To an insult. As an opening volley, it kinda falls flat.
But that hardly mattered. I was less interested in the question that she had tried to ask, and much more intrigued by the question she actually had asked. What had begun as playful teasing sent Daddy down the philosophical rabbit hole, chasing her question like the White Rabbit himself.
If I am you, then who am I? Was she me? Was she becoming me? Are kids carbon copies of their parents? Our talents, our traits, our DNA—are our children the sum of our parts, or just some of our parts? My gut reaction is that she is most definitely not me, although I’ve made a significant contribution, as has her mother. Still, in every child, there’s that third element, that “where the heck did that come from?” component that makes things interesting and defines a child as not merely a knockoff of the originals, but as a unique blend all their own.