It's a Sunday afternoon. My son and I are in our toy-littered house. He's playing a computer game, while I file retirement-plan statements. After a few minutes he looks up and asks, "Will you teach me how to file, Daddy?" "But why, my boy?", I ask him. "It's not particularly interesting."

　　Tommy, age eight, says, "Well, you do it all the time. That's why."

　　Later, Tommy and I lie in bed together, watching a television documentary. Tommy asks me dozens of questions, most of which I can barely answer. Then, without a word, he lays his head on my chest. After ten minutes he says "I'm tired, Daddy" and falls asleep, breathing lightly on my pajamas. It's like being in heaven, only the place is here and now.

　　When Tommy entered our lives in 1987 I was not a very good father. I had been conflicted about adopting and was constantly in fear about my career. I also felt neglected, as many fathers do when life revolves around the new baby and Mommy. I sulked, spending little time with infant Tommy. But three events changed that and, in a way, redeemed my life.

　　First, a close friend spoke about fathers who are too obsessed with their careers to spend time with their children. This was not just bad for the kids, but also a waste for the parents. Children are a bottomless well of love and esteem for their parents, he said, if parents use only a litt1e effort to tap it. To the rest of the world you're just a worker; to your kids you can be an idol. For me, who suffered constant humiliation in my work, this philosophy had great appeal.

　　Second, another friend told me I should be paying attention to the years when Tommy was young and wanted to be with me. "The time will soon come when he doesn't want to be seen with his mother and father. Make your bond now when you can." Since I could recall when I had stopped wanting to be seen with my parents, that comment, too, made sense.

　　The capper came when my son was about 18 months o1d. I stood by his crib, reading a nursery rhyme.

"Goodnight, Tommy," I said. In a composed voice he answered, "Good-night, Daddy" I hadn't even known he could talk, except to say "dog" or "Da-da." Yet here he was using an entire phrase, and saying "Daddy" with far more affection and warmth than I deserved. I was shaken when I left his room, and he's been my No. 1 priority in life ever since.

　　We're together a lot. Because my work schedule is flexible, I pick him up from school most days. I make him do his homework——and redo it, if necessary. Usually I prepare dinner and tell him his bedtime stories.

　　Time with Tommy has been my biggest investment success. We have an extraordinary relationship of sharing. He assumes I know everything. ("Daddy, why did the Germans develop a jet plane before we did?") He also assumes I can do anything. Once when we were late for a movie, he said "Daddy, call and tell them to hold the picture until we get there." Until very recently, when he scraped his knee he believed I could make it better by kissing it.

　　I notice that when I pick Tommy up at school, or when we're shopping on a weekday afternoon, I am the only father there. All the other dads are working and, l assume, earning much more money than I am.

　　This makes me envious at times, but never for more than a few seconds. I feel I've learned something others

have missed: If you work hard, you can usually make enough money to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head. If you don't get promoted this month, there's always another chance. But the years between 5 and 15, when your child is insightful and affectionate, go by astonishingly fast.

　　No billionaire can turn his surly 16-year-old into a devoted, hold-your-hand youngster. No corporate title can replace the times when your son leaned his head on your chest and fell asleep. No limousine or private jet makes up for being there when your son is growing from a child into a young man. Time spent with Tommy isn't a distraction from the main event. It is the main event.

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