[title subtitle=”WORDS: Stoney Stamper
IMAGES: courtesy Stoney and April Stamper”]
I was 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 A.I. technician, which means that on any given day, you could find me shoulder deep in the nether regions of a cow, horse, or pig.
I can do all of those things, and really 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. But, here’s the kicker. People germs make me want to bathe in acid. I do not like touching people. Adults, kids, doesn’t matter. I hate it. And public bathrooms, don’t even get me started.
Case in point, last week, I had to use a gas station restroom. I drive a lot for my job. And drink loads of coffee. 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, either, but one you have to push the button on. I didn’t 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. 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.
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 a friggin’ 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 wasn’t working.
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, that 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 think if I’d have asked the gas station clerk to just fart on my hands they would’ve been just as dry, and just as clean. I knew I had to get the hell 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. Oooooh, 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 one whiskey tumbler, and put them right back into my cabinet. My world was a neatly folded, perfectly kempt environment.
But then, something happened. I married a woman who had two young daughters. And then we added another daughter to the mix. For someone as particular and completely anal-retentive as I am, this 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.
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, laying 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 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. But wouldn’t life be boring if it weren’t for all the variety?
I’ve learned that everything in life cannot be planned for. Planning, structure, and keeping everything clean all of the time is a great thought. But what these girls have shown me is beautiful things happen when you least expect them. They aren’t planned. And making messes happens when you let your guard down and allow yourself to stop worrying over every little thing and just love the beautiful life you’ve been given, messes and all.
[separator type=”thin”]
Stoney Stamper is the author of the popular parenting blog, The Daddy Diaries. He and his wife April have three daughters: Abby, Emma and Gracee. Originally from northeast Oklahoma, the Stampers now live in Tyler, Texas. For your daily dose of The Daddy Diaries, visit Stoney on Facebook or on his website, thedaddydiaries.net.
