The excerpt from Tina Fey's Bossypants, "The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter," has now made its frenzied Internet rounds, most likely peaking in circulation on this past Mother's Day, when hundreds of people forwarded it on to dear mothers, friends and family members who have daughters, and absolutely made their days. Myself included.
But as a mother lucky enough to have two healthy children, a girl and a boy, I started to think about what the prayer might look like for my son.
Below is my tribute/ripoff/homage to Tina's brilliant piece. I only hope Tina and her fans take it in the playful spirit in which I wrote it, which is to play the game she created, and not to pretend it isn't just an extension of the treasured original.
And Tina, in case you have a boy this time around, this one's for you.
The Mother's Prayer for Its Son
First, God, make him gay. For we all know that the homosexuals know how to treat their mothers. But make the world nicer to gays. Because he might want to settle somewhere other than WeHo, the West Village, San Francisco or Mykonos.
But if he shall instead be led to a life of hetero pursuits, Dear God, may he not sear in his flesh the name of a woman he thinks he will love forever. For should he permanently etch the name "Schuyler" or "Kayla" onto his skin, he will only be dedicating himself to a minimum of 18 years worth of child support payments.
Let him be handsome, but not weirdly mature. For it's the appearance of maturity that draws the 5th grade teacher away from her lonely marriage and bodice-ripping paperbacks, not the handsomeness.
When the keg is tapped, may he remember that guys drunk on beer are gross.
And stick with weed.
Watch over him, O Lord.
When playing with cars and trucks in the driveway, driving in play cars and trucks, driving real cars and trucks on side roads, freeways, highways, off roads, during the daytime, the nighttime, in traffic, when there is no traffic, with his mother in the passenger seat and while alone, or when he is on skis, skateboards, bikes, surfboards, snowboards, hiking, camping, or motorcycles -- which he will only be on to pose for a quick photo, if at all, because he will never, ever be driving one EVER in his entire life. OVER MY DEAD BODY, SO HELP ME, YOU.
May he be way more into Harry Potter than Nascar, baseball than lacrosse, anything other than Ultimate Fighting Championship.
And may his first love be a little chunky.
Let his heart be broken by enough girls to keep him capable of opening his heart to heartbreak, but not enough to start date raping.
Steer him away from forming a band, but not all the way to corporate law. Because most bands have a shelf life, and most corporate lawyers are douchey. Something where he will see his kids, and be able to help his wife enough to make her not resent him. And not have to wear a tie. And where he can still play music with his buddies a couple times a year.
Almighty God, keep him from losing his innocence in one single, horrible moment with a mistaken click on "HOT illegal b*tches with big fake TIT that wanna put 20 of ur friends' COX on her mouth at 1 time! In a carwash! In CROATIA!"
And protect him from feeling like all of his Facebook friends were invited to a party he wasn't.
And when he one day brings a woman home with his ring on her finger, God grant me the resolve to not cry, or compare her to me -- not because I am in a twisted romance with my son, but because I want him to be with a woman who will take care of him when he is sick as well as I know I can.
And let her not be too like me. But not so different from me that we have nothing to talk about besides the weather and sinus medications.
And should he choose to be a father one day, please give to him the age-old experience of wrestling his own infant son on the changing table, all at once getting headbutted by this pudgy Tasmanian Devil who has now befouled four diapers and smeared feces on the wall because he WILL NOT JUST F%#KING LIE STILL, and being more in love with this mini Genghis Khan than he ever thought possible.
"My mother did this for me once," he will sputter, while holding Sophie the Giraffe between his teeth and simultaneously pinning down his boy cub with both hands. And he will remind himself to call me later. Which he will do, because it's either that or he will subject himself to a mother's wrath, which as you of all should know, God, is matched only by yours.
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