Little lion man, what will I bear for you? For you, William, I will bear many things. I will bear your weight (from tadpole to watermelon). I will bear your kicks and flutters, your contractions and your birth. For you, I will bear a scar, eight inches long, fading to a thin white line, and staples of steel. I will let myself be turned into a surgeon's art project for you (a long paint stroke of iodine, some staples here, a little tape there). I will bear worry for you, and hope for you, and love love love for you. I will bear your crying and rejoice in your laughing and in your learning. I will bear your rebellion and your questions and I will lift you up in prayer. I will kiss your scratched knees and puree your bananas and put cinnamon in your yogurt and read to you and rock you and teach you and sing to you.
You are nine months old today. You are a crawler and a stander and a laugher and a pointer and an observer. And you love the washing machine. It's your favorite thing. And you are our favorite thing.