Quality time should not be measured in minutes, but in moments.
In my opinion, that thought is a bit above the usual sound bite statement that masquerades as words of wisdom. It really does say something, and it reminded me of one of my own moments many years ago.
When my daughter was 17 months old we were walking down the street one day and she trotted ahead of me. She was wearing a hat with a bobble that hung down on a short length of wool at the back, and as she walked it swung from side to side. I watched her and was struck by the immeasurable preciousness of what I was seeing: a beautiful, fresh little life walking confidently, if a touch unsteadily, through the early spring of being. And what elevated the experience from a passing observation to something rarefied and sublime was the swinging bobble. Don’t ask me why the bobble made the difference; for some reason it did. Something to do with the god of small things and being an HSP, I expect. Whatever the reason, that moment was very special – a precious work of art to which you give pride of place on the most prominent wall and admire over and over again as long as you have eyes to see.
A few hours later she was badly scalded in a kitchen accident, and subsequently spent a couple of weeks in a specialist burns hospital. It was Christmas; the world was replete with baubles, but all I kept seeing was the swinging bobble.
She pulled through OK, but I felt the sting of a harsh lesson. Magic moments can, and usually do, bring warmth and priceless memories. The picture sits proudly in its frame, there to be savoured over and over. But they can also haunt and taunt most cruelly when fate decrees.