We haven’t been born yet. Our parents are stretched out on the couch in front of the television in their new house, quiet street, nice suburb of Boston. My mother’s socked feet rest in my father’s lap; her pregnant belly rounder than either of them thought it would be.

It is evening. Outside, the sun feels so close, we think it is setting on our parent’s new life, just for us. A light breeze makes curtains flutter and lavender shadows begin to slink across the freshly painted walls. The lawn outside is green and mowed. A yet-to-be-used swing set sways gently in the wind. Small children squat in driveways nearby, playing, digging, babbling. They will be our friends later.

There will be two of us soon. Our parents want to be surprised – the room upstairs is gender neutral. Four names are written on note cards and spread out on the floor: Lisa, Robert, Sarah, Jeffrey. Our middle names have meaning, but our first names are just names our parents like: they way they sound, they way they look. Maybe they can imagine calling us nicknames: Lis, Rob, Sar, Jeffie. Maybe they can imagine scolding us, and these names are not so harsh when said in a mouthful of disappointment. They tear off small sections of The Boston Globe, scrunch them up into tiny balls, throw them at the cards on the floor. These will be their babies. This is where they’ll play.

We know better than our parents. We know which names we want. When we come out we will scream and cry but inside we are laughing, we are squirming, we are playing. We are best friends. We are what every parent wants, but we are our parent’s children, and we can’t wait to meet them. We know they will love us. We long for their arms and their hair and the cribs that wait for us upstairs, fluffed with pillows and stuffed animals that family and friends have been sending and sending.

It’s the first of the year when we are born. For miles and miles, all across the country, streamers ripple, horns are blown, people kiss under twinkling lights. In the small, dark hospital room, the air is plush with nervous breaths. Will we be boys or girls?

My brother comes out first. “It’s boys!” the doctor calls.

“Jeffrey,” my father says, holding him for the first time. “Jeff.”

I am inside, and I am ready. I can’t wait to show them who I am. My brother has paved the way for me, and I slide out easily, but wrong. I’m upside down – the doctor turns me over and gasps.

“It’s a girl!”

“Jackpot!” my father says. He waves his arms and claps his hands. Jeffrey wails. Our four grandparents, standing right outside the room behind the door, squeeze their smiles through the tiny window.

“Name?” the doctor says.

“Lisa,” my mother says. My mother cries, and so do I.

by Lisa Gordon
San Francisco, CA