Back in the days when the Bean was the size of a Garbanzo bean, whether we were chilling out at the library or spitting up in a bookstore, people would always make goofy faces at her and then smile at me and say, "Oh my God! She looks just like you!" And I'd smile back and say, no, no, she gets her eyes from my wife. But these nosey bodies would still insist she looked like me. Honestly, aside for having the same buzz cut as the Bean, I just didn't see it.
But Brooke saw it. And she started getting jealous that everybody in Manhattan kept blurting out the uncanny daddy resemblance. Everybody. Our family and friends. The neighbors. The mailman. The dry cleaner. The Indian delivery guy from Curry in a Hurry. Brooke was like, "whose kid is this? She's obviously not mine." I tried to make her feel better. "But she has your chin, honey." That didn't make her feel any better. It got to the point that so many people were saying it, that I was starting to toy with the idea that perhaps the birth of my Jewish Female Bruce Clone was indeed immaculate conception. Yeah, all she needed was the goatee.