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Abstract

m scared of heights, which is also true, but it’s not the primary reason. After all, my fears haven’t stopped us from visiting the mountains.My kids love our trips. As we slowly rounded the sharp turns of Colorado’s back roads this summer, my middle child said, “Mom, my favorite part of our trips isn’t where we go stay. It’s the part where we drive. We always laugh and have so much fun as a family.” Even at his age, he understands sometimes the journey matters more than the destination.We rented a cheap cottage from VRBO when we visited Colorado. After gas and lodging, I had $100 left to get us through the week. We ate peanut butter sandwiches at the wildlife reserve and split a bag of microwave popcorn each evening. I packed granola bars and tuna pouches for our daily hikes around town. It was a wonderful family vacation.All that hiking made it easy to resume healthy habits once we returned to Missouri. As we were walking toward the woods that surround our trailer park, my youngest asked, “How come we never walk to Fresh Thyme or Target anymore? Remember that time we laughed so hard trying to carry all that stuff home from QuikTrip?” He’s referencing the time we lugged a 24-pack of bottled water home during the 3-mile walk from the gas station.I don’t tell him we walked there because my car always needed repairs. I don’t mention that when I finally got a new car, it was repossessed twice, so we went months without transportation. Instacart, Grubhub, Shipt, and DoorDash didn’t exist in our area yet, so delivery was out of the question unless we wanted pizza. We didn’t — and still don’t — have buses or trains in our city.My family walked to stores out of necessity, but my son thought we were just spending quality time together. I’m not about to correct him. He deserves to have those happy memories.After all, we find joy in everyday activities and familiar comforts. Recently we visited Walmart on payday, and I was feeling generous with triple digits in my bank account. Walking toward the bread aisle, I announced, “Guys, it’s your lucky day. You can pick any brand of hot dog buns you want for dinner.” This was a big deal because we usually just buy the store brand or whatever has a coupon available.My son gazed at the shelf, then excitedly said, “Oh, let’s get the good ones! The Great Value hot dog buns. Those are the best!”My son thinks store-brand hot dog buns that cost$

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0.88 a pack are the best. This shouldn’t surprise me because he’s the same child who constantly thanks God for our big, beautiful home. “We’re so lucky to have this place,” he tells me. We live in a single-wide mobile home nestled in the center of a crowded trailer park.I used to be embarrassed when my kids’ health care providers and educators would visit us at our tiny trailer. One of my kids has special needs, and his toddler days were filled with home visits for various therapies. As my kids got older, in-home physical therapy and speech therapy sessions were replaced by counseling appointments. One day I teared up as I spoke to one of their counselors on my porch, explaining that I wished I could give my kids more.She told me she grew up poor herself, then said that even if I lived in a big home it wouldn’t change anything. “No parent is perfect,” she continued, telling me she sees kids all over the county. Kids in trailer parks like mine, and kids in giant houses where both parents have great jobs. These kids all live in different environments, but they have similar struggles.It was the conversation I never realized I needed. After hearing so many depressing statistics about kids who grow up in poor, it was a great reminder that wealthy families aren’t always living better lives than everyone else. I think about this conversation again as I dump cans of black beans and corn in a pot with some gluten-free macaroni I got from the clearance rack.“What’s for dinner, Mom?” my son asks. I show him the $1.50 meal I’m preparing, and he’s delighted. “You’re the best cook ever! I bet other kids’ moms aren’t as creative as you,” he yells, running back outside to play with his friends.I watch from the window as my kids and their neighborhood crew gather piles of sticks and debris from abandoned trailers. They’re building another fort. I text one of the moms a picture of their adventures and ask if she wants to take a walk with me later. She’s upbeat and compassionate, the kind of friend anyone would be lucky to have.I understand now why my son thanks God for our wonderful home. Our friends are just a quick walk from the front yard. We have a fridge full of food, even if it’s mostly markdowns from the discount rack. When we watch movies together, four fluffy cats snuggle up beside us on the free couch I got from a friend. We’re happy, and life is good — because we made it that way, together.</article></body>

My Kids Don’t Know We’re Poor

We’ve made happy memories in the trailer park, and that’s what matters.

I’ve rented the same mobile home for the last 8 years. That means my younger kids have spent most of their childhood in a trailer park; my oldest, nearly half her life. Before that, we stayed in various condos and apartments, none of which were as nice as our current home.

This trailer was meant to be temporary, a place to catch up financially after a costly court battle. Then I fractured my skull, rebuilt my career, and went through another expensive legal nightmare. Like many of my neighbors, I’ve started claiming I’m leaving the trailer park soon, maybe next year. Most of us say that every few months, but we’re still here.

I’ve accepted my fate, and I’m not mad about it. I used to think I’d get out of here if I just worked harder. So I wrote more articles. Sold more stuff on Facebook. Delivered more food via DoorDash and Instacart. Took more college courses so I could finish my degree faster.

I also racked up more health problems. More bills. More unexpected expenses. More stress and exhaustion.

So I’m here in this trailer park for God only knows how long, and I’m making the best of it. I used to feel guilty for not being able to give my kids a fancy house in suburbia, but they don’t care. In fact, they don’t even realize we’re poor. They enjoy living here.

Even as I’m typing this, my son is sharing memories of happy times. “Mom, remember that time when it was winter and you let Snickers take a few steps in the snow? That was so fun!”

Snickers is the scrawny cat we took in after yet another neighbor in our trailer park had kittens. There are a lot of strays in my neighborhood, though births have decreased thanks to a spay and neuter grant from the local animal shelter. If you’ve ever been to the cities in Florida where cats roam free, you probably understand. We love traveling there because it reminds us of home.

We take our own car when we travel because I can’t afford plane tickets. I tell my kids we drive because I’m scared of heights, which is also true, but it’s not the primary reason. After all, my fears haven’t stopped us from visiting the mountains.

My kids love our trips. As we slowly rounded the sharp turns of Colorado’s back roads this summer, my middle child said, “Mom, my favorite part of our trips isn’t where we go stay. It’s the part where we drive. We always laugh and have so much fun as a family.” Even at his age, he understands sometimes the journey matters more than the destination.

We rented a cheap cottage from VRBO when we visited Colorado. After gas and lodging, I had $100 left to get us through the week. We ate peanut butter sandwiches at the wildlife reserve and split a bag of microwave popcorn each evening. I packed granola bars and tuna pouches for our daily hikes around town. It was a wonderful family vacation.

All that hiking made it easy to resume healthy habits once we returned to Missouri. As we were walking toward the woods that surround our trailer park, my youngest asked, “How come we never walk to Fresh Thyme or Target anymore? Remember that time we laughed so hard trying to carry all that stuff home from QuikTrip?” He’s referencing the time we lugged a 24-pack of bottled water home during the 3-mile walk from the gas station.

I don’t tell him we walked there because my car always needed repairs. I don’t mention that when I finally got a new car, it was repossessed twice, so we went months without transportation. Instacart, Grubhub, Shipt, and DoorDash didn’t exist in our area yet, so delivery was out of the question unless we wanted pizza. We didn’t — and still don’t — have buses or trains in our city.

My family walked to stores out of necessity, but my son thought we were just spending quality time together. I’m not about to correct him. He deserves to have those happy memories.

After all, we find joy in everyday activities and familiar comforts. Recently we visited Walmart on payday, and I was feeling generous with triple digits in my bank account. Walking toward the bread aisle, I announced, “Guys, it’s your lucky day. You can pick any brand of hot dog buns you want for dinner.” This was a big deal because we usually just buy the store brand or whatever has a coupon available.

My son gazed at the shelf, then excitedly said, “Oh, let’s get the good ones! The Great Value hot dog buns. Those are the best!”

My son thinks store-brand hot dog buns that cost $0.88 a pack are the best. This shouldn’t surprise me because he’s the same child who constantly thanks God for our big, beautiful home. “We’re so lucky to have this place,” he tells me. We live in a single-wide mobile home nestled in the center of a crowded trailer park.

I used to be embarrassed when my kids’ health care providers and educators would visit us at our tiny trailer. One of my kids has special needs, and his toddler days were filled with home visits for various therapies. As my kids got older, in-home physical therapy and speech therapy sessions were replaced by counseling appointments. One day I teared up as I spoke to one of their counselors on my porch, explaining that I wished I could give my kids more.

She told me she grew up poor herself, then said that even if I lived in a big home it wouldn’t change anything. “No parent is perfect,” she continued, telling me she sees kids all over the county. Kids in trailer parks like mine, and kids in giant houses where both parents have great jobs. These kids all live in different environments, but they have similar struggles.

It was the conversation I never realized I needed. After hearing so many depressing statistics about kids who grow up in poor, it was a great reminder that wealthy families aren’t always living better lives than everyone else. I think about this conversation again as I dump cans of black beans and corn in a pot with some gluten-free macaroni I got from the clearance rack.

“What’s for dinner, Mom?” my son asks. I show him the $1.50 meal I’m preparing, and he’s delighted. “You’re the best cook ever! I bet other kids’ moms aren’t as creative as you,” he yells, running back outside to play with his friends.

I watch from the window as my kids and their neighborhood crew gather piles of sticks and debris from abandoned trailers. They’re building another fort. I text one of the moms a picture of their adventures and ask if she wants to take a walk with me later. She’s upbeat and compassionate, the kind of friend anyone would be lucky to have.

I understand now why my son thanks God for our wonderful home. Our friends are just a quick walk from the front yard. We have a fridge full of food, even if it’s mostly markdowns from the discount rack. When we watch movies together, four fluffy cats snuggle up beside us on the free couch I got from a friend. We’re happy, and life is good — because we made it that way, together.