With thanks and apologies to Tina Fey, who did this first, and better.
First Lord, grant him enough athletic talent so that he does not weep openly during gym class, but not so much that he joins a team necessitating jockstraps that I must wash.
May he know peroxide only as a salve for scrapes, and not as a way to look more like Guy Fieri, for he hath not the coloring for it, oh Lord.
Unless he spies a cut of meat from the thigh of a pig’s hind leg and wishes to alert his brother, please Lord, let him never utter the word, “Broham.”
I know I do not have to ask for an awkward phase, for it is his genetic destiny, but I beseech You, make it just long enough for him to develop a good personality and not so long that he arrives at college having never touched a breast that did not belong to me (unless he is gay, Lord, in which case sub in “ass” for “breast,” and ignore the second part of that sentence). And while we are on the subject, make him deft at hiding porn, condoms, and tube socks used for masturbatory purposes, because I do not want to see that shit while putting away laundry.
Let him discover marijuana and alcohol in the company of friends who prefer to watch Comedy Central and eat too many Oreos rather than set fire to trash cans, shoplift from CVS, and pierce each other’s septums.
Guide and protect him, Lord, if and when he decides to get a motorcycle license, rent a speedboat, join an a cappella group, or go to Burning Man.
May he be handsome but not douchey, for it is the douchebaggery that attracts the damaged romantic partners and reality television casting directors, not the handsomeness.
And see that he loves and respects me enough to wait for my death to publish his memoirs.