Sometimes, You Need to Complicate Your Life
A year and a half ago, my partner and I left California and moved into my parents’ building in Florida’s so-called "Riviera" of Sunny Isles. They had owned the condo next door for a decade and had previously alternated between keeping it open for family and renting it out. We became their new (discounted) tenants, with the perk of their youngest grandchild living next door.
Technically, the arrangement was brilliant. After three years in Los Angeles, where I’d had to add a babysitting tax to every evening outing, we suddenly had access to on-demand childcare and the ability to do whatever we wanted, whenever we pleased. All the problems I had encountered in California — the meticulous planning, the limited social activities, the last-minute cancellations — were suddenly a thing of the past, replaced with impromptu dinners, daily workouts, and more free time than I knew what to do with. Whenever I would describe the setup to fellow parent friends, they would wistfully sigh and proclaim, “That’s the dream!”
It was the dream, and I took full advantage. I went out with friends and joined in on all-girl staycations. Dave and I traveled every few months without an inkling of guilt about leaving our child with a stranger. I would send my mom off to Sunday morning swim lessons with Sasha and lounge by the pool with a book, a true forgotten luxury. My parents were always cooking, so I abandoned the endeavor altogether, raiding their fridge twice a day and galvanizing “family dinners” so I didn’t have to feed my brood. At some point, I stopped buying toilet paper — my father was a Costco loyalty shopper, after all! I went back to living predominantly for myself, tapping into the inner 27-year-old I had been nostalgic about for years.
While everything seemed great on the surface, there were palpable cracks in the foundation that were hard to ignore. To start, I wasn’t always getting along with my (amazing) mother, simply because we were too close, too similar, and too stubborn. Now that she was co-raising my daughter, her opinions were getting louder, causing me to overreact for no reason other than to stand my ground. Speaking of opinions, it suddenly felt like they were everywhere; no matter where I turned, there was a well-meaning family member advising me on how to live my life. The arrangement was taking a toll on my relationship—rather than enjoying my time living in a beachfront paradise with Dave, I was constantly scrambling for personal space and waiting for his next work trip to New York. Finally, I couldn’t help but feel indebted to my parents, as if I’d failed to fully step into adulthood, which, ironically, caused me to act more like a child. It was as if the natural evolution of our roles had reversed and I had spiraled backwards, with them taking care of me instead of vice versa. The air felt sparse. Something had to give.
The thing with comfort is that you tend to get used to it: for lack of a better analogy, it’s hard to go back to economy after flying business. The minute Dave and I started talking about having another baby, I instantly went into panic over the idea of “losing my freedom” and began concocting a bulletproof plan to make the experience as seamless as possible. To start, we had to get a bigger apartment in the building, allowing us to continue to rely on my parents for help. We also needed a nanny, ensuring that my wings would never be clipped, and I could skip out of town with an entire army watching my kids. Dave, determined to get the baby mission underway, rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest.
We started looking at apartments the minute we found out I was pregnant. After touring a number of dated three-bedrooms with ‘80s kitchens and bathrooms that didn’t justify their New York-level price tags, I started looking slightly outside of our beach bubble and found a townhouse ten minutes away. We loved it immediately — it was airy, renovated, and on the water, with my parents’ building peeking from across the Biscayne. And yet, it wasn’t next door to them, which meant I wouldn’t be able to just pop out on a whim and have my mom watch the kids.
Speaking of which, my mother instantly proclaimed the house a deathtrap of steep staircases and informed me she wouldn’t be stepping a foot inside. (Yes, a penchant for drama runs in the family.) My mom and I argued, I cried, and Dave and I spent days weighing out the pros and cons of the decision. Were we shooting ourselves in the foot by removing ourselves from our support system? Could we afford the house and a live-in nanny, which we would likely need given Dave’s travel schedule? (More on child-rearing costs here.) After endless back and forth, we followed our gut and went for it, signing a two-year lease that felt more binding than a marriage (not that I would know!)
Ever since we moved to our new home in February, I have felt renewed. Sometimes, you don’t realize what you were missing until you have it. It turns out that I had been missing space and privacy and distance—from neighborly chitchat, overcrowded elevators, and the feeling of constantly being in a fish tank in a building that doubles as a resort (champagne problems, I’m well aware). I had also been missing an intimacy with my partner and daughter that we had left behind in California, with lazy Sunday mornings and nightly family dinners — and yes, I’ve even started cooking again! Speaking of which, I had been missing responsibility, the kind that comes with being a real adult and not some half-ass version of one, running over to mommy every time she needs a roll of toilet paper or a meal.
Granted, our new life is not without its set of complications. Gone are the days of making plans without informing Dave — each decision has to be made in accord in order to make the delicate balance of our household work. We have to tag team with the kids, coordinate workout schedules, and, in my case, figure out elaborate drop-off arrangements with my mother. (While she still won’t babysit in my “deathtrap,” she’s always down to open up #CampBabushka and watch them on her own turf.) And yet, it doesn’t feel like a struggle, mainly because of the positive energy we have been bringing into the day-to-day. While babies don’t have the best rep when it comes to relationships, having our son has actually brought back a precious time of bonding as new parents, with the obligatory swaddle tutorials, poop talk, and euphoria over him (and us) getting a good night’s sleep.
Another thing that has improved is my relationship with my parents, who are now frequent guests rather than perennial hosts. We now gather in my home for dinners and parties, instead of always going to them, which is both exhausting and rewarding at the same time. Whenever they want to do something for us, I eagerly accept, no longer burdened by that unspoken sense of owing them something. The guest room we set aside for a nanny remains empty, partially because we can’t find one, but also because we’re reluctant to give up the space, the privacy, the rhythm we’ve finally found. While I am constantly at the whim of a tiny human, I don’t mind. This is my job right now, in this stage of my life, and I want to experience every moment, because I finally know how fast it all goes. I may not have enough freedom, but I have a newfound sense of purpose that may be just as valuable.
Sometimes, it takes complicating your life to find clarity. You make trade-offs, shift priorities, and slowly uncover what matters most in the moment you’re in. You realize you can’t have everything at once, and that’s okay. There are seasons for expansion and adventure, and seasons for stillness and nesting with your baby. Both have their place. Both, in their own way, are “the dream.”