Well, if I have to write a poem or prayer for my litol tababski this must be it (of course let's not forget Neil Gaiman's Blueberry Girl) but then again I'm not as talented nor as good writer as Tina Fey or Neil Gaiman. So let me just copy their prayers and take inspiration from them.
I could not think of any more appropriate date to post this than today, because today my litol bubba celebrates her 8th months and I'm having major emotional issues. First she's 8 months now, wow, 8 months!!! In four months she'll turn one and she'll no longer be a baby but a toddler. Am I ready for it??? Guess not yet. And secondly which is the major thing for me, for this past days I noticed that my tababski lost her baby smell already!!! Everytime I smell/kiss her all I can smell is her sweat (yes, she sweats a lot, thank you very much for a faulty airconditioned). Today I tried to scrub her hair and body too much than normal wishing and praying that the sweaty smell will be gone or the baby smell will miraculously turn back. But then it isn't, who am I fooling? Not that the sweaty smell is bad, it is still "yummy". Guess I'm just not ready for all this changes.
Anyway, going back to the prayer. Here's Tina Fey's poem/prayer which gives me laughter and tears the first time I read it. Let us just skip the Neil Gaiman for now because I know you're already familiar about it becuase I was already raving about it few months ago.
The Mothers Prayer for its 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 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 nearby 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.