Being an aunty is a deranged kind of love.
When I first became an aunty, I marched into the neonatal intensive care unit (do not do this) and picked up my niece’s tiny body, declaring her the most perfect being in history. A more accurate and objective description may have been “jaundiced rat creature”.
I was slack-jawed and captivated by the bundle of joy – the colour of a chicken Twistie – and it dawned on me that I had a brand new identity. I was now an aunty. What did it mean? Was I now endowed with a wisdom to impart to the youth of today? Was it now my turn to disgrace myself at family weddings?
TikTok is full of people shamelessly pushing aside their siblings, in-laws and mothers to get directly to the prize, their little niece or nephew. Possessed by the same feeling I have been mainlining for the past four years, 90% of my correspondence with my niece-provider (brother) is now niece-related, with no achievement too small for a lengthy FaceTime.
For a few years my devotion was met with contempt and, if I was lucky, indifference. This only encouraged me. For years I gave her every trick in the book, putting myself out there, acting the clown. Anything for her attention, let alone love.
Then came my proudest achievement. When her sister was born and her parents were otherwise occupied, I was the only person she wanted, cuddling into my chest and hanging on tight. I was third best and took it as a badge of honour.
That feeling made me remember the things my uncles and aunties had done for me over the years, no questions asked. Driving me to appointments in the middle of a work day, or getting up at the crack of dawn to take me to the airport. Their lifelong interest in my activities. Now I have two gorgeous nieces. (I have supplied the Guardian with dozens of pictures, which I assume they will publish in full.)
But it’s been a humbling experience, too. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s not great craic to talk about your nieces at parties. And, to be honest, when I cast my mind to aunts in literature, they’re prone to dying at opportune moments to deliver a life-changing inheritance. And maybe the unreciprocated fervour is the point.
You have no say on if or when you become an aunty or uncle. But if that blessing comes, you instantly become someone who would throw themself into traffic to save this person. It’s a quiet (albeit not in my case) great love.
If you’re lucky as an aunty or uncle, you’re simply around. Present in the kid’s life. It’s gleefully receiving drawings. That electric moment when they consent to hold your hand. There to enjoy them and hopefully be remembered as a fun character in someone’s childhood. And what a reward to simply be a part of a child’s life, seeing the milestones along the way.
Other quirky aunts and uncles I know all describe their little guys as “mine”. You can technically enjoy them and hand them back, as the saying goes. But it feels like a possession of some kind. Not responsible for their education or dental hygiene, but instead knowing their quirks, being a trusted and familiar figure. It’s a thrill and sense of total investment, for life.
In the era of bank-breaking childcare, the idea of “it taking a village” really gives me the shits, because so few of us have the village. The village is dispersed and mortgage stressed. A devoted aunt or uncle is something incredibly valuable. So why not be a little extra with it?
Follow my lead, put a picture of your niece or nephew in your wallet (what children?), decide for your birthday you’d like to take your niece to high tea (watch her treat most of the extremely costly-per-gram treats with disgust), cop the moods, the mess … what a treat.
