T-M-I from T-I-M

The first time this Dad bought Feminine Care Products for his daughter

I was reminiscing in the grocery store on the first time I bought my daughter feminine care products and thought I'd share the story.

Enjoy:

The idea of being the perfect Dad is exactly what holds me back from being the best Dad I can be. Showing up as the flawed and full-hearted man I want to be reminds me of a story.

I remember the very first time I went to the store buy my daughter pads many years ago.

As a starter, I did not know the difference between pads and tampons.

If I unknowingly rolled into the aisle that carries all of the products that I did a hairpin 180 back around with all the urgency of how I used to change the radio channel from a gospel or Spanish speaking radio station back in the day.

I didn't belong there.

I shopped for every item I might have needed before going to the aisle with feminine care products.

I checked every avocado twice, bought an extra lavender candle or two looking at things I’d NEVER buy even (hmmm, should I try the beef flavor ramen?).

The moment arrived.

It was almost as if my cart wasn’t willing to make that turn. But really, it was me. I was scared, I had no idea what I was doing. But I knew my daughter had her first period and I know I’m a single dad of a daughter.

I know my daughter was going to spending time at my home and when she’s on her period, she needs to have the right supplies at my house, and I refuse to make her bring it over.

And yet I’m a Dad who grew up with 4 brothers and I only knew pads as someone’s place. Growing up I thought Tampon was a city in Florida.

I breathed deep and turned my cart into the aisle.

Everything was neatly stacked. Lots of colors and solutions for different types of issues that I had no clue what they were.

I had hoped that when I turned into the aisle they would be organized like cards at hallmark.

When I shop for a birthday card, graduation gift, sympathy card, etc. it’s a snap. Everything is clearly and easily categorized.

There was not a clear section called “These are the things that a Dad who has never done this before should buy for his teenage daughter.”

Unfortunately, in this case its all the colors of the rainbow stacked up past eye level. There’s extra strength, super absorbent, very active, etc.

As I stood there with the bright lights from the grocery store with my cart stuffed with fruit roll up’s, dino chicken bites and pop tarts (for me) and vegetables and fruit (for her) I suddenly could hear every sound in the grocery store.

The song Muskrat Love was playing overhead.

My wobbly cart front wheel banged like a jackhammer as I nervously bobbed through the aisle.

Before I knew it was outside of the aisle, with nothing new in my cart. I steeled myself because I was NOT going to let this happen. I love my daughter and I’m going to do this.

I said a silent prayer and turned on my heels and thought to myself “YOU’VE GOT THIS!” as the song “What a Feeling” from Flashdance played, so perfect.

I have GOT this. I rolled back into the aisle ready for round two.

This time I slowed down and picked up a few packages. They felt tight and soft at the same time.

How is that?

Ok I think she said orange ones. But there’s multiple orange ones.

Wait did she say tampon or pad?

I looked around, there was one that was called “Always”. Ok, so does that mean there’s such a thing as “Sometimes” in this unfamiliar world.

But there were many versions of Always from the same company, which confused me wouldn’t that by definition mean that Always works sometimes?

There were pictures of women leaping seemingly tall buildings. Then there were ones with sports pictures on it. Then there were big bulky packages too.

As the sweat started to bead down my forehead I felt myself almost ready to give up.

At that moment, a kindly older woman rolled into my aisle. I looked at her in a way almost as if I was a teller being held up and a cop happens to walk in and I tried to silently signal her that I needed help.

She rolled her cart over to me and I sheepishly just asked her. “What do I buy for my daughter who just had her first period?”

There was an ever so slight moment of sweetness between us where she knew I was trying. Followed by a series of questions nearly all answered by “I don’t know”.

Each slightly more demoralizing than the last.

I was too scared to text my beautiful daughter and ask her what she wanted. I can’t explain why I felt that way I just know that I did.

I had made a commitment to her then and still do now that there is no subject matter that she can’t talk about with me. I can’t guarantee her that I’ll know what she’s talking about or even what to say but that she can bring it to me.

I honestly was so confounded that I wanted to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible because I was so lost.

And if I’m being truthful, I would have looked this wonderful woman in the eyes and just said to her “Hold me”.

She left me on my own again with unheeded advice and I felt as if I would ultimately become Jack Nicholson in the Shining at the end lost in the maze frozen to death.

She gave me useful feedback that would help someone who had a reasonable idea of anything. Unfortunately, it was the equivalent of trying to explain the concept of well-played pick and roll basketball to a basset hound.

And I panicked.

I started putting things in my cart like I was on one of those shopping spree shows. I just put products in with the hope that one would hit.

I rolled up to the cashier and emptied my cart. I wasn’t ashamed of the products themselves, it just didn’t bother me.

What bothered me was my complete ineptitude and confusion. The YEARS I spent never having to worry about this. Or put more accurately the years I spent in relationships shopping and never considering buying the products that the HOUSEHOLD needed not just me.

When she came over I sifted through the stuff and put it all out to evaluate. I didn’t know how to properly present it to my daughter. I was somehow equally ashamed of my likely 1 for 10 performance as I was PROUD that I had tried.

I do recall vaguely my daughter’s equal confusion and legit pride that I had tried. Years later, I repeatedly tell her today that I’ll happily shop for whatever she needs it’s not uncommon that she just grabs the reins and gets it done.

Today I roll through that aisle when necessary like a freakin’ boss. I’m like Neo at the end of the Matrix, totally in control.

The feminine care aisle just is not so scary anymore.

And admittedly, whenever I roll by I look for a wide-eyed Dad to roll to and tell him “It’s going to be ok, we’ll get through this”.

The time hasn’t come yet, but when I’m called, I’ll be ready. I’ve earned it.

Sgt. Tim McCarthy, a treasure of Notre Dame Football

I grew up in South Bend, Indiana and a huge part of my life was going to Notre Dame football games with my family and friends.  At these home games, big or small, winning or getting crushed, I fondly remember a particular part of the game.

Late in the game, a man named Sgt. Tim McCarthy would come over the loudspeaker and say:

““May I have your attention please? This is Tim McCarthy with the Indiana State Police.”

As a young child I remember the loud, overwhelming roar of the old Notre Dame football stadium.  The collective passion for the team and, usually, good natured dislike of the opponent (except maybe USC?) would either rise us to heights or drop us to depths.

The sadness or joy was always accompanied by a Spinal Tap type “loud” experience.

And then a moment would draw near when Sgt. McCarthy was meant to come on.  Those of us who came to games somewhat regularly, could feel it coming in spite of the noise.

And the MOMENT this man would announce himself, the ENTIRE stadium would go silent.  Somehow even the visitors understood it or were gently encouraged to listen in.  ALL of our attention turned to him.

Sgt. McCarthy would then go on to tell about a 45 second story encouraging safety around driving and often drinking (well before drinking and driving was a thing to point out).  Although that wasn’t the reason everyone was silent.

He regularly ended the announcement with a cheesy joke.  Including gems such as:

“Remember, the reason we hammer about safety is to keep you from getting nailed!”

“The automobile replaced the horse, but the driver should stay on the wagon!”

And the silence was replaced by audible laughter from probably 50% of the crowd. 

I recall the number of times my Dad would explain the joke to me.  I honestly don’t recall if he used some of the same lines every time and it actually didn’t matter. 

It was like he was the first stand-up comic I ever heard perform.  It was a sweet, connective, fun moment.

I’m convinced that an adult talking about safety was a big part of how I found security when I was so young and couldn’t always feel safe.  It was clarity.

Now I spent most of my younger years at Notre Dame football games sitting in Row 60-ish.  I generally went to the Armed Services games or the other blowouts and every game felt special.  Into my teenage years I ended up going to almost all of them.

And Sgt. McCarthy would come on and make a joke no matter the size, scope, score of the game. 

I took my daughter to the ND/Georgia game a couple years ago compliments of my dear friend Mike, the whole experience was magical.

And the moment came for him to make the announcement.  The stadium has changed, modernized and is beautiful, but different.  I had actually forgotten about that moment.

And instead of Sgt. McCarthy, I heard Muffet McGraw make the announcement.  Now I think the world of her, she was an incredible coach. 

And I felt robbed.  I don’t even know if he had relinquished the role or not at that point, but I really wanted my daughter to hear it.

Alas, that didn’t’ happen.

Sgt. McCarthy was a humble guy who was amazed at his popularity and the announcement’s. 

Now nobody else will hear him again.  Yet there is a group of my dearest, longest term friends who can still feel and hear his voice.

We can still remember the near reverent stadium wide silence. 

We can access the feeling of enjoying his silly jokes.

To me it feels innocent, it feels safe.  It felt real.  

I hope that somehow I can take what he so freely gave us and remember to bring that to people in my life today.

Article on Sgt. Tim McCarthy

Dear God...a letter about taking my daughter to school Year 2

Dear God,

Thank you for the experience of taking my daughter up to school yesterday. 

Thank you for having her DJ in the car because even though I didn’t know most of the music, the conversation with no headphones was magical.

Thank you for the patience to know when to be quiet beyond when I normally would and when to ask questions.

Thank you for the humility to know when she’s teaching me.

Thank you for the laughter about the dumb things we always laugh about.

Thank you for the bagel shop that we ate bagels in front of so I could get the feel of what will be a big part of her life now.

Thank you for the experience of walking up and down the stairs with her stuff to fill her bedroom.

Thank you for the experience of sitting in her own room, which she’s never had, so I could breathe in the place where she will find solitude, rest and most likely some version of you God. 

Thank you for the willingness to put some of her furniture together in spite of my proven career of ineptitude with such things.

Thank you for keeping us safe as we drove home.

Thank you for a daughter who repeatedly told me how grateful she was for my help, even though I wasn’t perfect.

Thank you for helping me see and celebrate where I did things right.

Thank you for the calm to be gentle on myself where I did things wrong.

Thank you for the long, heartfelt hug that we shared when I dropped her off. 

Thank you for the incredible young woman who I held in my arms as it’s becoming so clear that she is maturing into an adult.

Thank you for the free-flowing tears this morning as I miss my little girl.

Thank you God.

Love, Tim

My heart is STILL in San Francisco

I have been reading so much about how there's a flight from SF and the state of our city that I thought I'd share a few things.

I moved here in 1991 from the Midwest. I visited the city shortly before with my family, I arrived in the morning. That afternoon I turned to my parents and told them I wanted to spend the rest of my life here.

There was an unmistakable feel I got from walking around It got to my heart to walk around and see so many different people, so many different neighborhoods, so many different "feels" in one city.

I made nothing when I moved here and make a bit more than that now. I've been in the same apartment for nearly 20 years and while we have rent control my friends from other cities gasp when I tell them the rent for my 1 bedroom.

I get that it's nearly beyond affordable for many people today and that does stink. And I could save a TON of money living elsewhere and I am clear why I pay that premium. I know I'm lucky.

When I walked this morning down by Marina Green the smoke and fog made it so I couldn't see the Golden Gate Bridge. And that seemed like the perfect metaphor.

The beauty of this beloved city is always there, even when obscured by the clouds and smoke of the difficulties. I love that I can still take that walk and see 100 people over the course of it most everyone who looks different (even in the Marina!).

Whenever I see one run by I think that they are living some kind of interesting life where they face the challenges and pay the premium to open their door and walk out into SF and not a different city.

I don't much care for the outdoors beyond what I can access in the city so it doesn't appeal to me to get space. I do everything I can to support workers at Peet's, Jon at Union Garage, Valentino's Market anyone else in and out of my neighborhood.

I realize that as this goes on there will be more businesses closed and people who just can't afford it or just can't stand it and have to leave. While I can't predict the future, I do know that I'm not going to be one of them.

I still love this city. Do we have problems that seem insurmountable and divisive? Yes we do.

Yet this city still has a heart that connects to my heart. And even if there's a big commercial and residential drain, I'm absolutely convinced that we will fill back up.

The lineage of this incredible city may feel like it's disappearing.

I think if anything, at some point we will all re-connect with what makes this city so incredible. And from that point we will all find the heart that got me here and will keep me here.

The smoke and fog will clear and we will see how magnificent this all is.

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.