Looking for Housing While Pregnant

Pappa Sleeping © Sarah Small

There are a few decisions one can make when looking for a new place to live in an in-between state like mine. A: Not mention the fact that a kid is on the way. B: Skip to the chase and just say you already have one. After a few rounds, I have chosen option B to an interesting effect. Upon explaining that the 2 bedroom unit is just for me and my child, I have had multiple landlords ask me next whether I am Section 8.  It seems in this great metropolitan area in which I live single mom must equal welfare mom. Good to know that I am a soon-to-be proud member of a deeply resented (yet rapidly growing) national statistic!

In any case, it is considerably different looking for housing with one on the way than how I have done it in, say, the past 20 plus years. I mean, I have lived in some tough neighborhoods, and in some amazing diamond-in-the-rough Craftsman homes, complete with Wedgwood stoves, inlaid wood floors, and buttloads of built-ins, to a very comfortable degree. But shouldn't I be looking for a bit more out of my community than tree-less streets and cemented lawns, not to mention dueling corner liquor stores and speed-bumps? You know, for my daughter's sake? I have looked at more than a few, roomy, affordable places and excitedly thought I could work with this, despite the foreboding feeling of the block. I am used to having my car broken into–even used to discovering that someone has been reclining in my car and haphazardly drinking liters of Coke all night–because I loved the Mediterranean, 1920's duplex in which I happily lived. And it seemed a small price to pay to live in the culturally vibrant, urban center that I did.

On the other hand, I have to cringe at the cookie-cutter, gated, townhouse communities with kid-friendly pools and safe play structures and their utter lack of visitor parking. But those are the exact places in which it would probably make the most sense for this stereotype to live. And it is only my pride–and my snobby, arty/liberal/individualist bent–that keeps me from signing on.

Sigh. Between the sweet old bungalow with the occasional gunshots and the suburb-within-the-city, fancily-named apartment complex, I just might end up staying put. At least I know what I am working with. And though I do get depressed when it feels like I will be cramming my daughter into my already crammed 1-bedroom apartment, my friends assure me that it is mostly the boob she will care about for the first few months of her life.