Perfect

I came to be in a dish. It was a very exciting moment for those around me, actually, both my parents and the geneticist that was helping them conceive. The feeling of bubbling into existence as two lonely cells finally unite is one that is unique, although far from memorable. I relished the sensation of bringing those chromosomes together, combining what each party had to offer and becoming more than the sum of my parts.

The excitement of discovering myself! I was going to be short, have brown hair, have a slightly nasally but not too high-pitched voice, and have toes that were just a little bit too long! I was perfect. And I was a girl!

Such a life ahead of me! All the ingredients were right there for a personality, complete with character flaws, quirks, talents, fetishes, and that's not even mentioning my physical traits! Oh, it was all so exciting! So perfect!

I could hear the geneticist analyzing my traits. She read the sequences of my chromosomes on a computer and described to my parents how I would be: how I would have my father’s nose but eyes that didn’t really match either parent, how I would probably not be very athletic but had long fingers that were promising for piano playing, and how my IQ would be just barely below average. I was perfect!

But my parents didn’t agree. My father wanted someone he could cheer for on a soccer, or even lacrosse, team. My mother wanted someone who would score higher than her neighbor’s kid on the ACT. And they both wanted a boy. Oh, how they wanted a boy.

The science had been pioneered, had undergone rigorous testing and even more rigorous legal battling, and was ready at the fingertips of that smiling lab coat. All they had to do was give the word.

The first thing my little zygote being heard after the ordeal, with my new Y chromosome squirming in my essence, was the joyful voice of my teary mother.

“He’s perfect.”