A Mother’s Prayer for Her Children

A Mother’s Prayer for Her Children


First, Lord: I ask for your forgiveness for all my sins, known and unknown. For I typically know not what I do.

I pray that you shield mine eyes from the stain on the comforter, though it smells like Cheetos and probably won’t come out even if I bring it to the dry cleaners.

Give me strength, Lord, to forgive my husband for eating in bed again after I’ve told him a thousand times to not eat in bed. Forgive him for his gluttony. And forgive me for my spitefulness when I order a new Pottery Barn comforter online tomorrow. I know it’s overpriced, Lord. Let the new comforter serve as a constant reminder to my boorish husband not to disobey me. I’m sorry, forgive me for calling him boorish, he’s not that bad. He’s actually more of a — what’s a gentle animal, God? I can’t think of one. A lamb? A platypus?

O Lord, please forgive my kids for their sins. For they too know not what they do — especially Owen when it comes to playing the recorder. He’s just not gifted musically. Please help him to realize this on his own before some asshole tells him. Also, give me strength to turn the other cheek when he flips his water bottle on the kitchen table over and over and over again. He’s a simple boy, God.

Lord, thank you so much for my family! I really do appreciate you helping me through my twenties (cocaine is a crazy drug, Lord!) and into this lovely, middle-class, Midwestern existence. If you hadn’t brought Russ and I together, I’d probably still be waiting tables and doing bad community theater. So please help me to remember how blessed I am. But deliver me from humble bragging, so that I never use the hashtag “#blessed,” or post a photo with the caption, So blessed, or end an email with “have a blessed day,” because that’s obnoxious. Also, please help me remember to pay the Visa bill.

Lord Jesus, if it’s not too much to ask, please remove the evil from Gwendolyn. She is clearly possessed by some sort of demon or suffering from a mutant gene inherited from her father. Why else would she have bitten that toddler at daycare? Why, God?

Grant me patience when she wakes me up at midnight asking for a third glass of water, or insists on buckling herself into the car seat when I’m running late, or refuses to eat anything but cheese sticks and Goldfish. Help me to remember that I will not have a nervous breakdown because Thou — and chardonnay — art always with me.

Also, Lord, please keep me in good health, at least until Gwendolyn is out of college. Someone needs to protect her from hipsters with hair buns who say “brah” when they mean “bro” and wear pants two sizes too small for their bodies. Please steer her away from those types, but not so far that she ends up in the arms of a Republican. I don’t think I could handle that, Lord. And don’t forget about Owen. He’s also going to need your help too, especially if he keeps trying to play Clash of Clans on his phone while riding his bike.

Finally, God, don’t let either of them grow up too fast. Because childhood is fleeting, adulthood is tedious, and garage drinking can wait.


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