Someone hands you seven pounds of arranged carbon and you call it your daughter, and both descriptions are exactly correct.
Consider what you are actually holding. The atoms threaded through those tiny fingers were forged in the cores of stars that died before the Sun existed, their nuclei fused under pressures that turned hydrogen into carbon, oxygen, iron, then scattered across the galaxy in explosions bright enough to briefly outshine a hundred billion suns.
Those atoms drifted for billions of years, folded into a molten planet, cycled through oceans and ferns and dinosaurs, and have now assembled themselves, temporarily, into a person who cannot yet hold up her own head.
And she is warm. That is the part that gets me. She is running at roughly 37 degrees Celsius, radiating heat into your arms, and every joule of it traces back to sugar molecules being disassembled inside her cells, in mitochondria descended from a bacterium some other cell swallowed two billion years ago and never digested. She is a bonfire so slow and so controlled you can only feel it as a pleasant weight.
She is also mostly nothing. If you removed the empty space inside her atoms, the space between each nucleus and its electrons, the actual matter of her would compress to something smaller than a grain of salt. You are holding a cloud held in a shape by electromagnetic force, a shape that took the entire history of the universe to arrive at, resting against your chest.
The odds that these particular atoms would ever cohere into this particular squirming configuration, once, briefly, before entropy pulls them apart again, are so close to zero they may as well be a miracle. Which is the correct word.
The physics simply agrees.