Auntie SubDiva

As much as I love being a Mom, I must admit that the Aunt gig is a pretty sweet one in a schizophrenic sort of way.

This past week, I’ve had the unique Auntie perspective of watching my youngest nephew be Baptized, and my oldest niece marry. Both events were joyous, and in between each celebration, hanging with the rest of those kids was a party of its own.

I was lucky to have some pretty amazing Aunts and Uncles when I grew up. My Uncle would take my sister and me on "prize hunts." These were excursions to the store and "whatever falls off the shelf is yours." Even at a young, naive age, I realized the enormity of this. The temptation of choosing the biggest thing in the store tempered with the good sense to know that prize hunts may be few and far between if I chose like that. So we’d end up getting something simple that my parents never would have purchases--a pair of roller skates, the new Olivia Newton-John album. A particularly distasteful T-shirt….I often later wondered how my Uncle knew that by giving us the complete freedom of choice ended up to be more of a cap than if he would’ve come outright and said, "No," a word rarely spoken by Aunts and Uncles. It also served the purpose of getting a rise out of my parents--sort of the adult version of the backseat "I know you are, but what am I," game--that only a sibling can administer properly.

One of our favorite stunts was when we would pull into the driveway or leave it for one of our outings. My Uncle would make us put on our most dead-pan poker faces while he rolled down the window. As soon as my mother got close enough to register the proper concern, we would scream in blood-curdling unison until she cried so hard she laughed. It was a way of not taking anything too seriously.

Through and with them, I skied the Rocky Mountains. I perfected Hollandaise sauce. I learned to water ski. I read books and listened to music that I never would have discovered on my own. But mostly, I got a glimpse of my parents through the eyes of their siblings--a unique experience that humanized them in a good way.

Aunts and Uncles finish the childhood stories with the not-so flattering details instead of the pat, "I don’t remember, it was so long ago." They tell you how long it really took to walk to school. And in clear weather. They’ve kept (and framed) all of the embarrassing photos.

When we got married and long before we had children of our own, we used to spend a lot of time with our nieces and nephews despite the miles that separated us. I hesitate to say that we "practiced" parenting on them--because on our trips and outings, "parenting" by any definition was never practiced, nor did we have any such lofty intentions. We genuinely enjoyed spending time with them. Because in doing so, it humanized our brothers and sisters in a good way, too.

I wonder what sort of Auntie reverie legacy I’ve left with them? Will Maine be their Rocky Mountains? Will the 5 lb bag of Twizzlers be their Hollandaise? Will tubing in the Pocono’s equate to the water skiing? Or will it be some future adventure? During a hazy conversation after the reception in which Auntie SD spent a little too much time with Uncle Jack Daniels, we joked that the evening may deteriorate rapidly into an episode of "Aunts Gone Wild," but that is the fun part about being an Aunt, you can be a little wild sometimes.

An Aunt is the playful muse to Mother editor demanding a deadline. She’s the "Aw, 5 more minutes?" to the maternal curfew. The evil twin. The unambitious understudy who is the star of the after-parties. Mom makes you eat all of your broccoli, but her sister puts Hollandaise sauce on it.

Sometimes, I’ll pick up my lonely and neglected cell phone and there is a little envelope icon signaling a text message from my nephew, D. I can’t help but smile every time I see it. I’ll spend 2 hours trying to figure out how to open it because no one else in the world sends me such messages, but I am always rewarded when I finally do.

It’s like a prize hunt all over again only ending with the most valuable thing in the store.

© 2006 Tracey Henry