I moved to New York City when I was in my early twenties and swore I would never return to the suburbs. It wasn't my childhood that ruined the suburbs for me; however, it was depictions of it. Specifically, novels that portray the suburbs as a culturally bereft wasteland where dreams go to die.
The culprits included Rabbit, Run; The Ice Storm,and (the worst offender) Revolutionary Road, in which a couple leave behind their bohemian lives in Manhattan and move to Connecticut, where they implode in the most horrifically awful way you've ever seen. No way, I said. Not me. Not ever.
SPOILER ALERT: I moved to the suburbs.
My husband and I left the city for the usual reason — children. Before our first son arrived, it was easy to convince ourselves that we could be hip urban parents, and that our child, with a city full of museums and theaters and good restaurants at his disposal, would grow up cultured and well-rounded.
But then you see beleaguered moms hefting strollers up the subway stairs, and you hear that your kid's life is over if he doesn't get into the right kindergarten, and you realize that you are not a bazillionaire and will never own a brownstone with a yard, and you think about your own happy suburban childhood…and you finally say, "Screw it. We're out of here."
Three and a half years in, my husband and I have no regrets about leaving the city. On the contrary, we feel lucky to live in what we've come to think of as our suburban paradise. It's comfortable and easy. We are always guaranteed a parking spot right next to our house (a whole house!), and the schools are great.
We love our new friends and neighbors, many of whom moved here from the city, just like us. On warm nights we sit on our deck and survey our little patch of land, while New York City glows like a night light just 20 miles to the east.
So why did we beat ourselves up about leaving? Why did it seem like "giving up"?
For one thing, the suburbs are where our parents lived. They are what we "escaped" in search of excitement and opportunity. I also think that, in addition to loving the city itself, I loved what living in the city signified about me: that I was sophisticated and ambitious, that I was on the verge of doing something big. I had only to pick among the endless possibilities that were open to me.
That worked for about a decade, sure. But at a certain point I could no longer deny that my possibilities had dramatically thinned and receded. And then I had a baby and realized it had been months since I'd set foot inside any of the cute restaurants and bars that were so close to my apartment, which was two flights up and getting to be a real pain in the butt.
And here's the thing: Leaving wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. It was a bit sad in the sense that a part of my life had ended. And really, that part (the free, unencumbered youth) was over long before we made it official by moving. In other words, it's not really about a change in geography as much as it is about the passing of time.
I would argue that leaving the city is not about giving up but letting go — not of ambitions and creative pursuits, but of the idea that living in a city is essential to leading a fulfilling life.
Sure, I miss the bars and restaurants and concerts (and readings and plays and parties), but even if I lived there right now I would still be in bed by 9:30. And sure, 25-year-old me would be horrified to see 40-year-old me cruising down the street in a Chrysler Town & Country, singing along to Taylor Swift, on my way to Target for the third time in a week. She'd be depressed to know that I have "date nights" and attend jewelry parties and wear exercise clothes while not exercising. But 25-year-old me (slim and attractive as she was) made a lot of questionable choices, so we shouldn't put too much stock in her opinion.
She also did a lot of cool stuff while living in the city, and I'm glad that she — er, I — had the chance to do it.
I'm also glad that I can let my kids run around in our backyard while we wait for my husband to come home and put dinner on the grill. And I'm glad that we did not turn into Frank and April Wheeler from Revolutionary Road, though I still like to read about characters like them — preferably while stretched out on a lounge chair, with the buzz of lawnmowers and the smell of cut grass providing the backdrop.
