I am not a homeowner. Nor do I plan to be one anytime soon. Yup. We're proud renters. Proud-ish. I hate to admit that over time I have become secretly envious of people who can afford to buy homes around these here parts.
We make enough money to get by in the city. We do pretty well by most standards, but compared to the majority of L.A. parents with million dollar homes, luxury cars and nannies, we're practically homeless.
This obviously didn't faze me when I lived in a studio apartment overlooking the 101 freeway, a block south of Hollywood Blvd. Getting solicited by potential johns, flashed by freaks in trench coats and getting caught in the crossfire of drug busts was just part of the charm of the neighborhood.
In those days I was more impressed with living behind Bukowski's former watering hole than crown molding and refurbished hardwood floors. But I didn't have a kid then. I didn't even have a dog.
Somewhere in the whole baby-making whirlwind, priorities shifted and suddenly the little white picket-fenced home doesn't sound so bad. Yes it does! No it doesn't! Yes it does! No it doesn't!
(And so goes another argument in my head.)
We currently reside in a charming old duplex with two bedrooms. We HAVE a backyard, which is a first for me in the city, and still, I can't help but feel self-conscious when the local parenting elite discusses home-ownership and real estate and having a gardener. I smile and hum-di-hum-dum and pick dirt out of my fingernails and "I think I hear my mother calling..."
Because even as I rebel against the stereotypes of modern parenthood, it's easy to get sucked into the cluck-cluck-clucking of the mom squad. Suburban. Urban. Country. It's all the same. And as more and more parents wait to have children, more and more parents who accidentally got pregnant young feel a little on the outside. *Cough*
Waiting isn't a bad idea. Waiting is probably the better idea-- Waiting until you know your spouse or boyfriend before you commit. Waiting until you have a stable job. Insurance. Some extra cash in a savings account. Debt paid off... That’s Smart. That’s practical.
But for us, it didn't work out that way.
When Archer was born we had $300 in the bank. Barely. And even though we've crawled out of our hole, somewhat, it doesn't change the fact that times are tough. And sometimes I fantasize about being able to buy a house, or at the very least, going to open houses and writing down my real information in the guest book.
I once dated a man who said he wanted to have at least $5 million in the bank before he even thought about having children.
"Five million, eh?"
"That way you can afford a decent house and private school and still afford a family vacation once in a while. Five million is the perfect amount to get started."
And he wasn't alone. $5 million seems like the unanimous number among peers, the ideal number for "getting started."
And even though it sounds kind of crazy. It DOES sound about right. You really do have to have that kind of money to send your kids to private school and own a mansion and three fancy cars and a staff of gardeners and chefs and personal trainers and nannies.
If that's what you want. (And seriously, who wouldn't want that? Don't lie.)
There is no way we could afford to buy anything in our neighborhood unless something really major happened, like I became the next Celine Dion. (A dream of mine, obviously.)
...Still, I can't say I don't fantasize about it. Because no matter how much I fight the societal stereotypes and keep a "punk rock" attitude (Yeah! PARENTHOOD IS ROCK AND ROLL. WOOOOOOOO!) A part of me dreams of having it all, too. The private schools for my kid and the housekeeper and all of things parents today are waiting to be able to afford.
Delusional, right?
The grass may be greener on the other side of Beverly but at least we have grass. And a yard. Even though it's tiny and I can't figure out how not to kill the plants. And even if we rent forever and Archer doesn't grow up with a pool or a spotless house or get a Range Rover for his 16th birthday, at least he'll have spots of grass here and there. And a sandbox that looks like a sailboat. And two dogs. And parents who love him.
Because at the end of the day, it isn't the homeowners association that counts. It's what happens inside the home.
And sometimes with all the "stuff" on parade, it's easy to forget that.
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