The newspaper editor seated next to me at a trendy Lahore restaurant spoke soberly about the pressures faced by the Pakistani media.

Despite the fact that Pakistan remains one of the most dangerous countries in the world for journalists, it has a vibrant press, explained Kamal Siddiqi. He is the editor-in-chief of the Express Tribune, one of the country's largest English-language dailies.

But his demeanor changed when we discovered we both have daughters roughly the same age. In that perplexed way that middle-aged parents talk about their children's musical tastes, he mentioned that his 13-year-old is a fan of Fall Out Boy, an American pop-punk band.

My daughter loves Fall Out Boy, I informed him.

His girl also follows British YouTube stars Dan and Phil, he said, unsure of who exactly they were.

Mine is similarly obsessed. (Neither Siddiqi nor I have watched an episode yet, although we agreed that we fully intend to monitor what has our children so enraptured.)

It wasn't just the girls' shared pop cultural interests that amused us. It was their boundary-testing attitudes; their verbal sparring with siblings and parents; their common language of Tumblr and Instagram posts.

"I thought this was somewhat unique to American kids," I said to him.

"No, this is what she and all her friends talk about," he said.

The West has long exported its culture to the rest of the world. But the proliferation of social media has given rise to a more fluid exchange that goes beyond singing the same song lyrics and watching the same movies. The hyper-connected, post-millennial generation is part of a pan-digital culture. Of course, a secular American teen might have little in common with one being educated in a Pakistani madrassa. But one of Lahore's most conservative madrassas broadcasts its lessons via YouTube and fields "Ask an imam" questions online. Their audience is global.

Meanwhile, a teen punk in Pakistan is no less emo than her American counterpart.

I rattled off the names of a few other bands that Siddiqi's daughter might appreciate, having been educated on several occasions by my own 12-year-old. He texted his daughter in Karachi about his new musical finds, and she began quizzing him about songs, suspicious in the way teenagers are when their parents profess to liking anything cool. She stopped texting after a short exchange.

I empathized. I had been away from home on a journalism seminar for more than two weeks at this point, and I had sent my daughter lengthy texts to which I received short replies, if they were acknowledged at all.

One of my traveling companions, a young Huffington Post reporter, nodded sympathetically when I showed her the one-sided text conversations.

"It's like you're in a relationship with a bad boyfriend," she said.

It did feel like trying a bit too hard to get someone's attention. I shared the analogy with Siddiqi, who agreed that it was apt.

I wondered why I felt so giddy at the thought of parents across the globe suffering the same teenager-related angst. The American culture of modern parenting lays so much blame at the feet of parents: We are too permissive; we are too hovering; we are overly involved; we are too self-involved.

Mostly, we are guilt-ridden and time-starved.

Every aspect of parenting is picked apart and diagnosed as a symptom of any number of societal ills, from consumerism to narcissism to attention deficits.

No wonder it was such a relief to hear a Pakistani parent describe an adolescent who sounded so familiar.

Siddiqi's daughter called me to ask if I had really taken my daughter to a Fall Out Boy concert this summer. Yes, I told her, it's true.

"She's so lucky!" she shrieked.

I could not resist texting my daughter afterwards and sharing that tidbit.

"I know I have cool parents," she texted back, adding a sly smiley face emoji.

She must be missing me after all, I thought.

Siddiqi and I pledged to keep in touch after our meeting, which was ostensibly about the ways in which our professional worlds overlapped and diverged.

He and I became Facebook friends. We virtually introduced our daughters, who connected through Instagram.

The distance between Karachi and St. Louis: now a bit shorter.

I remember glancing into a bathroom vanity a few years back and doing a double-take.

In the dim light, I could have sworn I saw my mother's face staring back at me. It was her slightly curved nose, her oval face and heavy eyelids. What could have been an unwelcome reminder of aging instead took me back to my childhood. I remember watching intently, enamored by her face, as my mother applied her makeup for parties.

A homely sort of child, no one ever told me I looked like her when I was young.

Nonetheless, I was still stunned when the doctor handed me my newborn daughter.

She looked nothing like me.

Her hair was much lighter than my black locks. Her skin was considerably paler. She looked so much like her paternal grandmother, Georgia Kelley, a Midwestern woman of European descent.

Perhaps we expect to replicate ourselves, at least to some degree. But this baby girl looked just like her father, himself a product of a biracial marriage.

One visitor tried to tell me that all newborns resemble their fathers initially. It's an evolutionary adaptation to reassure dad that he's actually the daddy.

Dr. Alan Templeton, professor of genetics at Washington University School of Medicine, says he hasn't seen any scientific research supporting that theory.

"I'm actually very skeptical of it," he said. But there is plenty of research on organisms, including humans, showing that they rely on resemblances as part of kin recognition. And we treat those we recognize as kin differently than non-kin, he said.

"This is evolutionarily quite old, and not unique to humans," Templeton said.

My sisters joke that I look like my daughter's nanny when we are out in public.

Like any biased parent, I think she's beautiful. But I was tickled when our second child arrived with the exact same almond-shaped eyes as my entire family. He looks like a miniature version of my younger brothers. It's a public display of genetic prowess: We won round two.

There must be a biological imperative involved. We are hardwired to want to pass along our own very special DNA. The crooked smile and hazel eyes are genetic affirmation.

Almost immediately after a child is born, speculation begins on who the child looks like. It's one of the most popular topics of discussion as babies' faces change so rapidly in those early years. And when we tell someone their child looks like them, the typical response is usually a big smile.

But in this age of increasingly biracial and multiracial families, cross-cultural adoption and fertility treatments with donor eggs or sperm, there will be more children who look strikingly different from their parents.

I've known a few white women who have married Pakistani men and subtly changed their appearance once their children were born. Typically, blond hair gets dyed a shade or two darker. They get tired of answering the question: "Is she really yours?"

We want to look related. We want outsiders to know we are on the same team, a family.

Parents who adopt children from another ethnicity deal with intrusive (and sometimes obnoxious) questions fairly regularly. Questions such as "How much did they cost?" and "Why didn't you adopt a white baby?" make the old jokes about the milkman seem downright charming.

One mom delights in telling the story of taking her adopted son, who shares her blue eyes and blond hair, to restaurants. She's been told by bystanders: "Oh, there's no mistaking he's your son."

She smiles and says: "You're right."

I've heard my share of awkwardly phrased questions when people see pictures of my children. Sometimes they'll ask, "What is their father?" I'm always tempted to answer by species rather than race. But I know the subtext. Skin color, hair color, eye color -- those primitive markers signify if you're one of us or one of them.

That shorthand just doesn't work as well in today's world.

When people tell me my daughter looks just like me, I am secretly delighted, even though I don't buy it. But there are reasons she frequently makes me want to pull my hair out: her stubborn personality, her passionately held opinions, the smart remarks and the proclivity to collect mounds of clutter.

Looks notwithstanding, she is an uncanny reflection of myself.

For years, I have admired my neighbor's rotating displays on her front door and porch. In the fall, pumpkins appear. Winter may bring snowmen and frosted pinecones.

She is as timely as the changing seasons.

Last winter, I stumbled across a wreath I just had to buy: a striking collection of silver-painted berries. Christmas is not part of our religious tradition, so I called my impulse purchase our "holiday wreath" and proudly hung it next to our front door. I enjoyed driving up to it throughout December. It twinkled and glittered and welcomed me home every night.

By mid-January, I realized my neighbors had moved on. Their lights were packed away, with spring flowers in waiting.

I tried to find a wreath storage box at a nearby Target, but all the hyper-organized decorators already had cleared the shelves. Maybe it could become our "winter" wreath. February was cold and dreary enough to leave our sparkling symbol of the season alone.

In early March, however, my feelings began to change.

Instead of a friendly welcome, I felt the wreath's silvery sparkle mocking me. I started to glance away as I drove up the driveway. I was the only one on the block with a leftover winter wreath on her door. That wreath became a daily reminder of my inability to organize my life or complete a project. Every day, it reminded me of piles of clothes needing alterations, an unfinished master's thesis and all the items I would never cross off my to-do list.

The wreath was a judgment; it announced, "A failed Martha Stewart wannabe lives here."

I started to dread seeing the wreath.

Then one day, I noticed a small bunch of twigs and leaves gathering in the hollow of my holiday nemesis. A bird had started making her home there. It was clearly a sign. All of a sudden, the wreath took on a new role.

Our family checked the progress of our wildlife habitat every day. The nest grew bigger and bigger, and the bird didn't seem to mind showing off her craftsmanship.

Days later, an amazing discovery: six light blue eggs. My preschoolers were amazed. I was also awed, but those little eggs seemed so fragile. I doubted they could survive our unusually harsh winter weather.

Checking on our nest and the eggs became a daily ritual. After every car ride back from school or the grocery store, I'd lift both of my little ones high enough to peer inside the nest. Birdie always obliged us, flying off momentarily while we held our breath and peeked at her eggs.

Eventually, we stopped using the front door to avoid disturbing Birdie's nest.

Once, a dinner guest tried to look into the wreath without the proper protocol we'd established with Birdie. She blew out of the nest with incredible force and missed his head by inches.

You don't mess with mama bird.

My little ones had their own ideas about why Birdie had chosen our wreath for a home. Maybe she wanted to eat those shiny beads, my daughter suggested. Could be. One was pecked down to where the silver paint flaked off, revealing a red shell.

I've affectionately called my daughter "Bird" for years because of her delicate frame. A few years ago, she had an imaginary bird friend, Chirpy, with an extensive family and elaborate adventures. Now, we were watching a real-life Birdie guarding her future family. One afternoon, when Birdie flew away and let us take a look, we saw that the light blue eggs had been replaced with furry little balls.

"Baby birds! Baby birds!" my 3-year-old chanted. Birdie's family had been born.

We jumped up and down, and my daughter immediately started scouting for worms.

My wreath had turned from a symbol of procrastination to a symbol of renewal. Instead of rushing home frazzled and stressed, our wreath gave us a chance to slow down and watch a tiny miracle unfolding on our front porch.

I thought, "One day soon -- maybe too soon -- those little fuzzy balls will turn into birds strong enough to fly away from their mama's nest."

Instead, life, as it often does, took an unexpected turn. A big storm blew through our neighborhood, and the next morning, I noticed the wreath lying on the ground. My heart sank. I immediately called my husband to see if he had moved the wreath. He hadn't.

I feared the worst, but I was too scared to look.

A friend came by and broke the news: The babies did not survive the storm. I was beside myself. This was my fault for not moving the wreath earlier. The chirping outside felt like recriminations.

The next day, I spotted a bird, who looked an awful lot like Birdie, perched low in our front hedge. I think I saw a few extra twigs gathered near the bush.

One season was over; a new one was starting.

It was time to pack my wreath away.