The agony (and the ecstasy) aunt

by: Kate Carraway

September 23, 2009 2:00 PM

Comments: (0)

My sisters’ noisy, pushy, snotty kids are the greatest things that ever happened to me

“We’re sort of like her kids, but sort of not.” This is how one of my nieces explains me to her ponytailed friend when I’m visiting for a couple of days. Since I’m the kind of into-it aunt who lets my niece and her ponytail crew paint my nails with a motley collection of Wet and Wild sparkle polish, the nature of my relationship to her, her two little brothers and her three cousins doesn’t matter much to any of us.

When W., the first of my six nieces and nephews, was born, I caught a ride with my parents to the hospital to meet him and congratulate my stunned sister and her husband. In the back seat, I suddenly knew what it meant to “take a bullet” for someone. I’m the youngest kid in my family by a decade: all previous family protectiveness was directed squarely at me, the baby. Then, it wasn’t. That was cool. At 20, aunthood suggested some proof of adultness and maturity.

Having two older sisters really means having three moms, and when I was promoted to “aunt” there was a de facto shrugging off of my previous occupations of “brat” and “baby.” The jealousy I’d anticipated didn’t arrive with W. Instead, I felt this immediate and acute love for him. I was prepared, also, to do diaper penance for the times I’d peed on my sister (I was just days old) or barfed on her (on an airplane, coming home from Mexico) or made her barf when she was cleaning up my barf (fifth grade; flu; she let me watch The Young and the Restless).

Now there are six. W. is eight years old. He does this thing of putting his freckly nose about an inch away from mine, and then shouting at me about hockey. He is consumed with how soon he will overtake me in height. (Soon.) A., who is seven, is epically bossy and heartbreakingly sensitive. She recently asked her mom if I was a kid or a grown-up, as her specific markers for both are missing (I don’t go to school, but I don’t have a husband, so…). M. is five. He wants very little to do with me because I am not Spider-Man, Superman or Bakugan, but he reaches for my hand when we are walking somewhere. I took D. out for one of those $7 gourmet ice creams once and watched it melt while he told me about his dreams. C. is basically me, which is spooky, but she’s already smarter — a tiny, Machiavellian dynamo. L. is brand new, an infant. They’re perfect.

Aunthood is my highest priority. The relationship between me and “my” four little boys and two little girls is what I want most to succeed at. I want to give them the same fixed, bone-deep love I got from their moms when I was a kid. I’m not the best-ever at it: I’m half as patient as I could be, to begin with. When one of them casually snapped a pair of rare, expensive sunglasses in half, I was genuinely mad, and took a slow walk, alone. They regularly infuriate me with how inefficient they are at cereal, and how uninterested they are in MSNBC. They are jumping on the couch beside me while I’m trying to tell my exhausted big sister about a man I kind-of-like-but-maybe-I-don’t-and-what-should-I-do? But, then, while I’m participating in the quiet latte/newspaper/CBC Radio continuum in Toronto and they’re several hours away, sweaty and rumpled in footy PJs, I miss them profoundly.

Mostly, aunthood provides an ever-expanding bounty. My relationship with them is uniquely non-intellectual and unconditional. It’s all id, all fun, all monkey-hugs and popcorn bribes. I don’t make decisions about their friends or bedtimes or nutrition; my job is to provide relief babysitting, an exotic, semi-outsider influence and books. They respond with easy, unmitigated trust — not just for their mom’s sister, but for someone that they have each, in turn, barfed and peed and cried on since day one.

Lately, the older two think I’m cool, and have questions about work and boyfriends and cities, about "what are these pictures on your arms," and "do you have any games on your cellphone?" They cannot fucking believe that their indulgent grandparents are my strict mom and dad; that their strict moms and dads are my indulgent sisters and brothers-in-law. Being an aunt has let me get away with having no kids of my own for longer than I might have otherwise. They’re the New Hope of an extended family that has, like any other, struggled in its second act. Even when they’re crying and whiny, I would very gladly take a soggy Cheerio up the nose, or a bullet in the heart, or anything else, for them. As long as they leave my sunglasses the fuck alone.

» Got any sort-of kids? Email kcarraway@eyeweekly.com or Tweet @katecarraway.

Copyright 1991 - 2009 EYE WEEKLY Newspapers Limited. All Rights Reserved. Distribution transmission,
Republication of any materials is strictly prohibited without the prior written consent of EYE WEEKLY.
EYE WEEKLY is a division of Toronto Star Newspapers Limited.

My Life, My Fault

The agony (and the ecstasy) aunt

Kate Carraway