So Sallie Says

All you have to do is take one look at me and know I was destined for the suburbs. And let me be clear: I love that for me.

As a young kid I lived in neighborhoods from the movies: flashlight tag on summer nights, bus stop shenanigans, Halloween block parties — we’re talking total Americana. I’ve also lived in more rural areas, and in more urban areas, and there’s just something about suburbia that feels right.

As I’ve written before, my husband and I bought our house five years ago via a very stereotypical life trajectory. We had an amazing apartment five minutes outside of DC with a great view of the city, that we left to basically go have kids and a backyard. I’ve loved every minute of it, and what I’m most excited for is that I know I’m still evolving into my final form as a van-driving, tote-bagging, soccer mom with a pool, PTA, and pilates studio membership. I know, I’m a visionary.

While I’m definitely made for the suburbs, in many ways the suburbs made me.

First, I got really into the yard. Not gardening. Not landscaping. Just … grass. Yardening, if I may. I understand that grass and yards are basically a blight on the ecosystem but there’s just something about perfectly vertical rows and a well-edged mulch bed. I’m also passionate about pulling weeds, because I love instant gratification and it’s less gross than watching pimple popping videos.

Then, I fell headfirst in love with the pool. Forget churches, neighborhood pools are one of the last remaining institutions that foster American fellowship and community. When the pool opens for the summer the energy is absolutely palpable. Yes, by August we’re all a little grossed out by the temperature of the baby pool, sick of trying to rub in mineral sunscreen, and definitely hate a few kids, but early June at the pool is unmatched. It’s a suburban summer oasis, where the water is warm and the gossip is hot.

I learned how to use power tools. I agree, I’m not meant for manual labor, but within one year of moving to the ‘burbs I felt I needed a miter saw, like I’d been possessed by some guy named Dennis that works or maybe just loiters at Ace Hardware. My husband and I grossly overestimate our aptitude for DIY projects (which usually are only finished after my father-in-law comes to rescue us) and estimating the time to complete a home improvement at our house is a little like converting Celsius to Fahrenheit (x 2, add 32 business days).

I’ve become friendlier since I moved to the suburbs. I never spoke to neighbors in my apartment, which is really weird because we quite literally shared walls. It just wasn’t the vibe. If I see a fellow young mom in the suburbs I’m asking where she got her diaper bag, what playground she likes best, what elementary school her kid will go to, and what birth trauma she endured, probably all within the first ten minutes of meeting her. Despite this, I’ve somehow managed to make more friends here than the rest of my life combined.

I’ve always been a nosey little creep but there is nothing I love more than the neighborhood Facebook groups. I don’t keep up with the news but I do keep up with NextDoor, and you better believe I want to know what Susan thinks that helicopter was doing at 4:24am. A potentially rabid fox in Alan’s yard? I will absolutely be weighing in in the comments.

So yes, I’m locked in to the lifestyle. I own a leaf blower. I change out my garden flag for the seasons (they all feature cats – in the snow, in the sun, in the leaves, you get it). I judge people who don’t bring their own chairs to the 4th of July parade and I think decorating for Halloween but not Christmas should be a fineable offense. Suburbia isn’t where I thought I’d peak, but honestly? I’ve got a Costco membership and an active group text about raccoons and that’s LIVING, baby.