It means something different to her now, at eighteen months of age, than it will at twenty-four months.
Now, when I hold her in my arms, she yells it out with a smile and excitement, certain of what is coming next. She knows that she is about to be bombarded with a series of kisses on her forehead, cheeks and neck while she is tipped backwards and squeezed in a warm (but playful) embrace. When I bring her back upright, she smiles and yells it again, no less excited than the time before.
In six months, she probably won’t be as excited to answer; she won’t shout it as loud. When I ask her at five years of age, she may only smile, not saying a word. When she is thirteen, she’ll probably only answer with a rolling of her eyes; even then I will know that somewhere inside the mind of my one and only daughter, my favorite girl in the whole wide world, there will be a part of her proudly shouting, “Me!“