Big Aunt Energy

Kids and parents and pals and family! THE GANG'S ALL HERE!

For the first time since I revived ye ‘ol newsie, I’m going to include a few photos of myself. Here I am:

Yes, I am the Most Smartest. (“Get a load of that.”) I am also a Born Aunt. (Pronounced “ant” in a southern Ontarian accent.)

Admittedly, this seemed to pose a problem since I am an only child and also do not have fella who’s got nieces and nephews I can count as my own. But then the most magical thing started happening: my friends started having kids, and I achieved honorary Aunt (always capitalized, thank you) status. True, I barely get to see said children (everyone’s busy! life, man!), but we’re laying the groundwork. I will be the friend/Aunt who teaches them phrases like “I love that for you” and leans into whatever vibe they’re leading the conversation with instead of asking them how they like school or commenting on how tall they’re getting. (Though yesterday I did tell the six-year-old next door who I adore that I thought swore was 42 because she lost her first tooth. We also dished about her new boyfriend. I asked if he had a brother my age. She isn’t sure.) I will model myself in the spirit of my own Aunt who told me at 13 that I’d graduated from Christmas presents to simply going shopping with her for the day and picking out an outfit after we “did lunch.” She was, and remains, one of the coolest people I know. A woman who terrifies me to my core (in the best way possible) but who I also have no qualms about swearing in front of, or talking shit to. Big Aunt Energy.

Like knowing I was a Born Aunt, I also knew that I was a Born Non-Parent. As a wee baby child, I’d dump my dolls on my mom’s lap and say I was going to work (or going to watch TV or going away from them because the responsibility was too much). I’d wax poetic about one day being a dad (because my dad worked all day and, as he and I ended up discussing in our adult years, he just wasn’t really a kid guy so my mom, a born Mom, did a shit-ton of the emotional/physical labour) (sidebar: this is something we all joked about as soon as I was a grown-up). And I either wanted to be the big sister or random friend if my pals and I were playing house. (Because as if I’d a) be married to my friend Paul, playing Dad, or b) be in charge of Jessie, the kid who always wanted to be the baby.)

I think you know what you have in you and what you don’t even when you’re small, and while those can certainly change and grow and shift over time, the marrow of my “no kids for me, thanks!” is something I’ve felt since I knew what feelings were. Of course, there’s always a little bit of pushback because I know that being a parent is an incredible experience and some parents who love it want you to be as psyched as they are. (Also, some people really don’t get how to have reasonable conversations.) “You may change your mind!” (I might! I could also decide to pursue a career in medicine, but I know how much I can’t handle bodily fluids, so trust me when I say we’d all suffer from that!) “You’d make a great mom!” (PERHAPS? But do we really want to test that theory with the well-being of a tiny human?) “What if you meet the perfect guy?” (Then he’s not perfect for me!) The thing is, most of these comments have never come from friends of mine who have children or even people I know who’d one day like to have them. (Their typical response: “That’s cool! It’s not for everyone!”) It’s usually from the weird, nosy person from high school who asks, after 15 years MIA, whether you’re a mom or not while you’re just trying to buy Kotex. So it’s easy for me to shut down those comments with “Ehhhh … nah” and make us both feel strange in the following silence.

So this is not a piece about “LEAVE ME ALONE ABOUT NOT WANTING KIDS.” Not even close. It’s 2023, and I’m lucky that from family to friends to people I work with, nobody really gives a shit because why would they and also they’re not dicks. It’s not even about how for a long time, *I* was a dick who assumed I should write off anyone having babies because they wouldn’t be “fun” anymore. (Guys, I am way less fun now than any parent I know.) (Also, I’m so sorry: I was deflecting and projecting, so it was easier to come out swinging and *checks notes* hurt a lot of people’s feelings for no reason whatsoever.) This is a piece in which I sing the praises of my fellow Aunts (and Uncles!) of the world, who are necessary citizens in the village it takes to raise a child.

First of all, kids are great. If you just get them talking about shit they like, you will be treated to the weirdest conversation of your life in the best possible way. As long you’re not a creep who asks them strange questions that you’d run away from if you were a kid, it’s a terrific way to spend some time because they’re not going to lie about anything. One of the kids next door knows she’s a great artist and when I tell her how wicked her sidewalk chalk art is, she says “I know!” and I say “Good!” A friend’s kid told me recently that a friend of theirs is too loud. Perfect! If anyone’s showing off their new shoes or coat or haircut, I stay away from any physical commentary whatsoever (I don’t know their comfort levels and guess what: calm down about the way people look, everybody) and stick to the words I valued when I was wee: “You look so cool!” “Man, you’re the bomb!” “Ah! You’re so hip!” (Clearly, I grew up in the 80s and 90s. Also: Being cool is better than being beautiful/pretty/etc. anyway, so why even go there.) Treating friends’ kids the way you wanted to be treated is a chance to interact with a generation of people who will inevitably make big choices about the future of the world in which we all live, and a way to do the exact opposite of what adults you hated when you were little tended to do. (Like, I will never just pick up or hug a child . . . ? One time my mom’s cousin was visiting and I was three or four, and he’d been working construction all day and picked me up when he wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was harmless and I’d let him pick me up all week, but I LOST MY SHIT. Boundaries, sir! This is a society!)

They’re also, from an Aunt standpoint, fucking fun all the time. Why? Because my only responsibility around children is to make sure they know they can exist in peace around me and we can dish (or not! it’s their call — they lead this dance). So most of the time, I see the bright, shiny versions of them who are just psyched to be present. I know this because when I was six, my mom and her friend took me out to dinner with them, and I was so excited I didn’t want to leave the table for a second, so I did not, even when I had to use the bathroom, desperately. It was the best! I ate fish and chips, the ladies ordered fancy soups, and I drank all the chocolate milk in the land. (This resulted in me peeing my pants and us having to leave, but what I’m saying is that I was fucking STOKED until that moment.) And as an adult pal of a mom or dad, I have come to understand that it is my job to create the same vibe: you wanna come thrifting with me and your mom, kid? Hell yeah! Let’s roam VV! You wanna come with us as we hit the mall? You better believe it! You’re having a tantrum because something happened that I didn’t see because I was in my own world, and your mom’s trying to figure out why you’re suddenly very angry at your chicken fingers? That’s your prerogative, baby! You want to show me the inner workings of your favourite toy that I do not understand, but love that you love? I’ve got time! Aunts don’t judge, don’t lecture, don’t wade into parental territory by trying to teach some life lesson. (Until they’re old enough to start drinking illegally, and then GUESS WHAT: I’ll be on your ass and make you call me for a ride before you ever drive home.) Our job is simply not to be massive buzzkills. Which in turn, prevents me from being a massive buzzkill. My friends and their kids are excellent reminders that no matter how old you are, you do not want to be the one sucking the fun out of the room.

But also, as Aunts (or Aunt-adjacent — you know what I mean by now), it’s our jobs to step up for our friends. Being a parent is fucking hard. Have you watched this shit happen? Moms and Dads have to CARE. Like, REALLY care. Care in a way that they will put their child above their own well-being because that’s what you do. People grow children IN THEIR BODIES. That’s wild. 37 years ago, my mom’s muscles locked and she had a six-and-a-half hour contraction when she was having me, and you know how I thanked her? I shit on her chest. I literally arrived into the world, and shit on my mom. (A preview of life in my teenage years.) Parents aren’t fucking around. They are tied to tiny people from birth to death, and they worry and love and try to make ends meet and try not to let their kids know that something is going wrong elsewhere in life and try to ensure they don’t spark some kind of neurosis, and, and, and. You know why I know I don’t have any of this in me? BECAUSE I KNOW I DON'T HAVE ANY OF THIS IN ME. I know it like I know my own name. Today Fran started throwing up in the living room, and I asked my mom to please check on her because I just . . . can’t.

Yesterday, I was catching up with my neighbour on their driveway, and their kids were all playing outside after having the stomach flu. I was all, “How did you do it?! Four kids? Barfing? At once?!” and he was the chillest man in the land. “It’s fine, it’s just kids!” and he, because he and his wife are natural parents, kept playing hockey with them. I stared at him and he laughed at me, and then I asked him a million questions about whether I could catch said bug by standing kind of near them, outside, in a strong wind. Then I went home and Googled it and my mom has to remind me that I was being a fucking freak.

Which isn’t to say not having kids means one is less selfless or has less purpose or meaning (never/absolutely not/if somebody says that to you they’re being completely inappropriate), but it does mean that when your parent pals need a little support, those hours in which you may have a little more time means you can (and should) offer that support. I want my friends to know they can dump their kids on me for an hour or two if they need to run an errand. (Now, they won’t, because I don’t think they have a lot of confidence in my ability to ensure the safety of a child — but they know that they could.) I want my friends to know that if they’re in the bell jar, they can haul themselves and their babies to my place, where the kids can play in the backyard and we can sit on the deck, talking shit. I want my friends to know that they can talk to me about being parents (the good, the bad, the “I hate Paw Patrol” phase) and I won’t eye roll or dismiss them because that is their lives and I value their lives, and I would be so hurt if anybody devalued me because we didn’t share the same life trajectory. I like hearing about my pals and their parenting. I love my pals. And love is a part of being alive, and I’m a big fan of being alive.

One of the worst things to come out of the pandemic is the horrible feeling of isolation, and I’ve watched a lot of my currently-parenting friends have to endure that feeling over and over because we built a system in which isolation somehow equates success. But it doesn’t! You need everyone. You need friends and Aunts and Uncles and moms and dads and grandparents and kind neighbours and a partridge in a pear tree. And as a Born Aunt, I know that my role is to make sure I’ve got a life raft handy if my mom and dad friends feel like they’re starting to sink. They may not take me up on it, and they may never ask for my help, but bitches, I’m here. I don’t have the want to nurture a child I’ve grown myself, but I do have the need to nurture the people I love in the way I know how. I can’t offer breast feeding advice or comment on sleep regression, but I can certainly say “Jesus Christ, dude, you’re a fucking force” and suggest we meet up — kid in tow, or not, whatever — to get y’all out of the house and in a space where you can eat fries and I can say “Okay, what’s the deal?” when your toddler melts down over losing a sock. (Which I have done, and will do again. And guess what: they stop crying! Why? I don’t know!) Choosing not to have kids doesn’t mean I’ve chosen not to populate my life with people I adore. It means, among many other things, that I can show up in my own way and revel in being part of a village.

But, yeah, okay, fine. I maybe wouldn’t put me in charge of a child for a long period of time — mainly because if they do get sick, I will ask them repeatedly if they think I’m going to get it, and whether they know how they got it, and if they could please promise not to throw up (and then keep that promise). At least until their tweens and teenagers — then I will happily take them shopping for the day because they’ve outgrown me buying gifts for them.

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Housekeeping! A few very kind souls pledged actual dollars when subscribing to this newsletter, which I absolutely can’t believe but am certainly grateful for. So a reminder —> you can pledge if you want, but please think of it as a tip jar. AKA this newsletter will always be free, but should you think, “Eh — here you go!” I’ll gratefully accept and write you a thank-you card which I’ll send in the mail. (Because mail rules.) (And maybe, like, other cards sometimes? I don’t know, do we really want to get into mail here? . . . I think I do, actually. I fucking love mail.)

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No one told me any of their problematic traits this week, so now we all must be deprived. How dare you.

So that’s it for this week! Talk soon, yay Friday, and I’m going to eat some leftover spaghetti, here at 10 in the morning.

- A.