Kimberlee K.

Two weeks before you were born, we celebrated your uncle’s birthday.

We sat at our favorite hibachi restaurant, passing plates of sushi back and forth, and clapping as our chef caught an egg in his hat and constructed an onion volcano. We held up our drinks, asking each other, “do you want to try this?” and held up our full plates, asking, “do you want my mushrooms?”

We took a group picture and sang happy birthday—the quick, upbeat version that we like—and then we walked out into the uncharacteristically cool July air, with three conversations taking place at once, full and tired and ready to meet you.

—

A week before you were born, your mom and I drove across the valley to find a salad.

Not a salad, THE salad, infamous in our city for helping women go into labor. The man behind the counter gasped when he saw your mom. He asked her to sign their pregnancy book and to call back if the salad did its magic.

We drove back to eat it at work, sitting in my small office with your grandma—or Mooma, as we call her—laughing as your sister threw a ball up into the air and tried to catch it in a Tupperware container.

Her joy filled the room alongside our anticipation, and we fought the urge to ask, after every bite your mom took, “do you feel anything?”

While the salad didn’t “work” we had a nice afternoon. We crossed another day past your due date off the calendar and went to sleep wondering, “will it be tomorrow?”

—

The night you were born, we had chicken.

The night after, we had Mexican food.

The night after that—or maybe the night after that—we had barbeque.

Meals became time markers as we first waited to hear you were born, and then waited to hear how you were doing, how your mom was doing, and when everyone got to come home.

We ate excitedly, sometimes nervously, sometimes not at all. We ate at tables, on floors and couches, and sometimes all crammed together in a hospital room, thanks to the security guard who let us sneak in an extra person.

And while I always knew it, now that you’re here it’s really real, really true, that next year you’ll be there, at the hibachi restaurant, eyes wide as you decide whether the open flame is scary or exciting, if the spatula acrobatics are impressive or just loud. You’ll be there on spontaneous lunch dates and weeknight dinners eaten at tables and on floors and couches, often with the Dodger game on in the background. You’ll be there for shared sips and traded snacks and “do you want the last bite of this?”

You are a member of our family, a spot at our table—at so many tables belonging to people that love you—and we are so excited that you’re finally here.

Welcome to the table, Willie.