I recently experienced a pair of SCV moments I now believe must be inherent to anyone who lives more than few years in the Santa Clarita Valley.

The first occurred while I was at the mall with my wife and two young daughters. By my rights, it should have been the kind of satisfying moment a husband and father works for. Flush from the pleasure of a Saturday afternoon at the movies, the four of us weaved through the crowded plaza in front of Borders Books, eager to punctuate a fine day with a meal out.

Just then, my eyes caught the glances of a group of teenagers who were hanging out in front of the fountain. None of their glances were mean or even intentionally unkind. Truth be told, they hardly noticed us at all.

But in the brief seconds that they did, they seemed to arrive at a shared conclusion about us - one that, as its implications sunk in, threatened to spoil what had been a fun day with the family.

In their eyes, we were members of the "stroller nation." We represented the very reason some define the collected cities of Canyon Country, Saugus, Newhall and Valencia, not as parts of the Santa Clarita Valley, but rather as "Pleasantville," "Mayberry" or even "Stepford."

To them, I was the same as all the moms and dads leaving the Valencia 12 that afternoon. I fit the stereotype of one who works hard all week for the privilege of enjoying free time with the family on weekends. No more. No less.

I suppose it's silly that such an observation should have bothered me at all. Why should what I think about what a group of teenagers might believe matter?

Yes, I have lived for 10 years in a community that provides a safe place to raise my children.

Yes, I love that when I take my girls to the park (and there are many) I run into other moms and dads who are happily doing the same thing.

Yes, I enjoy the wide streets and the good schools. I love the paseos, the parks and rec sports and have even been known to turn up at Chuck E. Cheese on special occasions.

Isn't that why I moved into the SCV in the first place? Isn't that why most of us did?

So what troubled me? Perhaps it was the notion that holding onto what I liked best about the SCV meant letting go of something I might have clung to as a youth.

"In their eyes, we were members of the 'stroller nation.' We represented the very reason some define the collected cities of Canyon Country, Saugus, Newhall and Valencia, not as parts of the Santa Clarita Valley, but rather as 'Pleasantville,' 'Mayberry' or even 'Stepford.'"

If living in this valley is truly akin to living in "Pleasantville," what sort of bargain had I struck when I moved in? What had I surrendered?

My answer came a few weeks later, and therein lies the second of my two moments.

I was sitting in my backyard during a party we were hosting for the first birthday of a dear friend's daughter. The heat was oppressive but an ice chest full of Cokes and water bottles kept the worst of it at bay.

A few of us were parked under a small patio umbrella, swapping stories about work, children and which team might win the NL West.

Every now and then, a few kids poked out of the back screen door to pull a juice out of the chest and spend a few minutes running around before escaping to relative coolness inside.

I didn't know I was grinning until a friend asked me what was so funny.

I shrugged. "Nothing." But that wasn't altogether true.

I had been thinking about that group of teenagers at the mall and I was laughing at my own stupidity.

There in my backyard, it occurred to me that I hadn't changed that much in 20 years; I wasn't so different from those young men and women and they weren't so different from me.

Like them, I still wanted to know the comforts of friendship. I wanted to surround myself with a community of likeminded people. I wanted a place where I felt I truly belonged.

In other words, what I wanted is what I have - what all of us have here in the SCV... or whatever people may be calling our town these days.

There's no surrender in that.