Because It Used To Be All About Me

My daughter turned four this weekend and for kicks, I looked back at my other blog, the one I shall not name, for posts I wrote while I was pregnant with her.


And I found one. But instead of being about her, it was about me — sick and in the throes of early pregnancy.


So rather than mark the occasion of my daughter’s birthday with some sentimental mumbo jumbo, I’m going to reprint the post below. Because once, it used to be all about me.


{{Hello, old friend. I haven’t heard your tender, sweet words for awhile. Whisper them to me gently.

Yes, like that.

Once, it used to be all about me.”

I like how you say that.}}


(originally posted July, 2003)


My dad used to call me coocooboo when I was a baby and still occasionally when he thinks I’m cute.


I haven’t heard the pet name for a long time, but when I went home last weekend, dragging my puking, battered intestinal tract to my Dad’s front doorstep, he took such pity on me and instantly assumed the paternal role, calling me “his coocooboo.”


It felt really good.


Until I realized, maybe in his head, he spells it “cuckoo-boo,” like the crazy bird.


Happy birthday, baby!


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