The day my daughter first rolled on her back, I left for work two hours early. I set my alarm for 6 AM, dragged myself out of bed without waking my wife, and tiptoed out of our midnight blue bedroom. Leaving before sunrise is easy … or at least easier. I can kiss Olivia’s cheeks, stand over her crib for a minute, and see only her eyelids. This means I can avoid her open eyes and their enlarged pupils, which beam even in the dark with innocence and – I hope – adoration.

I left before dawn so I could record dawn. I’m a reporter for an Atlanta TV station, and I had scheduled a full day of shoots for a story that would air a day later. I planned to profile a local DACA recipient who paints murals on Buford Highway, our city’s famed 20-mile stretch of international cuisine and culture. I wanted to capture the highway at sunrise, when adults and children spill out from their apartment complexes and await their various buses.

But I was slow to get out of bed, which meant I was slow to leave, which meant I arrived at Buford Highway minutes after the pink and orange blasts of sunrise gave way to blue. I missed the moment, and while I still got many of the shots I wanted, I wasn’t sure how I would fit them into my story. I asked myself, “Why did I leave my wife and daughter to get a few halfway-decent shots that most viewers will barely notice?”

But I know why. And the answer is now its own question I have yet to resolve.

***

I have guided my career with ambition and perfection. That’s tricky in local TV news, which demands its reporters meet daily deadlines regardless of circumstance. Can’t make that extra phone call to get more background? Can’t watch your story one more time before sending it to air? That’s generally fine, as long as you “make slot” and don’t make any glaring errors. But I always wanted to do more than make slot. I wanted to produce stories that stood out. So I pushed myself, working to get faster and more efficient to turn a more meaningful product. And when I received extra time on an in-depth piece, I relished it. I worked 12- and 14-hour days with regularity to deliver the kinds of pieces that win awards and get shared by millions – or at least get a few 6 PM viewers to pick up their heads during dinner. These days I work exclusively on long-form stories, and my schedule reflects it.

My wife understands. I demonstrated early that, if I missed a few Friday night dinners, I would always come through where it counted. When she was pregnant, I came to nearly every doctor’s appointment. In the months before Olivia arrived, I worked a slew of extra days so I could extend my paternity leave to four weeks.

But it doesn’t always work. We got married the weekend before November sweeps, which meant I needed to return to work two days later to cover a major story about casinos … in Tunica, Mississippi. I spent three days six hours from home, wondering why I had cut short the most euphoric feeling of my life to grind away in a tiny town. And it’s spilled into friendships. I missed a good friend’s wedding in 2016 to cover the Olympics. I missed another friend’s wedding in 2017 to cover the World Series. I have chosen a profession that consistently asks the most important people in my life to accommodate me.

Now I face someone who should never need to accept that.

***

The day my daughter first rolled on her back, I arranged my shoots to enable an extended lunch. Since I got up early and would be shooting late, I planned to come home for three hours in the early afternoon. I walked in the door at 12:45, conducted Olivia’s midday feed, and then watched with my wife as our daughter did “Tummy Time”. This is where we take our child, who has spent most of her seven weeks sleeping on her back, and place her stomach-first on a play mat.

We used to clap with joy when she picked up her head. But for the past few weeks, Olivia had advanced to lifting her legs and torso off of the mat, seemingly so close to propelling herself onto her back. We thought she might roll over by Week 5. Didn’t happen. We predicted she would do it during Week 6. Didn’t happen. I began doing “assisted” rolls with her, laying Olivia on her side and wedging her arm under her hip so she would naturally fall back. I went to work every weekday knowing I’d miss a few Tummy Times, halfway hoping she’d finally roll over, halfway hoping she’d wait until I got home.

This time she twisted her body 60 degrees before rocking back the other way. After ten minutes, Olivia gave up. I swaddled her, ate lunch, and logged a few interviews at home while she slept. Three hours later, I kissed her cheeks, said goodbye, and turned swiftly toward the door before her beaming blue eyes could ensnare my gaze.

***

Every parent goes through this, I assume. Every parent must sacrifice time with his or her child to make enough money to provide for that child.

But I don’t do the minimum. I work overtime. I stretch my limits. I switch my schedule. I didn’t need to shoot at sunrise and sunset. I could have fit all of my shoots into a 9-to-5 schedule. But I wanted to capture the best possible video and tell the most emblematic story. I figured I could compartmentalize my time at work with my time at home, as long as I stayed fully in the moment wherever I was. And I did this instinctively, because I have always done this, and it has almost always worked out.

I don’t want Olivia to get used to that. I want her to expect me at her recitals and soccer games, not to grant me forgiveness for missing them to work yet another Saturday morning.

I often receive e-mails from college students, interns, and young journalists seeking advice about their careers. I encourage them to think big in a profession that tends to steer small. I offer myself as an example. But I also implore them to consider the consequences, to be sure they’ll want the life of a journalist when they’re 30, 40, and 50 years old. They can’t imagine kids yet. Neither could I. But I’m living it now. I’m loving it now. And I’m hoping against hope I can have it all.

***

The day my daughter first rolled on her back, I missed it. I was recording footage just before sunset when my phone buzzed. My wife’s photo came up.

“She just did it!” my wife said. “Olivia just rolled on her back!”

I won’t lie: I felt deflated. I hid it in my response: “She did? That’s great!” But as I heard the details of Olivia’s triumphant roll, I mostly wished I had been there to see it. I had missed a milestone to make a good story great. I had put my job before my child.

I pushed through the rest of the shoot. As the sun fell behind the highway, I packed up my gear and went across the street for a quick burrito. I needed a few minutes to myself, to gain some perspective.

In the short term, I did. I thought of how I don’t remember my first roll-over, or my first steps, or my first words. My parents tell me I read the New York Times aloud at the dinner table when I was two. I have no clue. And surely Olivia won’t remember that I wasn’t there for this.

In the long term, I still worry. I worry I will always want to push myself in my career. I worry I will struggle more to compartmentalize my time when Olivia develops her own thoughts, ambitions, and busy schedule. I worry I will always risk missing milestones – or a recital or soccer game. I worry I will strain further when we welcome another child. I worry Olivia – and whoever comes next – won’t get the father they deserve, the father I want so desperately to be.

I scarfed down the burrito and headed home. I finished the story the next day, and I spent the majority of my weekend bonding with my child. We took her to the Dogwood Festival, Atlanta’s magnificent outdoor art show, for her longest stroll yet. I read her nearly a dozen books. I fed her a half-dozen bottles. I danced with her to doo-wop songs from the Fifties. I even witnessed her roll on her back again. I cherished the weekend more than any I can remember.

I know the tug will occur again. It’s occurring right now as I write this essay, wondering if I should instead gaze at my seven-week-old while she sleeps. But for now, I seize every second when she’s awake, so that for any moment I miss, I can point to hundreds more we have made.

The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.