Another tale from the Life of Reilly...
My youngest child has a head of curls and an attitude ten times the size of normal little girls'. While dh contributed the stubborn streak, and the blonde tresses certainly come from me, the total package is quite noticeably different than anyone else in either of our families. Which has led to inevitable jokes about switched-at-birth, milk man's baby, etc. Well, Reilly caught one of those jokes and asked me one night if she really came out of my belly, or if she was the wrong girl. <sob> OK, heartbreaking and funny, and we cleared that up with a visit to my family photo album and all the white-haired, curly-headed babies and an assurance that we asked for a baby named Reilly and, since she is named Reilly, she's the right girl.
Fast forward a few days, when out of the blue young Reilly said, "Mom, you and Daddy are not my real parents. My real parents died, and they gave me to you. This is the only thing they left me..." and she solemnly held out the purple plastic brush she was using on her Barbie horse. I examined it gravely, and she pointed to the handle. "Those numbers are their telephone number so I can call them." I thought about reminding her that they're "dead" and therefore unable to take calls, but decided against it. So I read aloud the cryptic message from beyond the grave: CONAIR. "Yes," she said, "That's their last name. I am really Reilly Conair."