Life as a stay-at-home father has made me recognize that each day is filled with significant and insignificant moments. One minute you’re wiping another spit-up spot from the rug, and the next you’re witnessing your daughter as she waves to herself in the mirror for the first time.

I recently had one of those watershed moments that put everything in perspective. On a Tuesday afternoon, I learned that I love my daughter more than a parking spot. That may sound silly, but you should know it was a really good parking spot.

Living in Cobble Hill in Brooklyn means a few things. It means you are in the minority if you are walking the streets without a stroller. And if you own a car, it means a sizable portion of your intellect is consumed by parking stress. This used to be a slightly amusing challenge before Layla came along. But throw a baby into that delicate parking dance, and suddenly you’re working with two left feet.

Since I took over at the parenting helm, I have developed a pretty reliable system based on knowing Layla’s schedule as well as I know the alternate side of the street parking suspension calendar. If only Layla’s schedule was posted on the city’s official Web site. Of course, the key to the system is to not jeopardize Layla’s nap. As a certified mom, I know that losing a nap is simply not an option (trust me, I’ve field-tested the scenario).

So there I was: I had just split off from my mom crew after a successful, albeit drool-filled, afternoon on the swings. As our menacing formation of strollers split, I considered asking one to roll with me for support during my parking adventure. But no matter how many diaper bags and burp cloths you pile on me, I am still — at the core — a man. And men don’t ask for help when it comes to cars.

As I turned the corner to survey the general parking status, the wind blew a little colder. Layla started crying, so I zipped up her ridiculously warm and cozy stroller attachment. (My wife, Rachel, had bought a stroller cocoon so snuggly, I am pretty sure the only way to rival it would be to immerse Layla in an actual sac of amniotic fluid.) Between the sack — yes, they call them sacks — and the gentle bumps from the cracked sidewalks, Layla was snoozing before I reached the end of the block.

But the parking demons were beckoning. As much as I tried to turn the stroller toward my apartment, I was drawn to my car by this inhuman force. I was at a crossroads. I could see my apartment two blocks away, but to my left was a glowing, golden Tuesday spot — directly across from my car! I wouldn’t have to move my car for a week — unless, God forbid, I actually had to use it.

I thought: Do I dare wake her up and strap her into her car seat during an inevitable cry-filled transfer? Or should I just bring her home? It’s cold and she’s sleeping. I faced an inner battle.

Where were my moms when I needed them? No matter. By the time I called for help, the spot would be gone.

I looked from the spot to my sleeping daughter and back. I considered stopping a passerby and asking him to watch Layla for the 37 seconds it would take to move my car across the street — but then decided against it. Not because I thought it was necessarily a crazy idea, but would I be able to tell my wife that I put our only child in the hands of a total stranger in exchange for a parking spot? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but my gut told me something didn’t sound right there.

To my surprise, when the cartoon angel and devil on my shoulders quieted down, the spot was still there (and people say postbiblical times are devoid of miracles). Just then, I realized I was standing outside the brownstone of a neighborhood couple that gets gaga over Layla’s goo-goos. The light was on. Good enough for me! I rang the bell. I practically got whiplash from turning to Layla, then to the spot, and back to the lit doorway. Nothing. I rang again. Whiplash. Still no answer.

Some would have given up at this point. But I’m not like some. I know the value of a spot. And if you have ever parked in my neighborhood, I’m fairly certain you would have done the same. I strolled to the car, took out my keys, and pressed the unlock button, secretly hoping the “honkhonk” might arouse Layla. An air horn couldn’t penetrate that sack.

I opened the door and went to move her from her stroller and into her car seat. I looked to see if the spot was still there. It was still shining like a beacon. But when I went to unzip the sack, there was Layla — just a pair of eyes surrounded by fleece. The cutest, most peaceful sleeping eyes I have ever seen.

I couldn’t do it. I cursed the parking demons. I cursed God for giving me such a cute girl. And I strolled home knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I love my daughter more than a really good parking spot.

Sara Berman is on maternity leave. Mr. Kaunfer is a writer and an animation producer.