I named her after my mom’s nickname. My son bestowed the nickname upon my mom when he was around 2 or so. My mom had wanted to be called Lita. We’d been coaching him to call her Lita, the hispanic nickname for Abuelita, but he wouldn’t have it. He kept calling her something else, but no one could figure out what it was. Finally, my parents determined he was calling her Daci. Both having studied past lives, they believed Jag must have been a Dacian, ancient Indo-European people who lived roughly in the territory of modern Romania and surrounding neighbors. Whatever the reasoning behind the nickname, it stuck.
When I became pregnant and mom was ill, I decided to honor her with my baby’s name. I knew from the beginning that I was pregnant with a girl. Over time, it occurred to me that I wanted to call her Daisy, a nod towards the nickname. This was an easy agreement for husband and I to come to, thankfully.
My mom was sick and quickly approaching death; I was pregnant and quickly approaching delivery. I wanted them to meet so badly. I could feel my desire pulling at my heart and yet I could also feel my helplessness in the whole situation. Many times, hospice told us the end was near; many times, my mom pulled through for another day, another week, another month past their predictions. I knew she was hanging on to meet my baby. In the end, they had 3 months overlap. And then, mom was gone.
And now, Daisy is turning 2. She’s so sweet. I’m so proud of her. She’s as smart as a whip, often babbling and trying on new words and sentences. She’s very physical, trying to jump and running everywhere. I’m blown away that she is already two. And it makes me miss my mom so much.
Whenever I used to visit my mom, I could sit on the left side of her bed. This was the side where her arm still worked. We would hold hands and pass the time, sometimes watching TV, sometimes me reading or telling her stories and sometimes just napping. As irony would have it, now when I visit her grave, I can sit on the same side. The other side is occupied. The side to the left of her, where I would have naturally taken up perch, is open. I sidle up and I start talking, telling her stories and catching her up. Meanwhile, Daisy runs about the cemetery, bewildered by the open space.
I wonder what my mom would say about how big she is? I can imagine the bond they would have. My mom was such a great grandmother, doting on her grandchildren, as she did her children for we never questioned how much we were loved. I am sure they would be fast friends. Every time I see a woman my age with an able, agile mother, shopping or lunching or sometimes even taking my class, a part of me swoons with envy, especially when those two seem close and happy.
Cherish one another, my friends.
Happy Birthday to my favorite 2 year old. May we be friends some day as were my mom and I. I could only dream of such marvelousness.