We’ve always had good luck with neighbors.
Make that great luck.
In Columbus, my neighbor Lucy saved my sanity. The two of us quit the working world together and ventured into the then unknown world of stay-at-home moms. We’d talk every morning and figure out a plan for the day. Even if it meant opening our front doors and letting the kids frolic together in our shared yards, it kept us on track. Plus, it ensured that we’d each have someone over the age of toddler to talk to.
Moving to Cincinnati six years ago, we fell into another great situation. Play dates, neighborhood camping trips, summer happy hours, progressive dinners. My boys believe that neighbors are instant, built-in friends. And why wouldn't they? That's all they know.
That’s why we’ve been waiting patiently for our new neighbors to arrive. They purchased the home across the street from us this spring but for weeks we see only the dad enter and exit with a variety of paint cans.
Today, I see movement across the street. “I think they’re home,” I say to the boys. “Should we go see?”
After a morning of swim practice, they’re less interested in meeting new neighbors and more interested in SpongeBob. “Or I could just go?” I say.
“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” F. answers without shifting his eyes from the television screen.
I arrange some dahlias in a tin can and head over.
“Are you here? We’ve been so excited for you to move in,” I say when the mom answers the door. The family has two boys that fall in age between my oldest and youngest.
“Yes,” she says and motions for me to come in.
I step through the front door and hand her the flowers. “We’re so glad,” I start and the conversation flows effortlessly from there. A new friend, I think. The streak continues.