Tomorrow is Monkey’s birthday; he will be 12. The prospect of him growing up elates and terrifies me. On the one hand, he’ll soon be able to look after himself (theoretically) and Bear and I’ll (theoretically) be footloose and fancy free again. Or something. On the other hand, there’s still time in between when I need to help him get to being able to do that. Which means surviving the teen years. Which I’m a bit nervous about. So here be my prayer to the Universe on the eve of the anniversary of my son’s birth:
Dear Whomever is Running Things,
I assume you take requests based on the many mythologies I’ve read and heard and knowing the coming teen years have the potential to be a trial to all involved, and I have a few to make. I’ll happily offer my sacred cows if it will help to ensure your cooperation:
Please grant me the patience to not just wallop my son when he rolls his eyes at me and tells me he knows whatever I’m trying to tell him.
Please let me be able to keep him in shoes and clothes that fit during the coming massive growth spurts.
Give me strength not to freak out compleatly when he goes on his first date.
Let my trust in him not be blown to bits.
Let him know that he can always talk to myself or Bear, no matter what the dealio is, and he won’t be annihilated instantly.
Let me keep calm and clear during these talks.
Let him still love me when it’s all over, even if the answer isn’t what he wants.
Let me still be sane too, please.
Most of all, please let me never accidentally walk in on him while he’s jerking off.
If you could email me or reply here in the comments section (or if you really like the old school mystical stuff send me a sign) that you’ve heard these requests I’d appreciate that as well.
My gratitude goes out to you in advance,
~~Wish us luck!~~