Tim Allen’s Guide to Being a Present Dad

“Don’t tell your brothers about this,” he whispered to me.

I think he made a lot of people feel that way, like they were the only ones who mattered. At his funeral, more people attended than any of us expected. It was shoulder to shoulder with mourners. It was startling to see so many people that we didn’t recognize showing up to thank our dad one more time. It just confirmed we weren’t the only ones who got the best of him.

Losing him was devastating. It was a seismic shift in my life. And to some extent, the scars are still there. I’ve never really recovered.

But in a weird way, I’m OK with that. I don’t want to get over him. You know those babies who don’t mind sitting in a dirty diaper? That’s what living in the past is to me. It smells and it’s horrible, but at least it’s mine.

I miss my dad every day. And every day, he’s a reminder that being a good father isn’t that complicated. It’s just about being present for as long as you can.

Allen and his daughter, Katherine, on the set of the 2002 movie “The Santa Clause 2.”

Courtesy Tim Allen

Tim and Elizabeth on the set of “The Santa Clauses.”

Courtesy Tim Allen

Like dad, like daughter

You start to notice things about your kids when you do more listening than talking. You realize that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Elizabeth shares my fascination with how things work and stubborn determination to fix anything. I’m really good with computers, cameras, phones and all that stuff, but sometimes I get confused. She’ll just take it out of my hand, press three buttons and it’s back on. 

On my new ABC show Shifting Gears, my fictional daughter (played by Kat Dennings, who’s wonderful) isn’t based explicitly on either of my actual daughters. But there are a few similarities. Kate, just like Kat on the show, is very sharp and acerbic. You can get cut pretty easily if you’re not careful. Sometimes it can be a little alarming. I feel like a cutting board.

I might’ve been more combative with her back then, and maybe a little too certain I had all the answers. But now I let them have their say. I listen, then respond. And I try to use the word “I” more than “you.” All of that has come from sobriety.

But probably my favorite thing — and this shouldn’t be a surprise, given what I do for a living — is they’re both funny. Kate is dry as a bone, and so inappropriate. She and her husband went to India for their honeymoon, and apparently the food became an issue for both of them. She has these honeymoon stories that are just so graphic and hilarious. She talks about her digestive problems like she’s describing a beautiful painting.

I’m not going anywhere

The best thing about being a dad is that it never really ends. Even when your kids grow up and leave the house, even if it’s just to take the car for a spin and make you worry yourself sick, you still want to protect them, teach them, show them that you have something to offer.

Yeah, so I guess that part about being quiet and listening doesn’t always apply.

Just the other day I was telling Liz the importance of adding value to any situation. How are you making things better and not worse? She looked at me with this perfect smirk on her face and said, “Does that include constantly tidying up my room while I’m standing right in front of you?” And that’s exactly what I was doing, at that very moment! 

This happens every time I visit Katie at her house. I’ll rearrange tabletops, maybe give the floors a quick sweep. She’ll go, “Dad, we don’t need help. Just relax. We’re happy to see you. You don’t have to prove your worth.”

I appreciate that. But I don’t want to be one of those aging fathers who slowly fade away in the background. I want to be present for them. I want to be a force of good. Every time I see them, I fall in love with my daughters all over again. I constantly tell them, “When I die, I’m going to miss you both.”

“Oh, be quiet,” they usually respond. “You’re not going anywhere. Not for a long time.”

I hope they’re right. But I also know that nothing is guaranteed. I never thought my dad would leave me, either. 

I’m still wildly protective of both of them. To this day, any time Kate and her husband come over for dinner, I tell her, “Text me when you get home.” She’s in her 30s and still has to text her dad. But she never complains or teases me about it, or tells me not to worry. And I always get the text.

She’s very frugal, and when she went to India, she didn’t want to spend the money for an international plan on her phone. We fought about it, and she eventually let me pay for it. “I’m not going to spend my whole trip texting you,” she said. “I hate when you try to control me like this.” But then she texted me the whole time she was overseas. Every day it was text, text, text. And when she got home, she told me, “I’m so blessed that you do stuff like this.”

Speaking of unnecessary texting, I’m almost done with this essay, and my daughter has not yet returned from her inaugural solo car drive. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to stop here and go check in with her, ask if she’s keeping her eyes on the road, and remind her that she shouldn’t be reading texts while she drives.