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Holy crap, my oldest daughter is 18 years old.

My little Squeaker, my independent toddler who nonetheless always had know I was watching, my in so very many ways incredible oldest daughter.

I’m going to forgo the usual sentimental dread where I remember first steps and first teeth, where I’m shocked and amazed at how long it’s been since I held her for the first time and how old she is. She’s 18 today, and that’s huge. She is tremendously politically and socially aware and I’m pretty sure she has a vision of a world that’s far better than the one we live in. Now, a legal adult, according to the norms our society she is legally able to express those views and hopes and dreams in all the ways. She’s intelligent and articulate and passionate, and she has a spark that tells me that maybe, just maybe, she wants to change the world.

Happy birthday, Little One. Take that intelligence and passion and run with it as far as fast as you can.

Be well, everyone.

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