Dan is number four. After three daughters, everyone was expecting him to be a girl. My parents, who you'd think would have known better since they'd been so 100% convinced I was a boy that they argued with the nurse in the delivery room when she announced my gender, had failed to make any preparations for a man-child's arrival. Thus he went by "Baby Boy Davenport" for two weeks. It was especially awkward at the library, where we went every other day to check out baby name books. You'd think the librarians would have looked at the tiny baby, noted the book selection, and declined to ask, "What's his name?!?" I think they just thought it was fun to watch my mom try to explain.
Dan was an interesting child. One evening we were out playing (this was in the olden days, when all the neighborhood children would play outside until the moms started calling us home for dinner, I suspect that most children these days are not allowed out of the house without protective bubble wrap and constant adult supervision) I noticed Daniel- maybe two at the time- crouching at the edge of the front lawn, near the street. Some early-honed big sister instinct prompted me that something was not right and indeed, as I looked more closely I realized that the little cherub had his pants down around his ankles and was pooping on the front lawn. Our dog wasn't even allowed to do that.
Despite my cries of horror and sense of familial shame, my parents found the whole thing fairly hilarious. I knew I would never be able to look Kara Trainer in the eye again, but they cared nothing for my neighborhood social status. Ah, the cruelties of youth. I wonder where Kara is these days. Maybe, if I'm lucky, she has a two year old who poops on the lawn.