On the Outside in Suburbia

Decatur, where my brother lives, is a city of families.  Full of child-centered activities and child-centered amenities.  Non-parents are definitely in the minority.  I don't think I've seen a single one in the three days I've been here.  My guess is that any non-parents who might live in Decatur are either in their houses working on becoming parents (yes, I mean it what way) or holed up in a coffee shop somewhere, scanning realtor.com as they realize what a terrible mistake they've made.  Because living in Decatur and not having kids is like marrying into a family of a different ethnicity and culture: you're the outsider, and the only thing that's likely to make you less of an outsider is having kids.

I didn't realize this when I got onto a plane Friday morning to come visit my brother and sister-in-law.  I assumed that it would be similar to the last few times I've visited, when they lived in a loft apartment right off the interstate in Atlanta.  They'd work during the week, we'd play with the kids the rest of the time, and when we walked around their neighborhood, there would be other people like me to remind me that I'm not the only person on this planet that is my age and does not have a kid.

I never thought I'd miss Atlantic Station's Target so much.

The new neighborhood is undeniably better for my brother and sister-in-law.  There are families in every house, and they've just started to bond with some of the younger ones, creating potential play dates and parent get-togethers.  I'm happy for them, truly I am.  They used to talk about how nice it would be to have parent-friends, and their dream is finally coming true.

Of course, it's not perfect.  On Sunday around 3, we drove downtown to a local book store for story time before hitting the street for a local Halloween parade, where some of their parent-friends met up with us.  Which wasn't the plan.  The plan was for everyone to meet up at one of the houses at 2:15 and walk to story time together.  I felt bad for my brother.  There we were, sitting on the steps in front of his house, wondering where everybody was, trying to call to find out where everybody was, while Alice--who had no nap whatsoever--tottered around the driveway, and Paige--who we woke up early from her nap so that we'd be on time--cried whenever you tried to get her to do anything.  Sometimes, even when you weren't.  I mean, I get it.  I recently cried into my mom's shoulder after a few sleepless nights.  But being an adult, I've learned how to hold it together when I need to.  Being a two year old, she has not.  She was GRUMPY, like tired, snot pouring from her nostrils as she screamed grumpy.  And Chris wasn't in the greatest mood, either.  Here he was, risking the wrath of Paige to be on time for parent bonding, and the other parents flaked because their kids weren't ready yet or were sleeping.

I think I hate that most about some parents.  They've always been flakes, even in their pre-children days, but now that they can blame it on their kids, they feel like they have a legitimate excuse.  (You do not!  Be realistic about the plans you make!  Call as soon as you know you're going to be late or if you can't make it!)

Story time was not bad.  But when a 28-year-old hipster walked up and took a seat in the reader's chair, I have to say, I was a little surprised.  Chris had told me that Decatur used to be a hipster's paradise, but that their northern yuppie money eventually attracted families.  I thought the hipster race had been banished by this point.  And yet, here in living flesh was a fully-committed hipster.  He wore the standard skinny jeans, plaid shirt, and knit cap, completed with glasses and ironic facial hair.  Had the other store clerks been dressed up for halloween, I would've thought it was a costume.  I couldn't stop looking at him.  Surrounded by families of all different colors, shapes, and sizes, he was the one who stuck out.  Put him in the Bywater in New Orleans, and you may not have noticed he even was there.  But Decatur is not the Bywater.  Not by a long shot.

He had middle guy's clothing choices...

...with this guy's facial hair...

...and this guy's average looks.

Of course, I was out of place, too.  I was the only non-parent, non-nanny, non-hipster at story time, and I felt it.  I carried Alice around for ego protection and read book recommendations to avoid human interaction.  Hopefully no one would ask me how old my "daughter" was.  I didn't want to sheepishly explain that I was a poser, a fifth-wheel aunt visiting Decatur.

By the time we got to the parade, there were already families lining up along the streets.  One of the sets of parents that Chris knew arrived shortly after we did, and while the kids ran around and pushed strollers with no one in them (not in the street, of course), the adults tried to talk a little.  Most of the talking centered around their children (of course), but I appreciated that a few of the parents tried to make small talk with me about non-kid things.  One had gone to UVA and had been in the Curry School, too, and one used to live in New Orleans and knew the mother of a kid I teach right now (small world!).  Otherwise, I listened quietly to the goings-on of parent-to-parent conversations: where did you get that costume, how was your kid's nap, etc.  When the parade started, I started to relax.  Between the throwing of things (candy, this time) and the music (brass band called AfroBeat), I had a super odd sensation that I hadn't had all weekend: I was comfortable in Decatur.  The parade was mostly cars and people in costumes, but it felt more like home.  It was like a Georgia-fied, more appropriate, Halloween-themed Krewe du Vieux.  The most scandalous it got was when a local belly dancing group showed up.  "They naked," Paige said, worried they'd forgotten the other part of their shirts.  My brother and I laughed.

The truth is, I'm a little worried about my future as a non-parent.  Not so much about the lack of children (if anything, I'll be glad to get some quiet when I return home).  But this weekend has gotten me thinking about the social repercussions of childlessness.  I'm worried that in time, all of my friends will have kids, and I will feel the feelings of this weekend every day of my life.  I'm an extrovert.  I need people and social activities to keep me going.  What will I do?  Will I have to make friends with much younger people?  Or way older people, like empty-nesters?  Will I have to find a contingent of other people like me, who can come out drinking on a Saturday night and we can become our own special group of outsiders: The Sometimes-Babysitters Club?  Will I have to come up with small-talk conversation starters that don't require parent knowledge but don't exclude it either, like: "How about those wars in the Middle East?  Pretty crazy, right?"

Or maybe it's not that complicated.  Maybe living in New Orleans instead of Decatur gives me some extra options.  Maybe I can just continue to live the way I currently do: amongst parents and non-parents alike, bonding over things we have in common and seeing each other when we can.  Maybe the reason I felt like an outsider this weekend wasn't because I wasn't a parent, but because I don't live here and I don't have much in common with the people I met.  Suffice it to say that had it been another city with non-parents instead, I might have felt similarly out of place.  Maybe it's not about being a parent at all.  Maybe it's about finding people who you want to talk to, no matter how much snot they have on their pants.