Eric is about to turn nine. We gave him a couple of weeks to figure out how he'd like to celebrate his birthday. His dad, the daredevil, suggested everything from rock-climbing to bowling. I wouldn't have minded a petting zoo-kind of day. But Eric, after much consideration, announced that he wanted to go to the paint-your-own-pottery store. As my husband swallowed his disappointment over losing a day at the climbing center to one of glazing a teacup, Eric added that he wanted his friends A. and M. to come along. Keep in mind that M. is the sort of hyper, short attention-span boy for whom even an Army artillery range wouldn't be sufficiently stimulating and you can imagine our shock and horror. Painting your own pottery is delightful and creative, but it calls for a steady hand, an even temper, and the ability to delay gratification - qualities not found in abundance in nine year-old boys. "I'll stay home with the baby." I offered generously. "You guys go have fun." My husband, who at nine was jumping his bicycle in the manner of Evel Knievel over the prone bodies of his sisters, slunk out of the room with his head bowed. "A pottery party." He muttered. "A pottery party."

My late Aunt Rosemary, bless her soul, thought that children came into the world as malleable as blobs of clay. You have to mold and shape them, she often told me, adding, the parent is like a sculptor. Her own daughter was about as malleable as a chunk of steel, and resisted all efforts at such shaping. That did nothing to change Aunt Rosemary's mind. When my brother started having babies, we heard the phrase "mold them" so often that you'd have thought he was running a Play-Doh fun factory instead of raising a family. Out of his hearing, she'd take a drag on her cigarette and predict woeful outcomes for his children due to his failure to properly shape them. I was still a kid myself back then, but her theory seemed flawed even to me. My brother's kids arrived in the world complete with personalities and distinctive characteristics. Beyond teaching them morals and the necessary survival and etiquette skills, it didn't look like there'd be a whole lot of molding of their essential selves. Aunt Rosemary wouldn't be argued with though, and went to her grave utterly convinced of the correctness of her notions.

My husband is going through a challenging time right now, trying to come to grips with the fact that Eric isn't the boy he was. Eric is a careful, cautious child: Mark set it on fire first then figured out where the water was later. Eric likes to take his time; nothing was ever fast enough for his father. Eric is careful and measured; Mark was bold and a risk-taker. If offered a doughnut, Mark would eat four. That Eric occasionally declines dessert sends his father into a tailspin of disbelief. Even as a baby, Eric would sit and quietly study his toys for hours. He was never grabby or rambunctious. It's just not in his nature. Even I look at him sometimes, like when he politely refuses a trip to the YMCA pool or the mini-putt, and wonder where on earth he came from. But this is who he is, and there's no amount of molding, cajoling, bribing, threatening, forcing or pleading that will change him. He's an adored, beloved enigma to his own dad.

I used to joke that the worst punishment I could imagine was to give birth to a child who didn't like to read. Now I watch Olivia as she struggles to stand on her own and chuck another toy at the dog's head and wonder if she'll be the wild creature her dad was or a bookish dreamer like me. I've tried to guess which would be harder for me: a daughter who wants to jump a parked car on her skateboard or one who begs for ballet lessons and pink dresses? Either way, all I can do is watch and encourage and enjoy. Still, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I'm hoping she'll take after me. Except smarter, of course, and prettier, and taller, and more athletic, and better at math. Given how fearless she already is, I'm betting that she's her daddy's girl. And that means its parachutes I'll have to worry about, not pottery.