The moment every dad dreads came at cruising altitude: my daughter’s panicked whisper about her first period mid-flight. I’ll admit—I felt proud of my foresight in packing supplies, but less proud of what happened next. The dreaded leak. The airplane bathroom rescue mission. The hoodie-as-makeshift-skirt solution.
What surprised me most wasn’t the crisis itself, but the quiet solidarity from fellow passengers. The knowing smiles from mothers. The thumbs-up from a teenage boy who clearly had sisters. We were all in this awkward, human moment together.
Our real adventure began after landing for the wedding weekend. Who knew Target runs for emergency jeans could become core memories? But the universe had one more test: the forgotten bridesmaid dress. Cue our frantic search through every store in a five-mile radius.
When we finally found “the dress” (version 2.0), something magical happened. Talia stopped being an embarrassed tween and became my partner in crime. We high-fived in the dressing room. We joked about starting a dad-daughter crisis management business.
The wedding toast praising my parenting skills felt unearned—I’d basically been putting out fires all weekend. But when a stranger thanked me for reminding her of her late father, it hit me: our messy, imperfect efforts matter more than we know.
As Talia hugged me goodnight, I realized something profound: parenting isn’t about avoiding disasters. It’s about being the calm in their storm, even when you’re freaking out inside.
