The Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the 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.
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, dammit.
May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own hearts with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers. Oh 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 strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that nonsense. I will not have it.