#Why the coronavirus pandemic can’t tempt us to leave NYC for the suburbs

“Do you hear a lawnmower? Does anyone else hear that?”

This happened a few weeks ago. Someone was presenting a meeting on Zoom. And a senior leader couldn’t focus because of that deep growling, slicing blades of grass. The owner of the lawnmower remained silent.

“Does anyone else hear that lawnmower?”

“It’s not my lawnmower,” I finally proclaimed out of frustration. And more importantly, frustrated that it wasn’t my lawn being groomed: “I don’t have a lawn.”

In this pandemic, I have become obsessed with lawnmowers. Cathedral ceilings with beams. Is that open shelving under your quartz countertop island? Is that a finished basement with a wet bar? A mini home theater and a hot tub. Wait, you have a swing set with a clubhouse and climbing wall in your own backyard? Where your kids can run around safely while you sit and work or drink or pass out, or all of the above?

For eight years, my husband and I have lived in Jersey City, NJ, a quick train/ferry/Uber ride from Manhattan. We had both of our two children here; we had our son during Hurricane Sandy and survived that storm. We have said goodbye to friends who moved to suburbia and we never saw again. We have made new friends in Jersey City. And we have stayed.

Despite the persistent questions from family members — “When are you getting a home? Why do you live in the city?” — we have remained proud and loyal city dwellers.

“I have a home, this is my home,” I would loudly emphasize to anyone who thought our 1,500-square-feet condo was a transitional residence. For our Indian immigrant parents’ generation, the dream was always a very large home. With a living room featuring a full couch and love seat no one was allowed to sit on, and a grandfather clock that chimed annoyingly every hour. With a full dining room set and Lenox china only to be used when guests visited. In some cases, a finished basement with another kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. A sunroom with loads of plants. A small room or spare closet converted into a temple. A multicar garage when there were only two cars. The riding lawnmower.

According to the recent US Census Bureau’s American Community Survey, rural areas cover 97 percent of our country but contain 19.3 percent of the population (about 60 million people). Meanwhile, among Americans living in urban areas, almost 65 percent reside in a single-family home. But those who live in and just outside the Big Apple mostly crowd themselves into apartments, because we want to be close to a place where work opportunities (and play opportunities) are plentiful.

My husband and I live near Manhattan so we can tuck the kids into bed most nights and some mornings walk them to school. We live near Manhattan for the Museum of Natural History and the Central Park Zoo. We live near Manhattan to raise our children in a community that reflects a myriad of cultures. We live near Manhattan to take public transportation, hoping the kids will take the subway on their own as they grow. And we live near Manhattan so we can eat amazing pizza and bagels. Along with sushi, cupcakes and fancy coffee drinks.

In an instant, all the reasons to live in a big city disappeared. The streets emptied out, the playgrounds were locked up and the local bagel shop closed. Suddenly we questioned the quality of life we had so carefully chosen. Why did we choose to have a home next to a yellow ferry that would take us into an empty city instead of a home with the swing set, the fire pit, and the trampoline in the backyard?

Sometimes during Zoom meetings, I would peer past the person participating. I’d smile and pretend to listen and then gaze deep into their homes. I’d spot kids playing in a sandbox just beyond the deck. I’d get a glimpse of a cul-de-sac perfect for learning how to ride bikes. And then a shirtless grandfather would float by, abruptly ending my daydreaming.

Because some of my peers have retreated to a “second home” also known as their parents’ home. The definition of the second home has expanded, no longer reserved for the lucky 6 percent in the country who own a second home as a retreat. Second homes now include homes of all family and friends who live anywhere but in a city, for access to a backyard and childcare help, of course.

On a Saturday night, during a virtual happy hour with my two best friends, they bantered over getting trampolines for the summer and possibly above-ground pools. Slip N Slides and sprinklers and camping in the backyard to get them through a summer of no daycare, no summer camps, no childcare. I took a big gulp of my rose cider and wondered: How will I get through summer 2020?

But I already know the answer. My kids will slip on swimsuits and splash around the bathtub. They will go for a daily fake nature walk with masks on, where like a video game they dart to avoid people. They will go up and down and up and down the steps of the post office to have a good night’s sleep. And then binge on Netflix and Disney .

We will skip the swing set, the fire pit and the trampoline. Perhaps all overrated luxuries except, well, in a pandemic.

We will wait for our cities to be rebuilt. To go back on that yellow ferry. To feel the wind in our face, blowing our coronavirus-length hair all over the place. We will be back in Manhattan. We are still proud city dwellers. Waiting for our city lives to start back up again. We will wait.

Mita Mallick is the Head of Diversity and Inclusion and Cross-Cultural Marketing at Unilever.