“Uh,” I respond. “Sure thing.”
He bolts into the yard, darting through the thicket of trees that lies between our homes.
“Try not to be a bother,” I call after him, as if he understands the weight of those words. His younger sibling follows closely behind.
I send a quick text to Lana. “The kids are over here. If they become too much, feel free to send them back.” Her reply is reassuring: “No problem.” Yet, I can’t shake the worry.
I genuinely adore my neighbors. I really do. While I’m not particularly religious, it feels as though some unseen force has blessed us with the gift of wonderful neighbors.
And I’m terrified that my family might do something to ruin it.
Seven years ago, before our little ones came along, my partner and I built our home in a serene area of Pennsylvania. Moving to a more rural setting means one can relish in the luxury of space. Sure, we have neighbors, but with each house spread over an acre, they’re not exactly next door.
During the construction of our home, an amiable older couple set up a modular home next to us. They were kind and friendly, generally keeping to themselves. Across the street lived another nice family, though their children were older than mine, who were just infants at the time. Then last December, both families moved out in the same week.
“Don’t worry,” people reassured us. “Maybe a family with young kids will move in.”
Yeah, I thought, what are the odds?
“We’re all on our own,” I told my partner, Jake. “I don’t like it.”
After a long winter where the snow lingered until April, I spotted a moving truck next door. I dashed around the house in excitement. A mover unloaded colorful plastic toys into the backyard. Border collies roamed the lawn.
“They have kids!” I exclaimed. “And dogs!” But then anxiety crept in. What if their dogs barked through the night? What if they blasted their music? What if they let their grass grow taller than my 4-year-old? Maybe being alone was better. Maybe neighbors were overrated.
I wandered over to the edge of our property and peeked through the trees. I waved half-heartedly and shouted, “Welcome!” I introduced myself to Sam and Mia, who had moved from Ohio.
Yes! Fellow Midwesterners! They’re known to be some of the friendliest folks.
I immediately invited them to my daughter’s first birthday celebration. “It’ll be in our backyard. We’re serving Mexican food, and we’ll have a piñata.”
“Stop trying to sell them on it,” Jake interjected. “They’ll come over.”
“They could have chosen anywhere, and they picked next door to us,” I insisted. “Their kids are the same age as ours. We’re so fortunate.”
Fortunate is an understatement. Not only do our kids enjoy playing together, but Mia and Sam are fantastic. Mia is a former educator, just like me, and we’re the same age. Sam loves to barbecue and is an avid football fan. He and Jake bond over sports and craft beers. We’ve started having Memorial Day cookouts and spontaneous Friday evening barbecues. Sam and Jake even cleared a path through the brush, so our kids can run freely between our homes without having to cross the street. My kids squeal with joy whenever they see their neighborly friends outside. I no longer need to wrestle the iPad from their hands and plead with them to go play. They’re scrambling to put on their shoes before breakfast is even served.
I often follow them over to Mia’s to catch up. The conversation flows easily, and hours slip away. Jake comes home from work and chats with Sam about paving our gravel driveway over a casual Tuesday beer. No need to wait for the weekend to socialize; they live right next door!
But despite the joy, I can’t help but worry. It’s not the carefree 1980s anymore. I find myself fretting over things my mother never considered. Are my kids being bothersome? Is my youngest throwing a tantrum? Should I call the boys home? Should I pop over there? I don’t want Mia to feel obligated to entertain me. I suggest sending all the kids to our yard to give her a break, but they’re having so much fun that no one moves. So here I sit in my kitchen, typing away, feeling a tad guilty.
The boys return shortly for their swimsuits, eager to splash around in the neighbor’s sprinkler. I hope they’re not imposing.
Did my mom ever wonder if I was overstaying my welcome? Most times, she didn’t even know whose yard I was playing in until she shouted my name from the door. She used to send me outside with strict instructions not to come back for an hour. It was a game of chance, and I’d often find a friend on their swing set or racing their bike. What started as a mundane day transformed into an afternoon filled with laughter and play with neighbors. That was the essence of a summer day in my childhood—no plans, no schedules, just wandering around until I bumped into a buddy and returned home with dirt on my face and sweat on my brow.
But now, in 2023, we live in a more controlled environment. Playdates are meticulously planned. Kids rarely roam outside unsupervised. Living in a rural area means a 20-minute drive is often required for my son to visit a friend. I’m always near my children, in a way my mother never was.
I know Mia feels the same way. She recently texted me an apology because the boys came home covered in mud.
“Are you kidding?” I replied. “My boys are happily muddy after running through a sprinkler on a hot summer day.”
It doesn’t get any better than this.
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Summary
The author reflects on the joys and worries of having new neighbors and watching her kids play freely, contrasting her own childhood experiences with the more structured parenting of today. Despite her anxieties about being a good neighbor, she cherishes the connection and camaraderie of living next to a kind family.
Keyphrase: No Barriers Make for Great Neighbors
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