The guy who did the presentation at our conference yesterday was a younger fellow who works as a consultant. He told us a couple times how much time he spends on the road going from place to place across the country and how much extra work he does before and after “regular” work hours (his firm has 6:30 a.m. conference calls with the partners so they don’t have to take up time during the work day).
Then I come to find out he’s got three young girls at home, and what had been wonderment at why anyone would want to spend so much of one’s life on a plane became amazement that anyone would want to spend so much time away from one’s children, particularly when they’re so young.
To wit: This morning I was positively aching to see Ava as soon as she woke up. I’d last seen her on Tuesday morning before I left for work, but it felt like months since I’d seen her face. She began to stir just before 7, and Leah picked her up and brought her out to me in the kitchen. Ava squinted and rubbed her eyes in the bright light. Leah handed her over, and Ava snuggled into me and buried her face in my shoulder. Think back to he best hug you’ve ever received, then multiply it by 1,000.
I guess I could live without these moments. I could live my life chasing dollars. I could end up with a bigger house or a nicer car or a faster computer (mmm…a faster computer). Ava’s hugs don’t put food on the table. And in that sense, I guess, my love for my daughter is a silly, frivolous thing. It’s excessive and vain and foolish. It is unreasonable and — despite her surpassing cuteness and brilliance — irrational.
But, I believe she needs me. I want to believe that she gets as much from the hugs I give her as I get from the hugs she gives me. I tell myself that the time I spend with her now, my human shortcomings aside, will make Ava a better person when she grows up. Better able to love, or empathize, or care. I tell myself that spending time with Ava now will make her a better parent someday, and that any monetary legacy I might leave for her will pale in comparison and worth to the emotional legacy she’ll then share with the people she loves.
It’s a conceit and an excuse. I want that morning hug more than I want a bigger house or newer car or faster computer or anything else I can imagine. I want Ava to have everything she’ll ever want, and I’ll do what I can to get her that, but I can’t bring myself to sacrifice time with her now.