How Being An Aunt Can Bring You Immeasurable Joy
Even If You Want to be A Mom One Day… Or Now
It’s supremely awkward being around other people’s kids.
I love children. They are (usually) cute and the tiny outfits are scrumptious and oh my god can we bottle up that smell? But it always feels a little weird.
How much love are you allowed to shower on a child that’s not your own?
I don’t want to overstep. Or get that parental side-eye.
I’m constantly worried that I’m doing it wrong. How could you not? They don’t even talk! Or if they do, it’s unintelligible. Frankly, that goes for teenage slang (wtf is cheugy??) just as much as toddler gibberish.
You usually figure these things out when you have kids of your own. Right? You’re around them 24/7 and learn their quirks and build a connection. You can’t do that as an outsider.
I’ve wanted to have kids for at least two decades. I just assumed it would eventually happen for me. The meet-cute. The dream wedding. The perfect family. In that order.
It’s supposed to be easy. So easy that you spend a significant amount of effort trying not to have kids until that magic moment when you’re “ready.”
As I inched deeper into my 30s, I began to panic. Nothing seemed to be falling into place. I had yet to meet a partner. I didn’t even feel like a real adult! When are you prepared to be responsible for another human being?
My biological clock was speeding up. Tick, tick, tick tick tick tick tick. TICK!
I created an idealized picture of motherhood. I was desperate for the feeling of unconditional love. I wanted to shift generational patterns. Impart some wisdom. Also, did I mention the outfits? And the smell?
I considered the alternate possibilities. Being a parent on my own. Or not at all.
I confided in my father (an obstetrician who has brought roughly 20,000 babies into the world) about my woes.
“At least you can be an aunt.” His conciliatory remark had the undertones of defeat. I heard: it’s probably not going to happen for you.
That’s still just other people’s kids. Who cares about that? I wanted to be a mom.
My partner finally came into my life when I was 36. At 38, I got pregnant twice, unfruitfully. My chances to become a biological mother were quickly dwindling. I watched my dreams move farther out of reach.
What got me through the worst of the grief and overwhelm? My relationship with my twin baby niece and nephew.
I thought being an aunt would feel like a consolation prize. It doesn’t.
Not even a little.
Even before my first loss, I was hopelessly in love with them.
I couldn’t have predicted this. My sister and I were not close growing up. In the past, we’d gone months without so much as a text message.
When I became an aunt, there was a shift.
These weren’t random children floating out in the universe who had no need for an awkward lady doting on them. They were blood. And they did need me.
Initially, there was my usual hesitance around how to treat them, how to behave. Like when you’re taking a photo and don’t know what to do with your hands. But something about our shared genetics sparked a maternal(ish) responsibility.
“It takes a village.”
I embraced my role as Masi. Weeks-long visits, filled with exploration and amazement and wonder. Singing Old McDonald Had a Farm incessantly on almost-daily video calls, so much so that E-I-E-I-O was burned into my brain and my Spotify account.
When I wasn’t around, I’d beg for more photos, video calls. I sent innumerable gifts.
When I was there, I was acutely present. Rushing to be the first one up with their morning cries. Getting messy with dirt and sand and markers and smushed food. Learning to translate their evolving communication (Spanish, English, sign language, and twin babble).
Not just witnessing their milestones, but being a part of their growth.
I felt important, vital to these children’s lives. I definitely still made mistakes. There was a significant learning curve with diapers. At least once, I spent bathtime letting them play with bubbles and toys and the sprayer before their mother came in and reminded me that I actually had to bathe them.
Trust and comfort developed on both sides. We bonded.
I could feel their love, even through a screen. Probably only slightly related to how many cookies I sent to them. The first time I heard “hiiiii Masi!” with some blown besitos on FaceTime, I nearly melted into my couch cushions.
The free reign to connect with them quickly evaporated my self-presumed incompetence.
In some ways, being an aunt is even better than being a mom.
With the big stuff taken care of, you can be the fun one. Hand them back when the crying gets out of control. Be silly. Break the rules.
Not infrequently, I let them get into a bit of trouble.
- Lift them up to get into all the hard-to-reach stuff they’re not supposed to touch.
- Pick flowers from the park to bring home to Mama.
- Eat the extra cookie with the icing that turns their whole mouths blue.
- Hold my phone to watch endless Cocomelon or monster truck videos.
- Have a “snow day” by ripping up the shipping styrofoam into tiny pieces and then getting to vacuum it up (which is apparently an entertaining activity for tiny humans).
I never could have imagined this level of joy. Especially from other people’s kids.
I love these kids so much I have a legitimate fear I won’t supersede this feeling with my own child.
If.
After my losses, it dawned on me: this may be the only chance I ever get to watch anyone grow up. To have a front row seat. To witness the little everyday moments that most people take for granted. The ones that we reminisce fondly upon years later.
The aunt experience coalesces so much of the good of motherhood with far fewer of the struggles. And much more sleep.
I’m convinced the joy of children is at its best as an aunt. I’ll report back when I become a mom.
