Fifty-nine years ago today I was born, and my mom named me Leslie D’Aun. She took my middle name from a friend’s daughter whose first name was D’Aun, but she needed a first name to go along with it. Apparently she didn’t want my name to be identical to that of her friend’s child–even though I never met the kid and I doubt it would have been a big deal.
My grandmother, Nannie Grace, discovered the name Leslie in a novel she was reading at the time. I guess that’s fitting since I’d rather read than anything, so little Leslie D’Aun came to be.
A couple of friends through the years have used my middle name for their own kids–more because they liked the name than that they were naming their child after me. I also have a granddaughter named McKayla D’Aun, but until last week I didn’t know anyone who’d specifically chosen the name Leslie because of me.
My incredibly competent and sweet housekeeper, Rosa, told me on Friday that her sister, who helps her clean from time to time, had given birth to a beautiful baby girl and named her Leslie Marisol.
Rosa said, “My sister thinks you are so good and nice, so she named her daughter Leslie so maybe she will be like you.”
I might’ve cried. Ok, I cried.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 