Hypothetical job opening: looking for someone who loves hiking.

Now, I could read that and within about thirty seconds convince myself that I'm utterly unqualified for the position. "Loves? Can I say I love hiking? Maybe they're looking for someone who would express a lot of enthusiasm. I'm probably too reserved for what they're looking for. And hiking. Hmm. I mean, I do walk. I better check the dictionary, make sure I know the difference between hiking and walking and strolling and jogging…." And I'd never apply.

There are some folks, though, who would do the opposite. "Hey, I once owned hiking boots! Remember? Those pink ones? They were sooooo cute." And they'd apply and get the job and probably fall to their deaths from a cliff. So, see, my way is the best.

When I had a daughter, Em, I worried at first that she might lack self-confidence, independence. Would I pass on my shyness? Were any of these traits genetic? Which were learned?

At age four, she wanted to go to 7-Eleven (a couple of blocks away) one day to get a Slurpee. I had the flu and just wanted to sleep. I told her that when we went to the bus stop to pick up the boys from school, we'd get a Slurpee. I dozed off on the sofa. I woke to a knock on the door – a policeman. He'd picked Em up at the 7-Eleven. She was trying to operate the Slurpee machine. She had no money, so I later realized she was trying to rob the convenience store, but that didn't occur to me at the time, thankfully. The policeman's arm was bleeding from where she'd raked him with her fingernails trying to get away from him in her terror. She'd stubbornly decided that she wanted the Slurpee now, not later, and that she was perfectly capable of doing it herself. She'd dressed herself, knotted her shoelaces, and snuck out while I snoozed.

She is stubborn. She is passionate. She is impossibly independent. She might break my heart in the years to come. She'd apply for the hiking job, sporting her pink boots and attitude.