I sometimes question whether the quality of time spent with someone is diametrically opposed to the quantity. When I was working 10- and 12-hour days sandwiched between hellacious commutes, I missed my one-year-old son's bedtime two or three nights a week.
Yes, I lost just a couple of hours each night, but this meant whole stretches without him. I might as well have been out of town. When I did make it home by 8 or 9 p.m., however, he would stagger then sprint into the hallway to greet me. He'd be out on the steps hollering away.
Now that I'm home most days, I've lost my novelty, my rareness. He loves me no doubt, as I do him. But it's been a long time since he's rushed to me.