My daughter slips still sticky arms through blue dress straps.
"I want to fly like Superman," she announces,
"not marry him.
Off to the rescue!"
And out of my room she swooshes, arms outstretched and hair blown back.
And of course I want her to always save the world,
To think of herself as the hero and not the damsel that society will try to paint her as,
But right now, I'd settle for a few more years of sweet stickiness.
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