"I might get married when I grow up," she said.
"Really? That's a possibility," I said, "but you don't have to, you know. Maybe you'll decide you don't want to marry."
"Oh, I know. But if I do get married, I'm going to marry either Jordan (age six) or Amelia (age eight)."
Thirty years ago, I would have reacted differently. With alarm, probably. I would have immediately begun a treatise on how you can't marry someone of the same sex. Instead, in 2011, I felt proud and hopeful. Proud that she could imagine such freedom, and proud that I would have no problem if she were to choose Amelia over Jordan. Hopeful that the choice would truly be hers by the time she's ready for such a decision.