God, dear, benevolent, merciful, God. Grant me the mother-freaking serenity to accept the fact that teenage boys will someday grow into young men away at college dorms who will only come home on the weekends with massive loads of laundry.

Seriously, God. Give me the courage to confront him when he’s screwing up and not back down because I don’t like confrontation. Give me the nerve, the chutzpah, the BALLS to Not Have That Shit. Don’t let me turn into one of those parents who lets their kids do anything they want because it’s easier. Because You know, it’s so much easier. But easy doesn’t mean right.

I’d love some wisdom. Anytime you want to sprinkle some of that parenting guru stuff, you know, the kind that people that don’t actually HAVE kids have? I would like some of that. Wisdom with a side order of eyes in the back of my head as well as on the Interwebs, in the cell phone, and in the park after school where he’s been smoking with friends every day for a month. Plus a large police officer with a really scary police dog that will just scare the living shiznit out of every one of those little punks, so help me You.

Help me to live one day at a time and not keep record of all the eye rollings, the out with who knows who, the illicit You Know What. Help me to forgive but not forget because that would be pretty freaking stupid.

Help me to enjoy him. The little moments that seem to be parceled out fewer and far-er between. Help me to see the child he was and the man he’s becoming without throttling the monstrous turd that is currently in front of me.

I hate the hardships that we’ve had with him. I hate that there have been words that have spoken, insults screamed, tears cried that can’t be taken back. These are things that I never thought would happen in that perfect parenting life I had planned out when I was first embarking on this whole deal. But they have, and they probably will again. Help me accept these things as brief stopovers to a peaceful, close relationship. Thank you that we care about each other to thrash things out, no matter how messy.

Damn it. This is not what I wanted. I didn’t want a son who steals booze, who tokes up after school, who hurts himself. I didn’t want to fight over every little thing. I didn’t want any of this.

I’m guessing you probably didn’t either.

Help me to surrender, not to his shenanigans, not to mushiness, not to love that looks the other way or turns the other cheek, but to the Tiger Mother that absolutely REFUSES to let her child fuck himself over. Make me a fierce warrior for this kid. Don’t let me give up after he’s yelled at me to “stay out of my life!” one too many times. Help me to recover from the lies, the screw-ups, and the fights. Help me to take a deep breath and get right back in his face and never, ever, ever, ever, give up. Ever.

That’s pretty much it. Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God.

Love, Redheadmama