Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

My husband and I are house-hunting -- again. This time it will be different. This time, we'll meet our new neighbors before deciding whether to make an offer on a home.

The first time my husband and I looked for a house together, we had several real-estate agents search the listings on our behalf, and we gave no thought to who would live on either side of us.

We spent most of our free time going from townhouse to farmhouse in our quest to find the perfect home. And we found one every weekend. Every time, someone else bought it. We were a little too late with our offer, a little too low or a little too unlucky.

Just before we ran out of energy and interest, we lucked into a two-bedroom, 2.5 bath place with only one flaw -- all the walls were the color of smoked salmon. We bought some paint, then we bought our first home.

Three years later, we had an infant. Suddenly, the sunken living room and long flight of stairs weren't romantic; they were dangerous. And the patio overlooking the golf course wasn't going to do as a back yard. So we called an agent.

Because we had a child, we didn't just look inside the homes we considered; location mattered. We focused on local schools, convenience to weekend activities and our commute times.

We weren't looking for a neighborhood like the ones we grew up in: affluent, suburban, segregated. For the first 10 years of my life, most of the kids in my neighborhood were white boys. I certainly didn't want to subject my son to the same homogenized lifestyle.

Still, I was less concerned with the people nearby than I should have been. On a street with six houses, we were surrounded by two elderly women, two married couples and one rotating rental.

The couple down the street had two daughters and the couple who lived next door to us had a little girl. All the kids became good friends and, later, the adults did, too.

But over the years it became clear that one of the elderly women was really unfriendly and the other was racist. It was also clear that my son was facing a micro version of my childhood dilemma; just as I had been surrounded by boys, he was surrounded by girls.

Before we moved to Florida last year, I spent every weekend I was there driving around, determined to find the right school and a neighborhood full of boys who attended it.

Rather than buying immediately, we opted to rent, and the revolving door in our apartment complex swings both ways. Our stability has made our home the neighborhood gathering place, which Colter has loved. And he has not lacked for young company.

Before the moving van arrived, Colter had met the two boys who lived downstairs: a fellow first grader in the classroom next door to his and a third grader who shared his love of Pokemon and Yu-gi-Oh!

Since then, Colter has developed friendships with other kids who live here, and the little boys downstairs moved out. Our new downstairs neighbor is a scary woman who is bothered by the noise a 7-year-old makes when he hops off the couch, practices karate or plays piano.

So, once again, we've started looking for a new home with the help of some friends who live in a quaint town nearby. As desirable as their very lovely street is, there's a bully who lives there, so their kids stay inside much of the time.

When real-estate agents say location is everything, they aren't just talking about property values and traffic and crime. They know that when I say I want a cozy fixer-upper within walking distance of the elementary school and the bookstore downtown, what I really mean is that I want there to be plenty of good kids for Colter, with parents whose company Gary and I will enjoy on those long summer nights when we're all outside.

They know I'll pay them a hefty commission because they've got inside information that's critical to us: it's the neighbors who make -- or break -- a neighborhood.

Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.