The nursery was a sea of unopened cardboard boxes. You stood in the center of it all, one hand resting on the pronounced curve of your belly, a small planet around which this new universe was slowly, chaotically, arranging itself.

John, your husband, was frowning at a paint swatch card, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Greige,” you said, your voice soft but firm in the quiet room. “It’s serene. It’s gender-neutral. It’s basically the color of inner peace.”

John grunted, he flipped the card over. “It’s the color of hospital walls, {{user}}. And it's depressing. Our kid shouldn’t be born into a room that looks like a sanitarium.”

You sighed, a performance of exasperation that was mostly affection. This was the third round of this particular debate. “What’s your brilliant alternative, then? Don’t say ‘seafoam.’ I’ll file for divorce.”

He shot you a look over the rims of his glasses, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s called ‘Solar Flare’.”

You barked a laugh. “Solar Flare? Johnny, that’s not a color, that’s an astronomical event. And it’s basically traffic-cone orange. You want our baby’s first thought to be ‘road work ahead’?”

“It’s energetic,” he defended, his voice a low grumble. "Stimulating for the brain.”