Tina Fey, one of my heroes

Tina Fey’s prayer for her daughter

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.
Amen.

After the Feast...

"Apprentices have asked me, what is the most exalted peak of cuisine?  Is it the freshest ingredients, the most complex flavors? Is it the rustic, or the rare?  It is none of these.  The peak is neither eating nor cooking, but the giving and sharing of food.  Great food should never be taken alone.  What pleasure can a man take in fine cuisine unless he invites cherished friends, counts the days until the banquet, and composes an anticipatory poem for his letter of invitation?"  —Liang Wei

Spaghetti and Meatballs

As Mary Helen stirred a pot of spaghetti the other night (apron neatly tied, a stool pushed up to the stove), I had a silly thought.  Would she, twenty years from now, still be at that stove, with seven or so children at her feet?  While Jack and Frances are backpacking around Europe, discovering themselves and jumping off high places, will Mary Helen have a neat little house next door to Evan and I?  Will she be disappointed in Evan and I when we break the news to her that we're hitting the road in an RV for a few years of late-in-life-soul-searching?  I can see her shaking her head now.

I say this because she's so sensible, so steady, so mild, so good.  Not good in the sense of being without sin, but good in the sense of being good-natured.  She's so much more likely to hold it together than the rest of us (in that way, she reminds me so much of my dad).  As I followed these thoughts down their course, I ran into the reality that some parts of us are gifted to us at birth in the simple fabric of our being.

As a mother, I am often so hyper-vigilant and anxious that I have a hard time seeing the "gifted" parts of my children and relaxing enough to enjoy them. It is difficult to know our kids in a neutral, accepting way without our own lack of self-acceptance getting in the way.

But I believe that one of our most significant (and pleasurable, if we could just slow down for it) jobs as parents is  to celebrate and enjoy what's already there.

I have an image in my mind of one of my more domestically gifted friends sitting by a fire embroidering quietly upon a beautiful piece of fabric.  She sews slowly and confidently, without questioning herself too much.  She is even able to appreciate the mistakes and irregularities of her work. Her work is easy and beautiful.

What is grace?

Another (well, let's face it, the only) blog that I follow asked this question this week and I remembered old Granny from Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find." I love that granny.

"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't," The Misfit said. "I wisht I had of been there," he said, hitting the ground with his fist. "It ain't right I wasn't there because if I had of been there I would of known. Listen lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother's head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own children !" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them."

The Biggest Loser

Why hasn't anyone told me about this show?  I tuned in accidentally, and within fifteen minutes, I had cried three times.  Between watching Moses sacrifice his place for childless April, and watching those former fatties scramble up that sandy hill, I don't need therapy anymore.  I'm good.  and now, all I can think about is next week's episode, where I plan to eat chocolate chip cookies while watching.  I just love the irony of that.  So delicious.