When We Met - Shey Stahl Page 0,1

and when your girls want a blanket nailed to the ceiling, you do it. Why? Because they will drive you insane until you do it. Also, there’s a good chance I’m a pushover.

Sev cries harder, tears rolling down her bright red cheeks. “Help!”

“Shhh. You’re gonna wake your sister.” Pressing my fingers to her lips, I try to untangle her from the mass of blankets she’s somehow twisted herself into as she squirms. “You’re fine. Why are you crying?”

“I gots to pee!” she yells. Sevyn Rae Grady… she’s dramatic. You can probably tell that by looking at this kid full of pissed-off energy. Everything is a big deal. And she’s 100 percent my clone. Spitting image from looks to personality.

I try to untangle her, but she’s wrapped up like a damn burrito. “How’d you get like this?”

She jabs an angry finger at the top bunk and then kicks it for good measure. “Sissy.”

I grab her leg softly, shaking my head. “Stop that.”

My girls, they do not get along. Girl fights? They happen daily here. I have a brother, Morgan. I don’t remember fighting with him like Camdyn and Sevyn fight. They’re vindictive, catty and everything pisses them off. They’re also unforgiving. Sev could have done something to piss Camdyn off two months ago, and she’ll remember it for the next year.

If Morgan pissed me off when I was little, I peed on his bed. And when Morgan was pissed at me, he punched me. Done deal.

Girls? So much drama. Maybe it’s because they’re close in age, I have no idea. More than likely it’s because you could not have two more opposite girls. Where Sev is the devil hiding behind curls, and sweet when you least expect it, Camdyn is the angel with horns under her halo.

I don’t know a damn thing about girls. I was raised by a cowboy who had no time for drama. He taught us you get up before the sun rises, tie your boots tight, and push it to the limit. If your hands aren’t bleeding, you aren’t working hard enough.

Sev stares at my face when I untangle her, blinking slowly. “You not know what it’s like to be trapped.”

I stare at her, blinking slowly like she did. “Oh, but I do.”

She has no idea what I’m talking about. Smiling, I haul her over the top of me. With little feet scrambling, Sev runs to the bathroom. I’m thankful she’s potty trained because I’m over the diaper days. I hated them.

“Did you flush the toilet?” I ask, helping her up into the bed.

“No.” Of course not. Back in the bed, she sniffs, rubbing her nose. “I can’t breathe.”

Rolling my eyes, I tuck her back in, only to have her toss the blanket off again like it’s a personal insult. “Breathe through your mouth, Sev.”

“I can’t,” she cries again. This drama queen spends a lot of time crying. “My body not work like that.” She sniffs dramatically to prove her point. “I breathe wif my nose.”

The sad part is she honestly believes this. She also thinks she has two throats. One for eating, one for talking. I haven’t corrected her yet.

She holds my hand in hers. “Sleep, Daddy.”

There’s that cute pout I was telling you about.

I sigh because that translates to me sleeping with her, which I do about three nights a week. Never, ever let them sleep in your bed. You’ll never get them out of it. Did that for a year, and I decided they’d taken over every other part of my life, I needed one place I had to myself. My bed. And let me tell you, there hasn’t been a girl in that room in a long time.

You know those parents who say—and I was one of them—that said “oh, I can’t wait until my baby can do more things. They’ll be more independent.” Keep fucking dreaming. It will never happen. Sure, they’re independent in the sense that they sit up without falling over and you don’t have to wipe their ass quite as much, but when they want something, they will pull out that cute pout and make you feel like if you don’t give in, your heart will break in two. Toddlers are the ultimate con artists, and the art of manipulation is a quality they possess.

My advice to anyone thinking of having kids?

Wear a condom.

You are welcome. Best damn advice you’ve ever gotten, huh?

Don’t believe me? Look at my six-foot frame squeezed into the bottom bunk with a poster of