Today (at least here) Alex turned 12. She just came into my room at bedtime and told me that technically her birthday really isn't until tomorrow, so she gets another day to turn 12. Smart@$$ kid! She is right too. Alex decided that she needed to make brownie bites (mini brownies) for ALL of the 7th graders at school for today. So last night she did, with very little supervision I might add. She is getting confident in the kitchen, so about time to get serious about letting her loose there. Growing up. She can nearly look me in the eye and is already stealing my shirts and some dresses. Her feet are the same size as mine, but have been for nearly a year now.
I was mulling over the fact my baby is getting big, and had read a great book by the comedian Tina Fey this last year. Her book, Bossypants (don't you love that title!) has a chapter towards the end called The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter. I'm putting it in here (a bit altered) as it pretty much sums up the fears we have and the heartfelt prayer I know my mother offered up for me (and her!) to make it through. While your words may be different, I think we all have the same general ideas here. Enjoy, and Happy Birthday Kiddo. You are growing into a truly amazing young lady and we are proud to be your parents.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the Pooh holding the FSU logo (or in our family, BSU!) stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful, but not Damaged, for it's the damage the 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 the 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 into 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, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way into 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 rhythms 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 making out 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 and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me 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 am 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 he 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.
I was mulling over the fact my baby is getting big, and had read a great book by the comedian Tina Fey this last year. Her book, Bossypants (don't you love that title!) has a chapter towards the end called The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter. I'm putting it in here (a bit altered) as it pretty much sums up the fears we have and the heartfelt prayer I know my mother offered up for me (and her!) to make it through. While your words may be different, I think we all have the same general ideas here. Enjoy, and Happy Birthday Kiddo. You are growing into a truly amazing young lady and we are proud to be your parents.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the Pooh holding the FSU logo (or in our family, BSU!) stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful, but not Damaged, for it's the damage the 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 the 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 into 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, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way into 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 rhythms 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 making out 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 and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me 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 am 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 he 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.
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