The Proximity Dividend

My 10-year-old sits in the passenger seat as we ease into the elementary school carpool line a few minutes before the bell. Some mornings are filled with silence from the dread of the school day while others are filled with music and singing. A few mornings bring deep life questions I try to answer with the most age-appropriate response I can find.

On this particular morning, we can feel the summer heat rolling in. The windows are down and we are talking about Memorial Day plans. She loves to travel but isn’t a fan of long car trips. I think it traces back to the car sickness that she has mostly grown out of from her younger years.

I present a few options to get her opinion and she slowly and methodically rejects each one. Then she tells me she has an idea.

Since her sister will be out of town with a friend, mom and I could take her older brother to the mountains instead. She can stay home alone and would be just fine. The negotiation goes like this.

I start to laugh. “You really think you can stay home all by yourself?”

“Yes, I would have so much fun and everything would be just fine.”

“But you’re way too young.”

“No I’m not. I’m already 10 and I know some friends who have stayed home alone.”

“What in the world would you do with yourself?”

“I would relax after a long week of school, walk to the pool, and invite my friend over to hang out. I can handle the food and it would be pretty easy.”

My mind goes to Kevin in Home Alone, one of her favorite movies. I picture her inviting a few of her crew over, indulging in sugar-loaded meals, watching YouTube Shorts and movies, and playing with makeup.

“Please, pretty please.”

The bell rings and we’ve moved up to the drop-off point. I smile and tell her I think she knows the answer. She knew her mom and I weren’t going to let that happen.

With some disappointment in her voice, she grabs her backpack. “Bye, love you.” She’s off for another day.

Lately these drives have been the most we talk all day.

For the past several months I’ve been spending more time with her and my other two kids. My wife was mandated back in the office four days a week recently with a minimum of 8 straight hours a day in the building.

More of the morning and afternoon logistics have shifted to me. School drop-offs, evening activities, the orthodontist appointments that seem to come every few weeks, grocery runs, meal planning, laundry, dishes, and companionship for the dog. These are small daily adjustments that don’t look like much on a calendar but shape the whole week.

A few weekends back, I was the one chasing my youngest between four soccer games in two days while my wife had the others.

At times it’s inconvenient. I get pulled away from work that needs focus, and some projects take longer than they would if the day had fewer interruptions.

But the tradeoff has been hard to ignore.

I’m getting more time in the car that is filled with more small conversations and more ordinary moments that would be easy to miss if the schedule didn’t have room for them.

Since COVID I’ve been obsessed with designing a life around more flexibility. I thought I had a pretty good understanding why. I wanted room to protect time for health, family, writing, and the work I cared about.

These past few months have shown me something more specific. I’ve spent so many years trying to keep every part of life moving, and somewhere in there I made peace with being half-available at home. I would be sitting at the dinner table while running the next day in my head, in the car between activities while drafting a message I needed to send, in the kitchen making meals while thinking about a problem from work that wasn’t going to get solved that night.

My family would tell you that I was technically present. But I wasn’t this present.

I was too focused on the next thing. Flexibility isn’t just about fewer meetings or more control over the calendar. Sometimes it gives you proximity to the people you say matter most.

I’ve started calling that the proximity dividend.

It is the time you get with someone you love because your calendar had enough room to let the moment happen.

Nothing about it was engineered. It just showed up.

There’s probably something in your life that only becomes available when your calendar has room. A person, a moment, or a piece of your own work that’s been waiting on a season that never seems to arrive.

What would you have to make room for to notice it?

My daughter lost the argument to stay home alone. She is, however, very good at negotiating. Yesterday she convinced me to detour towards a coffee drive-through on the way to school because I was looking and feeling tired. She knew a donut was part of the arrangement and then told me how much she was looking out for me.

I smiled, obliged, and told her not to tell her mother.

What would you notice if your weeks had a little more room?

If you want to, email and let me know. Even one sentence is fine. I read them all.

Also, if someone came to mind while reading this, feel free to pass it along.

Until next time.