It took patience and fortitude, but I recruited my husband into the cult. You know, the cult that’s made up of crazy people, that promises you ultimate happiness and then drains every cent of your bank account. He is finally one of us!
It wasn’t always like this. Early in our relationship, when he was the boyfriend, the barn was a foul-smelling inconvenience he tolerated. The barn made me stink and gobbled up my savings. My lateness? The barn was the culprit.
Those first few years of dating, I implored, “Watch me ride!” But my boyfriend was apathetic about watching me do what I loved most in the world, and it killed me.
If only the barn had an “open bar” stall. Plentiful alcohol was the only way I could envision coaxing my horse-hater boyfriend to the barn.
During those dating years, I drove 45 minutes to the barn after work, then piddled away hours before driving home. “We’re classy, eating our dinners European style at 9 p.m.,” I tried to convince my guy. But he wasn’t into waking up nightly with frozen pizza-induced heart burn.
“Can’t you skip the barn once in a while?” He dared to ask on occasion. Nope. You picked me, remember? I am barn. I am horses. He was smitten enough to put up with the package deal, but I wished he would share my passion instead of despising it.
Finally, to shush me, he agreed to accompany me to the barn. Plus, shocking development, ride my warmblood! This underachiever of a horse took more leg than a SoulCycle class. This could be an effective method of indoctrination!
That fateful day, I helped my boyfriend scramble into the saddle.
“I can’t get him to walk,” he complained. The horse wouldn’t budge. To make this an enticing experience, I handed him a crop and instructed him to “lightly tap” behind the saddle.
YIKES! He smacked the horse on his rump and took off into a crawling canter. The crop waved like a magic wand, just in my horse’s line of sight, encouraging him to lap the ring.
Laughing until breathless, I screamed, “DROP THE CROP!”
My boyfriend hurled the crop through the air, and the horse came to a screeching halt. Oh man, had this near-death experience ruined my one shot at dragging the man over to the dark side? On a gut level I knew it was in my best interest to stop pushing horses so hard. After all, this was my passion not his. Yet I felt this unspoken divide. If only we had horses in common…
At least he rarely complained about the barn anymore. After all, my horse hobby provided him with abundant football-gaming-beer-time. It’s a pretty awesome situation for a guy in his 20s. Our relationship flourished despite his distaste for the equine species. Though I had shoved it into the back of my mind, occasionally a sadness crept in; this chasm over the horses seemed insurmountable.
A few years into our courtship, my boyfriend shocked me by asking me on a nose-to-tail trail ride. Had hell frozen over, or had he done something awful and was trying to atone for his sins? Either way, I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity.
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At a dusty ranch, a guide handed us two gangly Quarter Horses. Though we attempted a leisurely stroll, my boyfriend spurted past us, teetering nervously, another horse disaster on the horizon.
Just when I thought a trip to the ER was imminent, we approached a clearing. Some rando had laid out a picnic. What the heck?
My boyfriend dismounted, took a few stiff steps, then got on his knee: “Will you marry me?”
This guy just spent a petrified hour doing the very thing he had hated, because he knew it was what I loved. His horse-centric proposal proved to me he was attempting to bridge the gap between us.
My not-yet-horse-loving boyfriend knew how to love a horse-lover. I said yes!
Though I didn’t completely win him over during the early stages of betrothal, I could tell I moved the needle. One Christmas he surprised me with a me a custom tack trunk. There was also the CWD saddle I fell head over heels for. I couldn’t imagine dropping that much cash on myself when we had preschools to pay for and college tuitions to fret over. I told the saddle fitter to take the saddle back.
A few weeks later, a mystery box arrived at our door. When I ripped open the cardboard, low and behold, the coveted saddle sat nestled inside. My husband understood me. He knew the key to my heart was buffalo leather. I was getting somewhere!
Married horse life continued much like before—until I started popping out children. While I kissed newborn feet, promising each baby a life full of ponies, reality set in for this father and husband. From an early age, the children caught the horse bug, begging to “ride with Mommy.”
At my oldest daughter’s well visit, my husband asked the pediatrician: “Is it safe for a 2-year-old to ride a horse?” The doctor explained it was fine if she wore a helmet. His face crumpled. It was over. He was in for a future of horse troubles.
At that life juncture, I believe he realized there were two paths: Kick and scream for eternity or join the horse club. I hoped he would choose the club with me.
Much to my delight, my husband tried harder. He attended local shows to see our sausage-legged toddlers stuffed into jods for leadline. He shelled out money for their first lessons, watching them struggle to learn their diagonals.
On a sunny afternoon, I coaxed him to bring the kids to watch me school my young pony. I looked ahead towards a tiny brush box. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband coming in hot with a stroller, which he had mistaken for a toddler’s Ferrari. Before I had time to scream slow your roll, BAM. I was flat on the ground. “Why would you do that?? This pony is a 3-year-old!” I berated my poor husband.
I hadn’t ruined my shot at making him a horse lover, because his resolve was already softening. That same afternoon he patiently steered the children through the barn aisle, pausing at each stall to feed treats. While I cleaned tack, he grazed the pony with the kids at his side.
Instead of causing tension or horse-hate, the fall became our running joke: “Remember the time Dad made Mom fall off, and Mom freaked out?”
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Another sign I was making headway was when my husband agreed to a family “vacation” at the Vermont Summer Festival. Usually, I went to away shows solo or with a baby strapped to my chest. He stayed home enjoying steaks the size of his head with a side of wine for dinner. However, this time he agreed to come. Yes, at times the kids were whiney and bored. My husband was whiney and bored until he escaped for a round of golf. But I loved this man for giving a week at a horse show a shot.
The years flew by, and my daughters became more serious about the horses, especially my eldest. When Dad watched her lesson, or even better, watched her show, she vibrated with excitement.
He learned the intricacies of the horse-show-dad-role: early morning sugar fixes, food truck runs, and horse show minutes that melt into horse show hours. When my daughter’s horse turned up stiff before her class, his presence buffered the disappointment. It’s fulfilled me to see them bond like this, much more so than if he were eager to watch me ride.
I had witnessed my husband evolve, so when I upped the ante and convinced him to purchase a farm with the promise of fun equipment and chickens, it wasn’t forced. He knew we would never have a clean mud room again, yet he took this chance.
During our first month on the farm, he volunteered to do night check: “I love doing night check. It’s so peaceful alone with the horses.” I knew I had him when he started sending me nightly selfies with the horses.
Though initially he struggled with some horse basics, he’s a trooper. He adeptly leads the horses in and out, even Daisy, our opinionated boarder. This sassy paint, who gave him the cold shoulder every time he attempted to put her halter on, now comes right up for a face rub. The mare knows he’s a real horse guy now, not an imposter. He’s earned the horses’ respect just like he’s earned mine for his willingness to embrace this life.
Currently, we’re five kids, two ponies, two boarder horses and a lease horse deep. We have nearly 17 years of married life under our belts. After all this time, how could my love for him still grow?
Well, when I arrive home and see my husband leading my toddler on her pony, saddle pad backwards, but otherwise effectively tacked up, my love for this man balloons. Just when I think I can’t love him even a smidge more, I can.
What’s my secret to this man’s conversion? I wish I could tell you to cut a lock of forelock, hide it under the pillow and utter a magic spell. It won’t work.
What I can tell you is that I’ve watched my husband mature. His role as parent and husband changed the way he viewed horses. Horses are no longer just a costly, stinky burden.
Horses tether him to his wife and children, a connection of the heart.
He is part of a horse family. He is a horseman.
Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 2, 3, 6, 10 and 13. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse crazy girls play with their small pony, Cupcake, and her son and husband play with the tractor. Jamie and her trainer are still on the hunt for her oldest daughter’s new horse.
