Growing up, I always wanted to be an Aunt, like the one from that Brady Bunch episode who trots around the world and breaks her leg while skiing with Robert Redford.  And the choices I made for most of my formative fertile years pretty much ensured that was the path I would take.  Case in point:  when my only sister got married at 25 to a traditional southerner living in a classic colonial, whose hobbies included shooting fowl and reading biographies of Thomas Jefferson, I was at that point pushing 30, living in a five-floor walk-up, and dating guys whose hobbies were shooting pool and dissecting the sex life of William Jefferson Clinton.

And now that I am nearing the new 30, still single, still living in a walk-up, with conversational topics on dates still centering around the sex life of a Clinton, I find myself at the very least feeling distant from (or, perhaps, in denial of) the fertility craze that seems to have struck many of my female peers, in no small part because I have managed to achieve my childhood dream six times over (sans the skiing with Robert Redford, though with lots of travel and caftan-wearing).   

Sure, it’s easy enough to fall back on the old cliché, that being an Aunt/Uncle offers all the fun with none of the responsibility, and to some extent that’s true:  Here I am, stuck in a state of perpetual adolescence, still fairly free-spirited, enjoying the benefits of my siblings’ tough life choices without having to indulge parental worries about school, safety, family finances and food allergies.  Plus, I am somewhat statistically blessed as an unintentional beneficiary of my parents’ choice to breed inordinately:  they had five kids, two have gone on to procreate, which keeps Mom and Dad happy playing grandparent, cements the family legacy and, more importantly, takes the pressure off me.

But in truth, I’m learning that the cliché really begins to expire around the first grade (for them, not me).  As my nephews get older, and become more aware of social delineations in the world of adults, they are waking up to the fact that there is something a little off about a fun, unhitched, older-ish female in their lives who is not a teacher, babysitter or that cousin’s latest girlfriend.  Like the time my brother and his son visited me in my 450 square foot apartment in Brooklyn, and the advanced little rascal blurted out:  “Now I know why you don’t have a husband, Aunt Kate, you don’t have the room!”  Precious little neph couldn’t leave it at that, months later continuing to harp on the fact that, because I didn’t even have the space for a kitchen table, he was forced on that visit to eat pizza on the sofa.   A year later I did move into a larger apartment, one with room for a table. “Well, now you can find a husband,” he declared, confident in the certainty that all I ever needed was a place at which to feed one.

Looking for Tom Brady

And then there’s the perception of my sister’s two sons, who until very recently I had managed to convince I was no older than, say, 18, which played nicely into this little fantasy world we had created where they both would grow up to be super heroes, and I would grow up to marry Tom Brady (or at least break my leg while skiing with him).

“You know Aunt Kate,” one of the nephs said solemnly, “if you marry Tom Brady, that means you’ll have to kiss him on the mouth.”  (That’s alright Fred, it’s a tough job, but I’ll take one for the team).

But my oldest nephew is now seven, and he is starting to poke holes in my little design: “Aunt Kate, Mommy said you’re not a teenager, which means you’re at least in your 20s.”  (I don’t know what childhood infraction my sister was trying to get me back for with that one, but it did the trick).

Lazy as a clam

His suspicions were further aroused this past Christmas, when he noticed that not only am I in the habit of sleeping in (your mother would too kid, if she had the choice), but this year committed the cardinal sin of taking a long nap on Christmas day when there was serious playing to be done. “I think you’re a little bit lazy Aunt Kate,” he said.  (No kid, I’m really just a little bit old, and staying up until 3 am the night before to arrange your presents, only to be woken up at the crack of dawn by you jumping on my stomach doesn’t help).  But who was I to shatter his belief system that all the NFL-trademarked booty laid out under the tree was really the work of a magical oversized elf and not the result of massive youth-marketing efforts by corporate sports conglomerates.  “You’re right buddy, I am. Lazy as a clam.  Good thing I’m not your mom because I’d never get up to get you to school on time.”

Not every nephew thinks I’m a complete freak.  One for whatever reason actually seems to favor me (maybe because he recognizes the pathology of a fellow middle child), like the time he got up in the middle of dinner and spontaneously shifted positions simply so we could sit closer, “I want to be near Aunt Kate,” he announced.  “Why?” I asked, with the inbred suspicion that comes so naturally when any member of the male species expresses his interest in getting closer.  “He’s FOUR,” my sister said, in that ‘how can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time’ tone my family often takes with me. “He doesn’t need a reason.”  OK, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.  But truth be told this particular nephew has inherited the Irish charm that has been both my family’s blessing and its curse, and I’ve seen the tricks the kid uses to delay bedtime: I was fairly convinced he had an angle, and I’m more than positive it had something to do with roping me into endless rounds of UNO Spin.

Of course I have a magical niece who cares not a whit about my marital status, real estate holdings or true age. She’s a fearless sprite who emerged from the womb already grasping the defining rules of existence, like boys can be so tiresome at times, and no wardrobe is complete without a pair of red boots.   She is not the sensitive, critical, obsessive little creatures my nephews can be, quite happy to slide on and off my lap as the mood strikes, and knows that the only things truly worth getting upset about are when her father doesn’t listen to her or her mother doesn’t let her wear the same dress five days in a row.   She also has an inherent understanding of the world’s precious whimsy, and by three had already learned that it’s ok to preface her statements with “Later on, when I change my mind.” But she would simply not do with being lumped in with the boys, and deserves her very own post, so please stay tuned….