T-M-I from T-I-M

Dear Dads of Daughters--Buy the Pads or Tampons

Dear Dads of Daughters,

 

If you're embarrassed to buy pads or tampons for your daughter, get over it, I did.

 

It may not be easy I get it, and it's a big win.

 

The first time I did, I was literally lost. I'm sure I looked like I had fallen into the Upside Down World from Stranger Things as I walked around.

 

I vividly recall an incredibly sweet woman who helped me figure it out.

 

She was so happy to do it, even as I asked secretly as if I was trying to sell her some hot audio equipment out of the back of a white van out front.

 

If you are comfortable doing it, you know why it's worth it. It hits my cart now with the same mentality as the ice cream or toothpaste. It's a thing to check off the list.

 

And I'm a better man because of it.

 

Love,

 

Tim

Dear Dads of Daughters--The new way to relate to our daughters and partners

Dear Dads of Daughters,

A great path for some men to learn how to get comfortable talking about and listening to feelings lies in our relationship with our daughters.

 

There's an inherent imperative for men like us to show up for our daughters in ways that are often exactly the opposite of what we believe is the way to go.

 

The truth is I completely changed the way I related to women right around the time my daughter turned 9 years old. At that age I discovered many of the ways I parented would no longer work.

 

So when she was much younger and cried she needed food or a change of diapers or a band aid, etc. She had a problem, I solved it.

That changed around 9 years old. Thank God I learned it and keep learning it.

 

I suspect there are a lot of dads of daughters out there like me who would willingly throw themselves all the way in to trying new ways to connect to their daughters as they grow up.

 

I'm also certain that when men like me find their hearts and minds open and engaged to relate to their daughters, we find ways to reflect that back to our partners we meet in intimate relationships.

 

It takes work. I see you and love you so much Dads with daughters

 

Love,

Tim

Dear Dads of Daughters--A great gift idea

Dear Dads of Daughters,

I have a really easy birthday suggestion for you. In the interest of limiting the time I walked in a haze around Forever 21, Vicki's Secret or god help us all Claire's while munching on an Auntie Anne's, consider this.

My daughter and I made a pact to each other around age 7.

Every year, for both of our birthdays, we wrote each other a letter.

It's remarkably connecting and super easy to do. The year's events are easy to recall and write about. And I guarantee there's plenty to write about how they change each year.

It also gave me an opportunity to remind her that I love, love, love her and share a bunch of other feelings. (and even if that's the ONLY feeling you share, it's worth it)

In the younger years, my daugther's notes to me were one or two pages with maybe 60-70 words. Now they are longer and magnificent.

It's NEVER too late to start this. Thank God we do it every year.

I see and love all you Dads of daughters.

Picking up my daughter from UC Davis

I picked Zoe up from college a week ago to bring her home for the spring quarter. Understandably she was quite disappointed and emotional. I knew I had to help her pack up and also step up to be her emotional support.

I started with the “It’s not as bad as it could be” approach.

I tried to help her see that if it happened a year before (her senior year in High School) or 3 years later (her senior year in college) it would have been a lot more difficult.

It didn’t land.

I went to the “Others are going through it too” approach.

I tried to help her see that there were tons of other students leaving and lots of students from other schools that were leaving.

It didn’t land.

I pulled the “Let me make her laugh” card, my veritable pocket rockets.

I made her laugh for a bit here and there, in ways that we are so familiar with over 19 years which always helped.

And still it didn’t land.

You see I was trying to soften the blow or even “save” her from her emotions. I’m imperfect.

Finally, I decided to lay back and let things roll out. Tears came and left. I felt her uncertainty and simply observed it or told her that I’m sure this is all difficult.

It sort of landed.

Then she went up and wanted to say goodbye to her friends and didn’t want me to join her. I told her “I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll be here waiting”.

She told me earlier that her friends tell her that she feels things so deeply….sounds familiar.

She came back down to and said that she was ready to go, and I felt her and knew maybe there was just a bit more.

This time I decided I’d do nothing.

I invited her to sit on this huge bench with me. And for the next 10 minutes, she sat there slightly ahead of me on a very deep bench as I leaned back against the back of it.

I felt her emotional waves come ashore and another one behind it. I could feel the rich and deep layers of each of them.

Then, I felt her deep breath of acceptance and she turned around to me with those same beautiful eyes I looked into since she was first born.

With the quiet calm confidence whose source I don’t know she said:

“Ok Dad let’s go” and I smiled.

It finally landed.

We got up and I put my arm around her and told her how proud I was of her and that I loved her. And talk turned to Chipotle for lunch.

Some of my best parenting moments are when I step back, do nothing and let the moment arrive.

If I try to push harder it seems it never quite lands.

My Dad a Metric of 1 in the COVID 19 Stats world

As I continue through the layered grieving process of my Dad through this beyond weird time, something occurred to me.

I see so many of us quoting statistical trends and projections.  I see the at risk data categorizations and probabilities based on demographics, usually by existing health conditions and particularly age.

I see the comparatives to the flu or historical epidemics that cite absolute or ratio death stats.

I see the top level # of deaths from CV compared as a statistic and the growing % as the demo’s get to the >70 years old as so many of them have died already.

ONLY 400 died NOT 27,000!!!  or 400 HAVE DIED!!!! to make points.

Meanwhile, my metric is 1.  I have one person who died in my life, unrelated to the Corona Virus.  And that one person dying has impacted me deeply and a lot of people around me (in both difficult and inspiring ways). 

My Dad was >70 and he’s gone.  Meanwhile, every person that died in the nursing home in Kirkland or elsewhere is likely to have had an impact on all of the people around them. 

Or maybe some of them died and they’ve been long forgotten and have no family.  I’m not sure.

It doesn’t change the fact that watching the arguments on all sides (mostly driven by 1,000 forms of fear) about what to do next partially out the fear of death or the fear of overreacting or the fear of losing jobs, etc. feels pertinent but so missing the point or maybe missing A point.

It almost feels like the statistics are tools to dehumanize us rather than connecting us in our grief in humanness. 

I’m not forgetting that every death has a metric of 1 to the families impacted.  Because my 1 continues to hit me every day.

My Dad's Death from Dementia

After a long and magnificent journey, my beloved father Bob Taylor passed away yesterday. It’s hard to describe how I can feel totally heartbroken, relieved and grateful simultaneously.

 

The emotions feel like they are ripping my insides to shreds. It’s like ocean waves taking me under, I lose my breath, tumble over and taste the salty waves of my tears.

 

My Dad was like me except WAY more friendly and outgoing (kind of an incredible thought for those of you that know me…). He was a force of nature that literally lit any people up that were in his field and beyond.

 

He was a relentlessly optimistic man who also taught me how to feel my feelings. I never walked this earth thinking that my father did not love me as best he could.

 

He was outrageously expressive at times. Ultimately, I got it and have passed on the tradition of being outrageous and at times laughingly embarrassing with my daughter.

 

I have far too many tender memories to count. He would often gently trace his fingers on my hand during church as a child, kiss me lovingly on the head and tell me he loved me.

 

He was so patient even as he tried to teach me to play the accordion which was bigger than I was. I was the WORST baseball ever and I never felt that way as he cheered me on every “mandatory” at bat I had.

 

He harmonized at church to songs that I couldn’t stand but loved because he sang that way, one of the few enjoyments as a child going to church. (with the notable exception of taking great pleasure in seeing one of my brothers get in trouble at such church services….)

 

After a long day at work, he would come home in a short sleeve button down shirt and suit, take off his jacket, set down his huge briefcase and throw dozens of passes, shoot too many shots to count with his boys, my brothers.

 

He never ever gave up on me even when I had LONG since given up on myself in my darkest hours. He rarely gave up on anybody.

 

The Bob Taylor Experience was singular, known by many as Dancing Bob. I’m so proud to have called him my dad.

 

The end was inglorious as dementia took its toll, yet totally peaceful.

 

My heart is huge and open to those of us shepherding our parents to the light. Friends tell me that I really showed up for him in the last few years and it’s still hard to admit I did, maybe I could have done more.

 

It’s easy for me to love you, and yet I have a VERY hard time letting you love me. This will test that to the max and yet the person that best prepared me for it was my Dad.

 

Dad loved me like a warrior. And it’s how I love my daughter today.

 

She walks this earth never doubting that I love her. And I’ve built on that with work to learn how to love her in ways my Dad couldn’t when I was her age.

 

I’m a pretty loyal Peet’s guy but I went to Starbucks today and got my latte with the name Bob.

 

Knowing my Dad, he is in the afterlife already introducing himself to everyone with handshakes and hugs, eagerly leaving a world behind of social distancing.

 

Maybe he also got to heaven, found my brother and picked up the nearest football and has Jeff running routes.

 

Maybe Dad is thinking he needs to be with me right now, I KNOW I can feel him. And there’s an absolute perfection to know that I can absolutely give myself to this grief and sorrow, crying unapologetically like he taught me (like he did when he was so proud of me at the CA Aids Ride below).

 

Or maybe, just maybe Dad has set his shield of life down and he’s in God’s warm arms and light. Maybe he just needs a break, a good long, well deserved break of freedom.

 

Maybe after being someone who loved so completely, maybe he’ll just curl up into God’s lap and let God love him the way so many of us did.

 

You deserve it all Dad. There will simply never be another Bob Taylor, no matter how hard I or anyone else tries. And maybe that’s perfect.

Bridge Over Troubled Waters with my Daughter and Dad

On Saturday I visited my father again and this time I brought my 18 year old daughter with me. I invested more energy than I care to admit in worrying about how it “might” go before we arrived.

 

Frequently last week I had to tell myself, some version of “It’s Thursday, 8:30 am, I’m in a coffee shop, in line in San Francisco, that’s what’s happening RIGHT now, Saturday isn’t here.” It helped me bring me back to the now.

 

Enough now’s passed and the time arrived.

 

When we arrived he was in a familiar seated position mostly curved over with his head looking down and eyes occasionally opening. I sat in the recliner next to him, Zoe was next to me.

 

I held my father’s right hand which was curled up, the fingers not quite firing correctly. His left hand occasionally reaching out to aimlessly land here and there.

 

I’ve written so many of these things before that it’s emotionally draining. So I’m mainly going to write about one part of the visit that I’ll never forget.

 

We had been “watching” golf. More accurately we sat in silence and I prayed while trying to hear your prayers that I asked for.

 

Finally, I muted the golf and started playing music. I played Harry Chapin and John Denver, two artists that were meaningful parts of our past…the “better days” of Taxi or Rocky Mountain High.

 

Silence, then a few bars of hauntingly familiar piano music. The beginning of the song Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

 

“When you’re weary, feeling small…”

 

I had breathed VERY deep until that point and was able to hold the emotional space. I know this was not just hard for me it was challenging for her.

 

And when those words came out, the tears started.

You see when I was in my darkest moments, I used to talk about this song with my father. He told me that he wanted to be my bridge over troubled waters. And he would extend himself, at his expense ultimately, to do that for me and my other brothers.

 

I knew that and am still working through some of the guilt that I used that to my advantage.

 

And as the last “I will lay me down” from the first verse came out, I recovered a bit form the first few tears and I kept holding his hand, curled and rough from years of being a warrior.

 

Then came:

 

“When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you”

 

The next, more significant wave of tears came. I was getting unsteady.

 

And in that moment, with my eyes closed, tears leaking, I felt another hand in my free, right hand.

 

This hand was the soft, confident, caring hand of my 18 year old daughter. Not a word was spoken.

 

This was the same hand that instinctively and perfectly reached for me when she was younger whenever we walked down the street. She eagerly reached for my hand and my heart every time we walked together.

 

And no matter what I was going through I felt her desire for my comfort, attention, security and love. Those feelings would pierce through whatever I was going through.

 

And yet for most of her teenage years, hand holding was off limits.

 

Totally understandable.

 

Yet in that moment her hand reached out to mine. I felt her desire to connect, to be there in that moment, not just for me, for it. She had feelings like I did.

 

She knew this was likely and she STILL came home from school to come down with me to see him.

 

And I sat there with my dad’s hand in my left, my daughter’s hand in my right.

 

If you know the song you can almost immediately access the feeling when the next words are sung:

 

“Sail on silver girl…”

 

The crescendo of the song is unmistakable. It’s upon you, it’s expansive and so was the power of this experience I was having.

 

I’ve never felt closer to God in my life and yet I still felt so confused. I didn’t know how to handle it so I just breathed deep, let the tears fall and the music play. Is this really happening?

 

If you know the song, you know the tidal wave of strings, keys, drums and voices of that magnificent song.

 

“Oh if you need a friend, I’m sailing right behind. Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters, I will lay me down”

 

A series of moments and memories with my father arose.

 

A series of mistakes and successes raising my daughter arose.

 

It was all there with to this magnificent soundtrack of this experience in my life.

 

And just like that, the crescendo ends.

 

I looked at my daughter and said, quite plainly with salt crusty cheeks from the dried tears “I love you and it’s time to go”.

 

I know that I didn’t end it gracefully. For those of you close to me, it’s one of my many shortcomings. I don’t bring things to a gentle soft close. It’s often quite abrupt.

 

I stood up and whispered directly into my father’s ear full of purpose:

 

“Dad whenever you want to let go we are ready. We love you and God’s light and love are waiting. God’s arms are open wide, ready to embrace you.”

 

I pulled back and we said goodbye to my Dad.

 

We walked out of the house and I stopped in front. I turned my magnificent daughter to me and hugged her completely. I had regained most of my composure and told her I loved her and was proud of her.

 

We walked a few feet more and she asked, confidently and sweetly as she looked at her phone:

 

“Dad, what was the name of that song?”

 

For those of us that have teenagers, most of the time kids are getting songs from Glee or TikTok or the Masked Singer, etc.

 

My daughter was going to have the bookmark of this experience as her first memory of this song.

 

I told her the name of the song and pretty awkwardly followed it with:

 

“Grandpa used to tell me that he was my bridge when I struggled. And I want you to know that I’ll be there for you. And what I’ve ended up learning is that my bridge is God.”

 

At least I think that’s what I said. It’s entirely possible I said something quite different.

 

I guess it’s doesn’t matter.

 

I do know that whatever happened that day was moving. And I’m sure there’s more to be talked about. I’m ready when my daughter is.

 

I realized that day that she’ll be ready for it and a whole lot more. I couldn’t have been prouder. I only wish I could talk to my Dad about it.

 

Learning from my brother 25 years after he died

Some of you may know that when I was 25 my brother Jeff was found dead at the bottom of a ravine at 27 as a result of suicide.  For years I’ve wondered about it without any real insight.

In December my mom put a box in front of me and asked me to go through it.  It was a box of his things.

On top was about 150 handwritten pages from his time mostly in rehabs that I’d never read or never really knew about.  Many of you know that I live a daily spiritual life such that I understand the challenges/battles of rehab.

It literally took my breath away when I realized what it was.  The weight of the pages were amplified by the emotional weight of what I was about to read.

I always thought that I couldn’t be more different than my brother, turns out we had things in common.

After reading the pages, I realized several things about myself and my brother:

I was picked on mercilessly by my brother, physically and emotionally.  And yet this same brother if he EVER saw anyone picking on me, he turned into a fierce warrior to protect me. 

Most of my friends know that I’m about as good a fighter as Glass Joe in that game Punch Out, easily defeated.  Jeff knew that.

I never quite understood why those two things were true, pick on AND protect me.  It turns out HE was mercilessly picked on as a kid which I never knew. 

I immediately got it.  And simultaneously felt my heart sink knowing I never really got curious with him to talk to him about it.

It’s at least partially the dastardly manifestation of the cheap, lazy recitation of boys will be boys which is such bs. 

I was a super sensitive kid and he was too.

I realized in that moment that we had that in common.

Second, I read about his struggles to stay sober.  And if you’ve made it this long, it’s probably true that you know I am for almost 9 years.  I don’t actively tell people, but I will share it when appropriate.

It’s hard to read him writing about the things that I talk to men about nearly every day as they struggle in the life and death battle of addiction.  I try to show them this way of life I’ve learned. 

If I met him today I could help him, I couldn’t save him, but I could help him.

I had a few tries before I got this daily life I live and I struggled until then.

I realized in that moment we had that in common.

When I was in my early 20’s I showed little interest in considering any context other than the one I knew.  I hadn’t crossed the line into the disease of addiction and it’s VERY difficult for someone who hasn’t to get someone who has.

Not only did I not understand it, I judged it.  I held unexpressed anger and resentment.  I was embarrassed. 

I remember when I was 15 and had gone out of town to visit him at a rehab.  I was in in an English class where my classmates were pushing me to tell them where I had been the last few days.

Right when I was about to say it, a friend of mine who knew what was happening, touched my arm and told me not to say it. 

I had no way of knowing how to talk about it and neither did my family, neither did Jeff.  We, like many families at the time had the “look good from the outside” dynamic.

And I loved and still love my family even with all our challenges.  His writing showed me that he loved the family too.

I realized in that moment we had that in common.

All of these realizations were rushing into me.

It was particularly challenging that the person I am today would love to speak to the person Jeff was then.  It’s similar to the challenge with the current experience with my father.

And it’s not possible.

I still don’t really understand the layers of emotions and realizations that resulted from this.  But I do know this:

The experience has taught me that I just NEVER really know.  I think I know but I don’t really know. 

And with all the tools and growth that I have today, it’s my calling, my duty to ask, at LEAST ask about someone else’s experience.

What I learned most clearly from reading his writing was that Jeff wanted to be understood.  He wanted to be free of his mental demons.  He wanted to give and receive love.

I realize now and forever that we will always have that in common.

Kobe Bryant, John Lennon and the drumming guy in SF

On the bus this morning I heard a podcaster compare the Kobe’s death to John Lennon’s death.  My immediate reaction was um no.  Then he explained the jarring nature of a seemingly timeless figure cut down seemingly WAY too early and it made sense.

As I walked to work after getting off the bus, I passed an old black dude with a ratty drum set that plays along music for a meager living each day, I’ve heard him hundreds of times.

This morning however, God was speaking, and I listened.

I heard it clear as day as I walked towards him…he was playing “Imagine” by John Lennon.

I was walking with some amount of purpose as usual, but I could feel my heart and soul crumbling as I the music got louder, and I passed him. 

As I did, I broke down crying, I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t want to.

I got about 50 feet past him and turned around the song still playing and took out a $20 bill and gave it to him and said, through tears, my voice faltering as my heart was breaking, “Thank you for playing this song.”

He was busily getting ready to play but immediately and completely stopped and his big brown eyes met mine as and he put his hands in front of his hearts and without words, while still sitting bowed deeply to me, he bowed deeply to us.

In that moment his soul met mine.  It’s the unspoken experience of the word namaste.

John Lennon means so much to me.  Hours after Zoe was born, while in a container that she nearly burst out of because she was born just a day or so too early, the first song I sang to her was “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon, substituting Girl for Boy.

When I sang it the nurse who was a few steps away said to me “That’s so beautiful, she recognizes your voice”.

After he bowed, I didn’t know what to say to him and turned and walked briskly away like a little boy again not sure how to talk to someone face to face who I’ve never met about these deep feelings I was having.

It wasn’t just Kobe I was feeling.  It was his daughter.  It was the other parents and kids on the helicopter.  It was a lot of the people I know in my life who don’t know what to make of the emotions they are feeling (MANY of them beautiful men in my life).

It was the tip of the emotional spear that then opened up to what I’m feeling about my Dad, about my brother who died (more on that another day), my daughter who I love so much it hurts me sometimes, the uncertainty of it all.

As I turned the corner I decided rather than just breathe deep and leave the experience, I searched Imagine on Spotify and played it on repeat and let whatever tears wanted to flow, flow freely as I walked the rest of the way to work. 

I don’t know what people make of someone walking to work crying, I don’t know what I make of it when I see it, but I so rarely see it.

After hearing a million Kobe stories recently it dawned on me that Kobe and John Lennon would probably have gotten along really well.  (I mean can you imagine them meeting and them maybe having a laugh that you say Kobe, and everyone knows but if you say John, it could mean a million people?) 

I’ve learned Kobe had an unquenchable curiosity.  I almost can’t listen to more stories about how he felt about having daughters because it’s too much for me.

Maybe their souls are in the afterlife dancing or playing hoops. 

Who knows?

I know God is speaking to everyone in some way or another during this time (if you believe in some kind of God or Goddess).

And what I know for certain is at least for today I’m listening.

Moving through Dad's Mortality

As my Dad gets closer to death, I feel how I'm more confronted by how I live than I am about how or when I'll die.

I know I'm not alone, it's not cataclysmic. I've got SO many people in my life who love and support me.

I can write in front of my social media world so well that I should write a book (until of course I sit down to try to write it!).

Sit with me quietly, sip on your tea or your latte or even your wine.

Look in my eyes (if mine aren't looking down or around) with soft loving patience.

Breathe deep and even ask me some questions.

Open and hold the space with emotional courage for me.

And in that moment I go from man to a child.

I don't know how to talk to you about it. I want to let you in and there's too much to say. There's a lot I'm ashamed of, there's even stuff I'm proud of.

Burnt by oversharing in the past and feeling abandoned. Hurt by undersharing in the past and not feeling seen.

I own both of those feelings, I'm not a victim, they aren't your fault.

But talking about with you without him here even while he's still here is just so overwhelming.

Feelings would be so much better if they made sense.

How often does it take something to happen to give me "perspective"? Don't choose guilt Tim, don't choose fear because this gives you perspective.

The feels are big. Don't turn from them Tim. Turn off the TV or at least write in front of it.

And Tim as you write it be ok with the fact that you stop and shed tears. Don't worry about how disjointed it reads.

Don't sweat how confusing it looks. How I live the rest of my life isn't answered tonight.

Only One knows when i will die, that's fact.

Only I know how I will live, that's real.