Prayers for our Children

This is Tina Fey’s prayer for her daughter from her new book Bossypants.  Hilarious.  And very true.  I love you mom. ((hug))

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty.

When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers.

Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Of course I need to add a prayer for boys since mine will most likely have a slightly different take over the coming years…..

Heavenly Father, I beseech you to watch over my only son sons, the Light of my life, the Cause of my anxiety attacks.

Make smooth his passage from Childhood into Adolescence – just smooth enough that he isn’t bullied by the Athletic ones; but not so smooth that he becomes one of the Cocky ones. If it is Your Will, may he find a sanctuary with the Nerdy-for-now-but-later-they’re-going-to-be-every-woman’s-dream-guy ones. For those are the Ones a future mother-in-law will embrace. And I am going to need that B!t©h on my side when it comes to dressing the grandchildren properly.

Be a protective presence in his life, and grant him just a smidge of Your wisdom; such that he will not squander his healthy bones and You-given handsome face on a stunt involving a scooter, a ramp, and a Flip camera. Make infrequent his trips to the Emergency Room.

When he opens his mouth to express blasphemous words to a teacher or police officer, grant him the gift of silence instead; for it is with humble Desperation that I, his mother, read all those books on ADHD and tried to teach him impulse control.

Help my son, O Lord, to find the career path that will fulfill his spirit and compensate him adequately, such that he will happily embark upon it each day, without spasms of provider-anxiety and job-hatred keeping him up at night. If it is to be a Rock Sorter and Writer of Frog Poems, as he now proclaims, so be it. I shall love the Rock Sorting Poet who has been given to me by You and shall not pressure him into Law School.

I fall to my knees and pray, Lord: let him not provide the seed of an unplanned pregnancy in high school, college, prolonged 20-something adolescence, or ill-advised first marriage to that Hussy I warned him about.

But when the time is right in Your Eyes, grant him the gift of children and a wife who, though she may hate me with the time-honored tradition that is daughter-in-law spite, will bring them to me for visits so often that I may outfit a nursery in my own home. I hereby promise, Lord, to equip that nursery with all the over-the-top toys and fun things I withheld from my son as a young mother, when I made him play with unpainted wooden blocks because I thought overstimulation would make him hyperactive. For I now know it was DNA to blame. And I shall overstimulate the bejesus, Pardon Me, out of those grandchildren.

And when you take me from this earth, Lord, be watchful over my son. Grant him decades upon decades of long life beyond mine. For he has been blessed with Sweetness and Goodness. These things I see when he is sleeping. For Lord knows, I don’t see them when he’s pummeling his sister with a tennis ball in a sock.

In your Holy Name.

Amen