What Children Want from Parents More Than Anything Else
We're so busy chasing the wind that we leave the children behind
Ford Jones, image credit Pop Pop Jones!
It was the Summer of 1967. I was six years old, sitting on the front steps of our modest house near Boston, eyes fixed on the street, waiting. My dad’s business trips felt endless back then, the days stretching out like shadows.
He drove an old green Volkswagen Bug—faded paint and a sputtering engine I could recognize from two blocks away. Every time a car rumbled by, my heart leaped, hoping it was him. And when it finally was, everything else fell away.
He’d pull into the driveway, a warm, loving smile spreading across his face as I bolted toward him. His arms wrapped around me, the smell of his business suit traveling the world, and his aftershave.
In that moment, nothing else mattered. Time stopped.
Growing Up Slowly
Growing up, we lived a decent middle-class life. My dad worked long hours, traveling more than he wanted. But when he was home, he made the time count. When I was nine, he left his corporate sales job to manage a small hotel so he could be with us every night. That decision changed everything.
We moved to a quiet town in New Hampshire. Family dinners replaced business trips, and evenings were spent playing catch in the yard. He was home; for a kid like me, that meant the world.
When I hit my teenage years, I was a mess of rebellion and bad decisions. I experimented with alcohol, hung out with the wrong crowd, and made choices I’d rather forget.
I’m the kid who would have landed in the state juvenile detention center were it not for my father and mother. It’s also true I was never the guy who was in a rush to “grow up.”
My dad stayed steady; his patience was endless. He was like a mystic or saint to me, a hero by all means, beyond words.
“Clifford, you can always tell me anything that’s going on,” he’d say. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or where you’ve been. We will always love you. Please remember that.”
It wasn’t just words. It was the way he showed up every single time. He'd listen no matter how late I stumbled in or how angry I made him.
My father could hear what people didn’t say, knew how to read and feel people out, and had massive doses of empathy and compassion.
He’d hug me like nothing else mattered. I can feel his presence now.
Being Pop Pop Jones
Now, I’m a grandfather. My grandson, Ford, just turned two. The other afternoon, he waddled over to me, his little hand reaching up with all the urgency in the world.
We wandered the backyard until we found a sunlit bench. I picked him up, and he tucked his head against my chest, falling asleep to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
It was pure, unfiltered love. The same kind my dad gave me. Here’s an image one of our children captured.
Pop Pop Jones and Ford, image credit Jones Clan, through the screen window
Kids Care
Our kids don’t care about the promotions we chase or the gifts we buy them. They care about the time you spend with them—no distractions, no phones, just presence.
My dad’s Volkswagen Bug was nothing fancy. But it brought him home. And those moments when he stepped out of that beat-up car and wrapped me in his arms?
Those memories, the smells, the images, and the love were my most incredible riches. I can easily share this wealth with my children and grandchildren.
I’m 63 now, but I can still feel his hugs and hear him telling me I belonged. His presence was the foundation on which I built my life despite all my mistakes.
I do my best to be a steady presence for our children and grandkids, to show them, through time and attention, what matters most.
We chase many things, but real wealth is when we give to the people we love.
Everything else is just noise. Be still and know that.
I help conscious consultants, coaches, and trusted advisors build a cohesive, high-impact brand and single-source marketing system that attracts clients, automates growth, and scales effortlessly. Learn more at www.BrandEquityPlaybook.com.