She said it matter-of-factly and the words themselves held no meaning. Still, they rocked my world.

I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself.  But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.

"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."

The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.

It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.

A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.

I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.

Please God. Please give me a daughter.

God answered that prayer with Libby.

She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.

My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.

I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.

My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.

My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.

My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .

She's just more.

I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.

I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?

I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.

Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.

Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.

Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.