Monday, May 09, 2011

Happy Mother's Day!

Last week, we didn't have internet access at home for about 5 days, maybe even 6. Which is why I feel somewhat like one of those satellites that goes missing in space and then manages to re-enter the atmosphere; hopefully my re-appearance in the blogosphere will be a smooth one without any spontaneous combustion, detached part(iciple)s, etc!

In the depths of my drafts, I have - in an incomplete form - what was supposed to be my latest post: my take on the Royal Wedding. But my, doesn't the world move quickly these days? Just as I was planning to post my reaction on their delaying their honeymoon (the BIG NEWS just one week ago), what should come through the airwaves but the news of Osama Bin Laden's death. And now, even that is hardly making the front page here anymore because of the UK elections held on Thursday. Timeliness and time-sensitivity have never really been my strong suits, perhaps yet another reason why I didn't explore a career in journalism.

Instead, I'll give you something that is timely, but also timeless. I don't know when this was taken but it sure is sweet in the way that old photos are just somehow so special in comparison to their technologically superior modern-day equivalents. Happy Mother's Day to my wonderful Mom - for 34+ years you have been truly the best mother a girl could hope for. Now that I know just how much hard work is involved, I hope that you are enjoying a restful day on the couch.
I hope all the mothers out there celebrating today are being spoiled; the UK celebrated its Mothering Sunday back in April so today was nothing out of the ordinary here - special as always, but not extra-special!

I have also been enjoying this poem by Tina Fey - although I don't have a daughter, I feel I can relate anyway to many of the points!

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter: Hilarious excerpt from Tina Fey's book Bossy Pants

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.


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