First,
Lord: No tattoos:
May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh
holding the FSU sign 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 the subway platform, crossing 84th
street, stepping off 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 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.
May she
play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart...
With the sinewy 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 Barbie’s 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 am, all-at-once exhausted, bored, 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.
-Tina
Fey, Bossypants
