What a perfect thing to post on Mother's Day.
Then last week on Facebook, someone posted Tina Fey’s prayer for her daughter. If you’re not one for irreverence, please click away about half way through this post. If you stick around, and if you have a daughter or a son, you just might find yourself laughing and crying all at the same time.
Happy Mother’s Day from PatientLovingCare.com.
Once upon a time there was a child ready to be born.
So one day he asked God: They tell me you are sending me to earth today
But how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?
Among the many angels, I chose one for you.
She will be waiting for you and will take care of you.
But tell me, here in Heaven I don’t do anything else but sing and smile
And that is enough for me to be happy
Your angel will sing for you and will smile for you every day.
And you will feel your angel’s love and be happy.
How am I going to be able to understand when people talk to me
If I don’t know the language that men talk?
Your angel will tell you the most beautiful and sweet words you will ever hear
And with much patience and care your angel will teach you to speak.
And what am I going to do when I want to talk to you?
Your angel will place your hands together and will teach you how to pray.
I’ve heard that on earth there are bad men. Who will protect me?
Your angel will defend you even if it means risking its life.
But I will always be sad because I will not see you anymore.
Your angel will always talk to you about me and will teach you the way
For you to come to me even though I will always be near you
At that moment there was much peace in Heaven
But voices from earth could already be heard,
And the child, in a hurry, asked softly:
Oh God, if I am about to leave now, please tell me my angel’s name.
Your angel’s name is of no importance.
You will simply call her “Mom.”
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.
(Photo: flavorwire.com & American Express)