My son calls me on his way home from work.
He started this after buying himself a little old house he was going to fix up and start his first nest egg. He was living alone, and he felt lonely going home to a construction site. The whole time he lived there, it was a construction site because, surprise surprise, tearing out walls is a cheap part of the construction, replacing the walls requires supplies. Supplies require money.
So, he called me.
Ten minutes while he drove home. For a while, he called his girlfriend on his way home, but then they got married, and he was back to calling his mother.
We don’t see each other often. We live several states apart. We don’t have “quality” time with one another very often.
But sometimes ten minutes is quality time.
Ten minutes was “quality time” when he was little and would crawl in bed on cold mornings.
Ten minutes was “quality time” when we would stand at the stove, him on a stool to reach the frying pan, and I taught him how to flip pancakes.
Ten minutes was “quality time” driving home from third grade when he asked what intercourse was.
Don’t worry about your inability to provide “quality” Disneyland trips or “quality” resort weekends. When our adult children find space and time to gather, they don’t talk about amusement rides or snowmobiling in Yellowstone. Usually, they laugh hilariously about cheating at Uno and how many times they ate burnt pancakes.