We crammed four humans (and two cats) into a tiny studio apartment for 18 months…
For about 18 months now my wife and I have lived in a 374-square-foot studio apartment in downtown San Francisco with our children (6 and 3), plus two cats, mostly as an experiment. This is an attempt to capture some of the highlights, lowlights, and lessons learned.
But first, some context. The most common question we get asked is:
Are you nuts? Why are you torturing yourselves?
With the cost of housing in the San Francisco Bay Area being notoriously high, we hatched an idea to try to “beat the system” by cramming the whole family into space that typically hosts just one human.
Here’s a timelapse of a typical weekend day spent in the space (wife is absent because she’s running errands when this video was captured):
From a home economics perspective, it’s working for us. Our all-in housing costs (including property taxes, utilities, HOA dues, etc.) come in at under $2k each month, which is just about 30% of the median household income for San Francisco ($78,378). (There’s a rule of thumb that says households should spend no more than about 30% of gross monthly income on housing.) Most families of four are paying much, much more for housing in SF.
We like the idea of living much more cheaply than the norms of the culture suggest we should be able to. This is a topic for another post, but frankly, I think Americans have hedonically adapted to a luxurious standard of living that brings little actual happiness in the short run, and that makes financial independence much more elusive in the long run.
Outside of the joy of the deal, and the philosophy underpinning the decision, we’re also convinced that tons of space isn’t necessarily a good thing for families. Over the last 100 years, home sizes have steadily increased while family sizes have steadily decreased, with the net effect being more space between family members. And it hasn’t made us any happier. So I question what we’re getting out of all of the space, other than increased desire to buy consumer cruft to fill it up.
What have we learned from the experiment?
Young kids are difficult in any space. They use outside voices when indoors, they cry and yell regularly, they ask hundreds of questions per day (literally), they demand attention and time… and I don’t think I’m going out on a limb to suggest that all parents wish they could escape to a man cave or she shed from time to time. In our tiny space, there is no escape. There’s a door between the bathroom and the rest of the space, but potty-training requires that this door be kept open at all times, even when the bathroom’s in use by any of us. There is no escape. So when mental health requires it — especially at the tail end of a rained-in, three-day weekend — one of us stays home with the kids or heads out with the kids, while the other gets blissful alone time.
An unintended benefit of the tight space is that we can keep a close ear on the kids as they bathe, even if we’re lounging at the far end of the studio, some 30 feet away. Another benefit is that everyone’s always in conversation range, always, so perhaps there’s been some growth in vocabulary and language skills as a result. For example, I’m certain that my children have superior command of certain four-letter words vs. peers living in palatial two-bedroom apartments. Mixed blessings.
Cuddles are priceless, but costly. We don’t have the luxury of four beds. We have one bed (technically, not even a bed, but a couple of twin-sized futon pads that roll up and stow in a cupboard every morning), and all of us share it. So if one of us is coughing all night, all of us suffer. If someone’s grinding their teeth, all of us hear the gnashing. One of our kids loves to kick and thrash in their sleep, and the rest of us get pummeled. Sleep quality is way down, but the sleep deprivation may be offset by the oxytocin overdose that happens when I get to fall asleep while holding hands with two sweet babies at once. Even the occasional footling to my face brings me sweeter dreams.
Pity the neighbors. The walls in our modest apartment building are thin and transmit sound too well. I once apologized to a neighbor about the night-time commotion associated with a sick child, and the neighbor said he understood. Then I let curiosity get the better of me and asked, “how much can you hear, anyway?” He said, “Everything.” I did a double take. “Everything? Like, even conversations?” “Everything,” he said. This particular neighbor, who bears the brunt of our noise pollution, is incredibly patient and only bangs on the shared wall when we’re playing music too loud. Children crying: unavoidable fact of life. But children dancing: too much to bear. I think that’s a fair compromise.
Cooking is a challenge. Weekends, we typically cook three meals at home. We have a gas range, but above it sits a microwave-mounted cooking fan that doesn’t vent to the outside. This fan is basically useless, so we often have to run an air filter at the same time to keep the fire alarm from going off. We will probably leave this apartment because of this shortcoming.
We know the limits. Before we moved in to the studio, we covered one wall of it with floor-to-ceiling kitchen cabinets from Ikea. All of our belongings fit into the cabinets, including the futon mattresses we sleep on at night. The cabinets afford finite space for kid clutter. Just two cabinet sections hold children’s clothes, books, and toys. If a new toy doesn’t fit, a member of toy island must get voted off to make room for the newest arrival. The children understand this rule, and ask for fewer toys. Nothing like San Francisco real estate to teach children the harsh realities of Malthusian economic theory.
They’ll thank us later, they really will.
Ultimately, the need to preserve parental sanity and the need for quiet work-from-home space may force us to move on from this experiment before another trip around the sun, but I’m glad we gave it a shot. After this experience, 800 square feet will feel like ridiculous luxury (because it is a luxury, relative to how most humans live).
… So now that we’re at the bottom of this post, can I ask a favor? Claps really matter. They make writing even more fun and sustain my energy. So go ahead and click on the clap icon for as long as you like. 50 claps is max. Just saying.
