I often say that my daughter came out of the womb with her own personality. I will never forget my sense of awe the day she was born. I could tell right away that she was her own person.

Still, inside every turning leaf is the pattern of an older tree and my daughter is no exception. This was painfully clear on a recent Friday when my wife called me on her way to the emergency room. "Your daughter broke her arm playing on the jungle gym after school," she said. It seems the little orangutan tried to clear four hand holds on the monkey bars and missed the last one. She fell straight down, and in a brave attempt to break her fall, she broke her arm.

Truth be told, my wife has never broken a bone, while my medical chart resembles that of Evel Knievel. Of course, Knievel is a reasonable comparison. My wife would have you believe that I am weak-boned while she is tougher than nails, but the reality is that my injuries are the result of risky behavior rather than some genetic flaw. Unless you consider risk-taking genetically rooted.

Of course, the whole "birth thing" assures that there will never be confusion about the genetic link between mother and daughter; a luxury that we fathers will never enjoy. Still, the evidence reaches far beyond the physical realities of childbirth.

My daughter is so much like her mother, it scares me. For years, I have told my wife that she overpacks. We spent a week on the Big Island last year and took two suitcases and three carry-ons! A few weeks ago, my daughter headed to a friend's house for a one-night sleepover. You would think that she was moving in with them. She took three different outfits, several toys, a bathing suit and a book for bedtime. My wife would insist that her daughter was prepared; I thought she was moving out.

Like her mother, my daughter freezes when in trouble. She is the proverbial deer in the headlights. There is no silence like that of my daughter when she is in a bind. I, on the other hand, sing like a bird. I scour my minuscule cranium for every excuse I can imagine; scrambling for the elusive "get out of jail free" card. Rationalization is my middle name.

My daughter also has her mother's fashion sense. Banned from red-carpet decisions nearly six years ago, I watch without say as she and her mother carefully coordinate jewelry, hairpins and shoe options for special occasions. Once the event is over, my daughter ditches the clothes behind the bathroom door instead of the hamper. According to Mom, she gets this fashion glitch from me!

There is no doubt that my daughter is her mother's child. But she is my child, too. Yes, like me she leaves her clothes on the floor. Yes, she puts things off until the last minute. Yes, she is a risk taker. And yes, when she is in trouble everyone agrees that she is my child. I understand. But each of these "negative traits" has an upside. OK, perhaps there is no upside to leaving clothes on the floor, but there are worse things than taking a few risks. My daughter may test some limits, but my hope is that in the process she will discover who she is and what she can do. She may suffer a broken arm or perhaps even a broken heart, but bones heal and hearts mend and clean clothes are overrated.

Michael C. DeMattos is on faculty at the University of Hawai'i School of Social Work. He lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.