Prayer for a Daughter

I've seen this piece from Tina Fey kicking around the Internet this week, but I finally took the time to read it at my friend Lynette's blog earlier today. It is too good not to repost. I love every bit of it.

The thing no one tells you about having kids is that there are moments when their sheer fragility and innocence break your heart. There are moments when you think, "I simply can't bear to leave these precious little people today." (And, of course, there are the days where you can't leave them fast enough.) There are times when I think just the sight of them--a mannerism here, a flick of the hair there, a rolled eye, a laugh, a cliched phrase uttered with just a little too much world-weary wisdom--will break my heart. There are times when I can't believe I have to let them walk around the world free and untethered to me. Whose idea was that? (Okay, but again, there are just as many times when I can't send them out the door fast enough. This motherhood business is a roller coaster of emotions.)

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. [Okay, well Tina Fey clearly does not have a drum kit in her basement. A drum kit plus a play date for ten = instant migraine. I mean, I think it would be totally kick-ass if one of my girls learned to play the drums. I would just like them to do it at someone else's house.]

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.