Cookie cutter. Cookie cutter. Cookie Cutter. I should’ve known. I married cookie cutter. My life was always going to turn out cookie cutter.

Bernard is a lawyer. I used to be a lawyer. When we met, we were a couple of twenty-four-year-olds trying to make it through law school in one piece. We met at a mutual friend’s party in the early fall of 2009. We hit it off right away, as young couples do, and I’ll spare you the boring details because our past isn’t the story.

The story is that I am the mother of a two-year-old with another on the way in a matter of months. I took my maternity leave shortly before my first daughter was born and have never gone back. Mostly I miss it because I’m severely lacking in the adult interaction department. Yes, I take Ava to her mommy and me classes on the regular but I find that that I can’t relate to the other women. They’re all celebrity gossip and flashy jewelry and weekend houses in the Hamptons. So not me.

When I got pregnant with this second one, I told Bern that it’s time to move. I couldn’t endure another day with the Manhattan Mommies. It was hard enough to try to befriend these women, let alone the fact that roughly 63% of them were the wives of Bern’s associates and boss. I couldn’t handle the stress of the pregnancy, the energy of a toddler, and the feeling of walking around eggshells around a group of women I didn’t even like.

Bern said he wanted to handle the house hunt and I can only say that pregnancy brain took over when I agreed. In my mind’s eye, I saw our first home as a quaint 1930’s craftsman on a lush but modest two acre lot, surrounded by trees, flowers, and a tasteful fence. I imagined the homes of my neighbors reflecting their distinct personalities and finally being part of a community that values individuality.

So not what I got. What I got was cookie cutter. We ended up buying a massive six bedroom, three and a half bathroom new build resting on a quarter acre lot of land, neatly sandwiched between two houses identical to our own in a large development with, you guessed it, houses identical to our own. What’s worse is that we are bound by the Home Owner’s Association so I can’t even say “let’s paint the door” without someone who is an adult person (this is an important distinction because Ava would never complain about painting anything) pitching a fit about what the neighbors might think.

During my long days spent at home, I watch baby show after baby show after baby show until finally Ava goes down for a nap and I can pick up where I left off watching Weeds on Netflix. I’ve recently started having fantasies about becoming the Nancy Botwin of the neighborhood just to spice up my life. Whenever Ava and I go for walks, I sing the theme song. She’s really caught onto it and sometimes she sings it without me.

Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes made of ticky-tacky

Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes all the same

There’s a green one and a pink one

And a blue one and a yellow one

And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky

And they all look just the same

 That’s what I do. I go for walks. I walk and walk and sing and walk. It’s a good way of fending off boredom while getting exercise. And wouldn’t you know it? I saw something DIFFERENT one day.

At the very end of our development, nestled behind a grove of orange trees, lies a small Spanish style cottage. It’s got white washed walls and a red clay roof. Besides the orange trees, it’s got other exotic plants such as palms and avocadoes and grapefruit. I don’t know how the vegetation thrives in this SUPER non-tropical environment and I don’t know how the house thrives in this conformist community.

Ava was sleeping in her stroller as I stood on the curb, trying to make sense of the house. The baby was kicking in my belly and the birds were singing sweetly in the trees. I remember everything so clearly because it was the realest and truest moment I’ve had since moving here.

As I watched the house, a woman opened the door and came outside with a large watering can. She was draped in purples, reds, and oranges, and her curly copper hair was setting fire to the wind. I was entranced. She noticed me.

“Hello, honey. Lovely day for a walk!” she said.

I snapped out of it and apologized for staring.

“Nonsense! Don’t be sorry. Why don’t you and your little one join me in the garden?”

We did. I’m so glad we did. We sat on the cool grass amongst the flower drinking fresh lemonade and basking in the vitality of her garden. Her name is Dahlia and she is a hippie dippie yoga instructor and I love her.

Beneath the palms that afternoon and many afternoons since, we have meditated, practiced yoga, talked about life and the world and our dreams, and drank lemonade.

I have grown to love Dahlia as my belly has grown large with baby. I feel an awakening in my heart when I’m around her and can’t imagine being without her. She reciprocates my love.

So I’ve made the decision to break free of my cookie cutter life. That’s why I’m writing you this email, Sam. I’m going to leave Bernard for Dahlia. I need you to be my lawyer. I trust that you will keep this story confidential until the time is right.

– Penny B.