The Suburbs: Not For Me After All

In the early fall of 2004, my husband and I had it all. We lived in the adorable neighborhood of Philadelphia called East Falls, we had great friends a couple doors down, and we were expecting twin boys in the early spring. We started some basic preliminary work on a nursery and got ready to raise an urban family. We loved our neighborhood; we were just a short jaunt into Center City (where I worked) and our drive into town was glorious, along the banks of the Schuylkill River on Kelly Drive. We were happy.

Then, tragedy struck. We lost the pregnancy at about six months in late October, and I nearly died as well. Suddenly, I couldn't bear to look at the room that we planned to make the nursery, so we simply closed that door and ignored it. For months. Then in the spring of 2005, one of our neighbors casually mentioned what the houses on our block were selling for -- roughly three times what we'd paid initially for our house, and the bug to sell and move was planted.

We listed the house, and began our search for a new home. We wanted to stay within the city limits, so we checked out all the neighborhoods that met our criteria; good people, big trees, and houses with yards. We checked out Roxborough, then Germantown, then Mt. Airy. We quickly realized that we would have to either buy a very run-down place that needed a lot of work (we are not people who do work on our houses unless something breaks) or win the lottery to be able to afford to live in those neighborhoods, so our search turned to less expensive neighborhoods like Overbrook. My husband hated Overbrook, sadly.

Eventually, our search drifted to the western suburbs. No, not THOSE suburbs: we couldn't afford the Main Line either. We started looking at Drexel Hill, then landed firmly in neighboring Lansdowne. Lansdowne is such a pretty town, particularly in May (when we were looking), and we fell in love. After looking at over a dozen places, we found the ONE: the house we wanted. After the stress of selling and buying a house, we finally arrived in our new home in July of 2005.

At first, everything was blissful. We loved the huge tree in our front yard, the shared driveway, and the extra space that came with our new house. The town itself is charming, we had friends living here, and they picked up the trash not once but TWICE a week, even coming down the driveway to collect the trash (the first time this happened, we actually thought we were being robbed, until we realized they were wearing uniforms and only taking the trash).

In June of 2006, we finally became a family of three when I had my daughter Victoria. For the next year, everything was nearly perfect (there was a bit of drama before I quit my job to become a freelance writer, but other than that, it was great). But, eventually, something happened.

I don't know what it was, exactly. It started with everyone assuming we were my daughter's grandparents, because there were few, if any, parents with young kids in town. Then there was the constant pressure from neighbors to have a second child, including one person saying that I simply HAD to have a son for my husband. Then as my daughter approached toddlerdom, we'd try to chat with other parents about coping with a difficult toddler and the advice we got was nearly universal, and involved hitting our child in some fashion or another.

Suddenly, the friendly chats with our neighbors turned awkward. We began to feel out of place and uncomfortable. At first we chalked up our reservations to the fact that we're totally snobs (which we are, and we know it) and tried to fight it. But eventually we found ourselves driving twenty minutes into West Philly to take our daughter to Clark Park's playground, where we found ourselves meeting lots of parents like us -- both in age and parenting philosophy. As an added bonus, no one at Clark Park blinks at either our big dog (a pit bull mix) or my large number of tattoos. Bliss!

My husband and I have taken to viewing real estate in the city again on line, jokingly calling it "house porn" and dreaming of moving again. But the truth is, we're back at the same spot: we'd have to win the lottery to be able to move. The neighborhoods we long to live in are still too pricey for us, and lord knows we don't want to try to sell a house in this market. So we're stuck: not happy where we are, and uncomfortably aware of that fact.

The conclusion we've come to is that if we are meant to move, something will happen that will make it possible. We'll know what we're supposed to do, and if it's meant to be. In the meantime, we'll try to focus on what's good and stop thinking about what's bad. Luckily, it's summer, so we're enjoying our local swim club and walking around the neighborhood in the evenings catching fireflies. That's one good thing about the suburbs: fireflies. Sigh. Now, back to house porn!

This an original post for Philly Moms Blog by Cecily Kellogg. Cecily normally focuses her whines and ire at her personal blog, www.uppercasewoman.com.