Last Christmas, you were still a question mark.
I opened boxes with your name on them, and I folded dresses and hats into drawers overfilling with little things for you: real, but not really. Or rather, not yet.
We spent Christmas with my parents, and I worried you would come early, while we were far from home, maybe even while we were traveling, so before we left, I plotted all of the hospitals along the State Route 99 corridor just in case. That is how I plan. Superstitiously, and for events unlikely to happen.
But you were born a month later exactly. My right-on-time baby.
It being Christmasy, I could compare you to a gift or to a miracle. And those you are.
But also, you are a question mark.
The new face at a big table. Figuring us out while we figure you out. All the time.