Yesterday, I could hear my youngest daughter belting out one of the many songs from her repertoire as I sat on my peaceful perch on the sectional in our living room. But this performance sounded louder than normal. Her sister, who was at my side when the show started, wandered upstairs to investigate and bolted back down to the living room to exclaim, “She’s standing in your bedroom window – totally naked—singing to the entire neighborhood! She said she was in her room but moved to yours because she ‘needed a bigger audience.’”  (Side note: My bedroom window overlooks a fairly busy commercial area of shops and restaurants.)

In my defense, I had sent my youngest daughter upstairs to get dressed and brush her teeth. I have to admit that I wasn’t at all shocked to hear that she became sidetracked by the thrill of being on center stage. I can picture a reporter interviewing me in 15 or 20 years asking, “What was your daughter like as a child?” And I will be able to honestly reply, “There was never a dull moment.”

One of the most thrilling things about being a mom – especially to girls – is to see how alike or, and in this case, not alike, to me they are becoming. Not that I want my kids to be just like me (because that means they would inherit the good, the bad, and the ugly. And who wants that?), but it’s fun to see how some of that DNA transfers over in a completely identifiable pattern. One of my daughters has developed my love of writing. Another loves sports. Another has inherited my passion for all things related to HGTV.

In the case of my youngest (i.e. the budding “American Idol” finalist), I see some definite areas where we don’t overlap. For starters, I’m not a singer. I can barely join in on Christmas carols and it’s a great feat that I even hum “Happy Birthday.” (She gets her songbird-ness from her father.) And second, I’m not a big fan of public nudity. Never went skinny dipping. Never did any streaking. (And I’m guessing that didn’t come from her paternity, either.)

So, her performance causes me to ponder some on those traits that I can’t readily trace back to any one ancestor. I wonder, “Where in the heck did this come from?” Don’t get me wrong—I’m not threatening to disown her or any of my kids. I do, however, seriously watch the behavior of each of my children some days and wonder where some of their strongest traits (even the good ones) come from when I can’t seem to link even an inch of their talent, courage or gusto to either side of their family tree.

In my child development classes in college my instructor argued that strong character traits are a result of a combination of nature or nurturing. I’m pretty sure there must be a third category called “neither.” Since I haven’t come up with any better theory, I’m proposing that these traits come from the stork that delivers children out of the sky. Maybe if I roll with that theory I won’t have to take responsibility for the outcome now or later. I guess that also means I can’t take credit for it later when she matures into the fantastic person I can see taking shape. There’s that whole Catch 22-thing popping up again in parenting.