Off-springing

I finished reading "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH" to 1 tonight. She asked if there was a sequel. I said, "No, dammit, this was written before the concept of the money-making sequel existed." Which isn't true... I didn't say dammit, and sequels have been around as long as novels have, pretty much.

"It's so... so open-ended!" she sighed. I almost made another smart-ass remark, then she gripped the book and said, "This is the BEST book ever!!"

I love to hear 1 say that. She's not much of a reader. I used to qualify that statement to others with "yet." I'm not sure she ever will be. It's very uncomfortable, not liking a characteristic of one's own child.

My disappointment is deep, but of course my love for her is deeper, so I'm left with the perplexing realization that she is her own person, not, as I so wished for her first 5 or so years, a little me. Awe has built within me in the years since at her self-ness, even as it seems to turn out that she doesn't especially like the practice of reading.