From Diaper Disasters to Thanksgiving Tailgates: A Dad’s Journey

⚠️ Warning: This post contains unfiltered ADHD energy… proceed accordingly.

As accurate now as it was a thousand years ago, men in the military have often missed the births of their children—sometimes one, sometimes several. I wasn’t any different, though my circumstances were… unique. I was unmarried, young, and convinced that one night of passion had just sentenced me to a lifetime of misery.

My mom had warned me for years:

“Travis, don’t let a night of passion lead to a lifetime of misery.”

Pretty sure she said that to every one of my “bonus brothers” in high school, too.

But I was wrong. So wrong.

Looking back now, Gage Dale is the best mistake I ever made, and I hope he knows how much I love him and how proud I am of the man he’s become.

Since he could walk, I’ve told him his only job in life is to be better than me. So far, he’s succeeding in everything—except cooking. But there’s still time. You don’t get the extra cushion around the midsection as I have without knowing your way around a kitchen.

👶 Fatherhood Hits Like a Freight Train

A few months before my first trip to the Middle East, I flew back to Las Cruces, NM, to meet my son for the first time. Enter Gage Dale Ramsey, born March 9, 2000—my little ball of joy. I missed his birth and met him at six months old. Going from single sailor to full‑time dad the moment I stepped off the plane hit me like a freight train.

I was also home for my dad and Debbie’s wedding. A destination wedding—but not the kind anyone dreams about. It wasn’t Cancun or even the gloriously trashy beaches of Rocky Point. Nope. It was five hours north in the wild west of northern New Mexico. To this day, I still don’t know where the hell we actually were, but Toni and I showed up to celebrate our father’s third marriage. And hey—third time’s the charm. They’re still married.

Our mom—“The Diva”—had recently eloped with Super Dave in Las Vegas, so coming home was… interesting. Breaking down Super Dave’s walls is a whole different story, but he loved our mother, and Toni and I accepted him.

Anyway—see, this is where my ADHD kicks in. One minute I’m talking about last night’s dinner, and the next I’m telling you about the time I fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up to San Diego’s finest firefighters telling me to cover up.

Back to the blog.

Toni and I loaded up her son, Chance (3), and baby Gage and drove five hours north to a retreat near Santa Fe. Shortly after arriving—well after dark—I checked Gage’s diaper bag and realized I had forgotten the other bag. The one with diapers, wipes, formula… basically everything required to keep a baby alive.

This was before GPS. We had paper maps—if you were lucky. And there were definitely no maps for wherever the hell we were. Luckily, our badass dad rallied on the eve of his wedding, drove an unknown distance, and returned with a full supply of baby essentials—saving his grandson and saving me from being arrested for child neglect.

With everything restocked, I thought we were good.

Well… almost.

The formula he bought was iron‑fortified. How the hell were Dad or I supposed to know that was bad? If you don’t know what happens, let me enlighten you: the kid didn’t fill a diaper for over a day—maybe two.

Then, while sitting in a nice Mexican restaurant in Santa Fe just before Toni and I were supposed to hop on I‑25 and drive four hours back to Las Cruces, Gage Dale erupted like Mount St. Helens.

The sound.

The smell.

The look of pure relief on his face.

My baby boy had detonated.

I grabbed the diaper‑changing supplies and went to pick him up. That’s when I realized this wasn’t going to be a typical pit stop. This was a full‑scale hazmat event. Baby poop was everywhere—seeping through his diaper, soaking his outfit, threatening to breach containment.

I scooped him up like a live dirty bomb and sprinted to the restroom. I’m sure the restaurant patrons were horrified, but I didn’t have time to care. Once inside, I had a decision to make: how the hell was I going to clean him, and what was I supposed to do with his clothes?

Like a true dad warrior, I threw away everything he was wearing—straight into the bathroom trash—and gave him a full bath in the sink, splattering baby poop all over myself in the process. What felt like hours later, I emerged sweating, exhausted, and holding a freshly cleaned, sweet‑smelling baby Gage.

Lesson learned: always check the bags before leaving, and always make sure the formula matches what he’s been eating.

🏈 Dad of the Year: Thanksgiving Tailgating & Roadies

In the 2000s, a tradition formed with Dad and Debbie, my stepbrother Clint, Toni, and whichever husband or boyfriend she had at the time, our kids, and friends. We tailgated at Texas Stadium and later at Jerry World. Life was extraordinary on those holidays when I wasn’t deployed and could join the civilians who slept comfortably under the blanket of freedom that people like me provided.

Okay, that’s a joke.

I actually made it to most of those games—and they were a blast.

Like most so‑called “Disneyland Dads,” I alternated holidays with Gage’s mom. Some years I had him for Christmas, other years for Thanksgiving. But whenever I came home from deployment—or was about to leave again—she made sure I had every holiday with him. No arguments, no tension, just a shared understanding that time with my son mattered. We had a rhythm that worked, and she always made sure I got as much time with Gage as possible.

One particular Thanksgiving, a massive group of us were tailgating in the parking lot closest to Oklahoma because Dad insisted it was five dollars cheaper than the one a short ten-minute walk from the stadium.

After our customary posole, games, drinks, and endless trash‑talking, we loaded up for what felt like the longest march to a football game in recorded history.

My best friend—more like a brother—George Michael Frey (aka Fifty Shades of Frey) noticed Gage wearing an oversized jacket. It wasn’t long before Gage was loaded down with what was probably twelve cold beers stuffed into his pockets.

Now, before anyone clutches their pearls:

No, he didn’t carry twelve beers the whole way.

Once we realized how ridiculous it was, we started pulling them out one by one and handing them to the adults, and by the time we got close to the stadium, Gage had no more beers in his pockets. Success!

Gage felt like he was part of a secret mission with his dad and Uncle Mike. And honestly? It was a hilarious, harmless bonding moment.

I couldn’t tell you who won the game—most likely not the Cowboys, given my cursed record watching them live. But what we all remember is little Gage, the portable cooler, and the joy of spending Thanksgiving together.

The only thing more American than that is sharing a hot dog with your kid at a baseball game.

❤️ Lessons in Love and Survival

There are countless stories about my time with Gage, but these two perfectly capture why he might be a little crazy—and how much I’ve grown.

That first trip taught me a lot. Babies are resilient. Even though I thought I was going to kill my child accidentally, I didn’t. I was just overly critical—even when I nearly gave him a full syringe of nighttime Tylenol. Thankfully, I double‑checked and called my sister, who had left me with both kids while she painted the town red.

I never dropped Gage on his head, and he was an awesome baby—rarely cried, except when I was unknowingly poisoning him with iron. That trip was wild, exhausting, and eye‑opening for any single parent. I had Gage for a few weeks and nearly destroyed him twice—maybe more, but who’s counting.

There could be a case for child abuse simply because, like me, Gage was born into being a Dallas Cowboys fan. But unlike him, at least I had the ’90s. Dad—Papa Ty—had the ’70s and the Roger Staubach days. For that, I am guilty. But hey, better than being a Bears or Eagles fan. The only reason we hate the Bears is simple: Uncle Levi Christopher Smith.

Gage and I are still close to this day. He actually likes me, and I like him. It’s pretty awesome when your kid is fun to hang out with. We’ve traveled all over the world—Thanksgiving in Poland, summer in Hawaii, a week in Mexico, questionable nights in Nashville, San Diego summers, exploring our nation’s capital, and countless other adventures.

I often tell him he’s a much better human than I was at his age. I feel for the dads who love their sons but don’t like them. Sucks to be you.

I raised the right kind of asshole.

Love you, Gage Dale. Enjoy your new smoker—I expect some damn good meats soon.