
My First Rodeo Page 5