On a weekday afternoon this summer, I threw my 2-year-old in the air as she landed back in the pool, and we erupted in laughter. Feet away, cars and trucks whizzed by on the highway overpass.
Four decades earlier, I’d swum in the same sparkling blue, New York City Parks pool. Amidst the surrounding chaos of the city. I pretended to be a mermaid as the sun hit my red hair, and tanned my shoulders. Now, at 45, I’m rife with freckles, likely a result of those carefree summer days spent happily splashing in the sun.
Moving back to my childhood neighborhood as an adult wasn’t my plan. The Craigslist apartment listing was vague. Once there, I realized I was in the new leasing office of the complex where I’d grown up.
The 80-acre property, with meticulously manicured green space, was built in the 1940s as middle-class housing for returning World War II veterans. Now, the complex is a multi-generational space that houses original renters, new families, and recent college graduates.
Before I knew it, I’d rented an apartment, just steps from the building where I’d been raised. Culturally, moving back to your hometown can have a negative connotation. In movies, it’s often shown as a step backward, or failure. For me, it was the opposite.
There was comfort in living where I’d been raised
This place, where I’d lived for four decades, had seen every version of me. A 30-year-old daughter mourning the loss of her mother. Later, as a wife, desperate for a baby. Tortured by the green spaces that seemed like the perfect place to raise a family. Then finally, as a parent.
I’d grown up with my single mother as a cliché New Yorker who barely knew her neighbors. Now, as a mom myself, everything looked different. The community I’d always known was a new exploration.
The metal jungle gym I climbed was long gone. Replaced by a modern, blue slide and climbing walls. The well-kept lawn, once restricted from use, was now a hub for gatherings, movie nights, and slow, summer days.
My daughter already had certain privileges I never experienced like air conditioning and a dishwasher. As well as leisurely walks with our Goldendoodle, on a property that just 15 years ago didn’t allow dogs.
During last winter’s historic snowstorm, we took a walk to the same spot I ran to for sledding on a snowy morning in the 90s. Gleeful kids came flying down, igniting memories of when I did the same, in my own modest saucer. I’d once deemed this hill scary. Now it appeared almost miniature to me.
I’m reliving parts of my childhood with a new perspective
Returning to my old neighborhood has given me a chance to do things differently on the other side. As an older toddler mom, I’ve formed micro-connections that have provided healing and comfort, even in the big city. I don’t just know my neighbors, I consider some of them good friends.
I also utilized something my mom never had, social media. I’ve lurked in the local virtual city hall to read daily gripes and connected with other moms about tips for getting our kids to eat dinner, the best carriers, and babysitting resources. I’m more engaged in my neighborhood than I ever was as a kid or young adult, and that’s giving me a completely new appreciation for where I live.
Leaving the pool with my daughter, I was flooded with nostalgia for the summers of my youth. After a day of swimming, my mom would sometimes take me to a nearby McDonald’s as a special treat. Instead, my daughter and I headed to the nearby deli for a turkey sandwich. It’s been a local mainstay for more than five decades.
“I knew your mommy when she was a baby!” the owner told my daughter. Later, we’d walk by the fountain. A spot I’d passed by many times without a thought. Now, it’s become a pitstop for whimsy and curiosity.
My daughter isn’t yet old enough to understand the significance behind these spots, but forging her childhood — in the same place I experienced mine — has been an indescribable joy. One I never expected, but am fully embracing.
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