Dear Lord,

It’s me again. That mom who can’t ever do anything right. The one who needs a class in remedial lunch-making and who still can’t recognize a Lady Gaga song.

You remember. I’m the one whose parenting skills are so deficient I still think kids need a reasonable bedtime. The one who missed the memo about how extra hours spent playing Wii Cheer will result in a corner office at a Fortune 500.

In fact, I’m such a behind-the-times mom, I don’t even recognize that my kid is going to be handed a position at that Fortune 500, simply by virtue of how incredibly important and special she is. She’ll sit in that corner office in her spare time, when she isn’t attending the premiere of her latest movie or doing a book tour in Aruba.

She has big plans, my kid. Someday she’s going to be running this place. Heck, why sweat the small stuff? She figures she’s running it now, and she can’t understand why backward little people like me keep getting in the way, insisting she scoop out the cat box and put away the book at the dinner table (and what’s with this obsession with vegetables, anyway?).

She has things to do, don’t I understand that? She can’t be bothered with details, like saying, “Sorry,” to the woman she bumped into the other night (“Well, she stepped on my toe, so we’re even”) or keeping her mouth shut instead of snapping, “What’s your point?” when her grandmother suggests she listen to others for a change. And sheez, why do I have to be so grouchy about everything? She certainly didn’t think she was being rude or unkind. That wasn’t her intent at all, and if other people misunderstand, well, that’s their problem. Chill, Mom.

Lord, I beg your indulgence for my deficiencies. Obviously I’m not cut out for the important work you gave me here when you blessed me with this Divine Babe. I’m of the opinion that people should think of themselves as team players. That we’re all in this together. That our job is to help smooth the path for everyone around us, not elbow past them and then complain about how they deliberately got in our way.

I seem to remember you saying something about loving our neighbors as ourselves. About turning the other cheek. About strength coming from humility, and how he who would rule must first be servant of all.

How come I can’t seem to get that message across? How can I teach her that treating others with respect isn’t tantamount to wearing a sign on your back that says, “Kick Me”? How come I feel that the only way to get through to Little Miss Can’t-Be-Wrong is with a cattle prod?

I’m tempted to continue the beatings until morale improves.

Thing is, Lord, I want her to be strong. I want her to be her own person, to stand firm in the face of temptation, to speak out when something isn’t right. I want her to be able to be a friend when everyone else turns away. To achieve her dreams in the face of daunting obstacles. To believe in something greater than herself, even when common sense tells her not to.

Somehow, though, it seems like the only person she’s determined to be is the one as far away from me as she can get.

Do you remember her as a toddler, Lord? I’d tell her she needed to put on her coat to go outside because it was raining. She’d stand at the sliding glass door and scream, “It is NOT RAINING!”

As if the very force of her will could make it so.

You know what’s funny, Lord? I bet she could say this same prayer about me. How I get my kicks out of ordering her around. How I hold all the cards. How I go around just oozing authority, and she’s so jealous she just has to take me down a peg or two every time she gets the chance.

“Why do you always have to be right?” she snarled the other day.

Lord, help me with this, your Child. She is yours, not mine; gifted to me for just a little while, oh, such a little, little while. She’s already so tall she looks stretched. She wants privacy in the bathroom. She’ll hold my hand only when no one can see.

She’ll be gone so soon, Lord. So soon. How do I help her? How do I guide her? Oh, Lord, what do I do?

I’ve heard your voice. “Act with love,” you told me.

Dear Lord, please help her to know that I do.