The Window Is Shorter Than You Think

I'm someone who is always building toward something. A business acquisition, a property portfolio, goals Shanshan (my wife) and I have mapped out years in advance. Ambition and action is just how I'm wired. But the thing nobody really prepares you for when you become a parent is the daily tension between the person you're trying to become and the parent you need to be right now, today, in this moment.

Tonight was a perfect example.

It was already late. We'd done the full routine - milk, goodnight to cats, shower, teeth, wash hands, two books, the works. I was tired. She was tired. Lights off, wind down, nearly there. Then came the requests. Water. Mum. And then, quietly but persistently: "Gorilla. Gorilla. Elephant. Gorilla."

She was asking for Goodnight Gorilla. Again. After everything.

I lay there exhausted in the dark genuinely weighing it up. She needs sleep. I want her to sleep. We've already read two books. Just wait her out. But then I turned on the lamp & asked anyway - "Do you want to read the gorilla book?" - and the knodding smile she gave me in that moment. The energy. The pure, uncomplicated joy of a tired 18-month-old who just wanted one more story with her dad.

It filled us with energy again. We read the book. She went to sleep happy afterwards.

That's the window we need to cherrish more. You will spend the majority of your life knowing your children as adults. But right now, for this brief moment, you get to know them as a child. The toys on the floor. The fingerprints on every window and mirror in the house. Freeze song & Baby Shark on repeat. The morning cuddles before she's fully awake. The five minutes she wants from you even when you're already running late. One more book. One more dance. One more lap around the lounge for no reason at all.

I used to see those moments as interruptions. but i'm now learning to see them as the point.

My dad passed away in his 50s. He worked nights for most of my childhood - I didn't see much of him during those years. I don't think he chose that consciously. I think life just moved fast and the moments quietly slipped. That stays with me. Not as guilt, but as a reminder that time doesn't ask permission before it moves on.

There's a philosophy I keep coming back to from Die with Zero - that the utility of money declines as we age, but the value of memories compounds. I believe that. Which means the return on reading Goodnight Gorilla at 9pm on a Tuesday is higher than it looks in the moment. Those are the deposits that compound. Not the late nights finishing work. Not the extra hour on the laptop writing this after she's asleep.

Shanshan and I talk about this a lot - being intentional about saying no to things that pull us away from what actually matters. It's not always easy when ambition is in your nature. But I've found that protecting these moments doesn't slow you down. It reminds you why you're building in the first place.

Childhood feels long when you're in it. Looking back, it's incredibly short. The routines will change. This version of her will slowly become a memory.

So here's the question worth sitting with: what's the last moment your kid asked for one more minute of you - and what did you do with it?