I want you to always be that way, always so eager to learn and grow and understand things instead of fearful of their newness. You wanted to explore it, all of it, not once being fearful of the unfamiliarity or the spray of salty water onto your face. A few days ago at the beach, you tried to crawl into the ocean, intrigued by the vastness of the sea and the way the wind whipped the saltwater from the waves. I want you to be every bit as spunky, headstrong and determined at fifteen as you are now, at ten months old. I want you to soar and break barriers and shatter glass ceilings. I want you to make your voice heard and move mountains and know the power and validity of dissent. I tear it up and set it on fire and dispose of it with haste. I hear that a lot, people who baby-talk at Carmen and ask into her smiling face, "do you know how lucky you are? You should be so thankful." But, to my sweet, strong daughter, I just want to say that I reject this expectation of gratitude. "And all I was supposed to feel was grateful."
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