I’m Retiring from Aunthood
I became an aunt on my 30th birthday when my younger sister had her first baby. I had just (finally) graduated with my B.A. after spending ten years changing majors. (Oh, if I had only listened to my heart instead of taking everyone’s practical advice!)
In order to be prepared for my nephew’s birth, I celebrated my birthday and graduation by throwing myself one big party — a party my sister, Tegan, sadly could not attend because of her advanced stage of pregnancy.
And then I spent my actual birthday on the road, making the three-hour journey to the hospital to visit the newest member of our family.
I thought it would be the beginning of a journey I’d waited for my whole life. I thought I would be able to share all my maternal love with my siblings’ kids, and then one day, it would be my turn to become a parent.
My sister moved back here to where the family lived shortly after my nephew’s birth. I had already made at least a dozen trips to visit her on the weekends, leaving right after work on Fridays and getting home super late on Sundays.
I didn’t mind. I just wanted to spend every possible second with little Ben.
My prayers were answered with their return. The whole family spent days at my sister’s new duplex, cleaning and helping her unpack.
A year and another baby later, Tegan and her husband bought a house and moved again, and again the whole family gathered to clean the new house, unpack, and keep the little ones occupied.
A few months later, my boyfriend and I moved into a home about four miles away from hers. My brother came to help us unpack. But we were mostly on our own.
I didn’t mind. All I cared about was that I was a bicycle ride away from my precious nephews.
And, by my estimate, just a year or two away from being a mother, myself.
The next ten years of this story are a blur of poopy diapers, boogers, birthday cakes, dirty feet, vomit, giant hats made out of newspapers, temper tantrums, time outs, video games, musical TV shows with anthropomorphized animals, fruit gummies, and suspicious-looking liquids on the floor.
Though none of this describes the scene where I lived. There, it remained quiet, orderly, and free of children, unless you counted the dog.
The more my partner seemed to backpedal on his desire to have a family, the more I threw myself into aunthood.
When Ben was diagnosed with autism and encouraged to start his education at a specialized preschool that would require him to ride a bus to school, I couldn’t sleep the night before his first day. I was so anxious about him getting on that bus. He was so little and so helpless. And yes, I was there to watch him as he awkwardly climbed those stairs with the help of his new aide, wearing his new blue backpack and the bright green crocheted hat that had frog eyes on the top and tasseled ear flaps that were too big for his head. And yes, I cried as the bus pulled away. And yes, I felt guilty for crying, as if I, as the aunt, wasn’t allowed to have such depth of feeling for a child that was not my own.
Once Ben started kindergarten, I got a job at his school because I wanted to be there to watch over him and his siblings as they made their way through K-5. Most of the teachers there had kids in the school, so I didn’t see myself as much different than them. I wanted to be near my little ones, too. And when I had to leave that job, due to financial necessity, I still took long lunches and flextime so I could be there for every school play, and 5th grade and kindergarten graduation.
I dropped everything and drove to my sister’s house still half in my pajamas one morning when my mother called me to alert me that one of the boys had gotten his finger stuck in a maraca (don’t ask…) and that Tegan had had to call 911 for help because he was bleeding and she couldn’t get it off. I arrived just after the EMTs had left, despite how fast I’d driven, and the victim of the offending maraca was beaming with pride to show Auntie his cool new Band-Aid.
I was there for all the babysitting, emergency and otherwise. I picked the kids up from school whenever I was needed, or whenever I had the time. I changed so many diapers, I can’t count them all. I attended every birthday party. I sewed dolls for them, knitted sweaters, crocheted pixies. (Yes, pixies.) I was on call for weeks for six different pregnancies, dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night so my sister or sister-in-law could get to the hospital and leave their other little ones in safe hands. I did everyone’s makeup on Halloween and cleaned up all their wrapping paper messes at the family Christmas party.
Nothing was more important to me than those kids. And the only thing that could’ve been more important to me than being an aunt was becoming a mom.
The second half of the nieces and nephews were born after my partner left me to help raise his new girlfriend’s son. He did, as it turns out, want kids. Just not with me. Sadly, I didn’t find that out until I was 38.
My heart was shattered at the realization that motherhood was likely not in the cards for me. By the time I had financially recovered from that relationship and bought a very small house just two miles away from my sister’s home (one I once again moved into only with the help of my brother, because everyone else was too busy taking care of their kids to help me), I realized I really might be at the end of the road. I’d have to get pretty creative to raise a kid in that tiny space — and that’s assuming I found a partner in time to make said kid.
The only surprise baby that came along, however, was my sister’s sixth: little Alex, who was born with severe heart defects.
Aside from the very scary realities and uncertainties surrounding his health problems, I figured it would be just another familiar scene in my sister’s routine: another day, another baby. I knew the dance well, and though it was always exciting to meet a new member of the family, by that point, it was also pretty ordinary.
Except that it turned out to be anything but ordinary. I fell in love with that child so hard. I’ve never felt a feeling like it before. All I can say is, he felt like he had been my child in another life. Hell, it felt like he was my child in this life.
After that, aunthood went from being an already huge part of my life to being an almost full-time gig.
I don’t know what to say about the rest, or even how to make a graceful transition here. I guess I’ll just get to the point: They moved away.
I still cherish the moments I get to spend with Alex when I visit. But seeing him four times a year just doesn’t cut it when I used to see him four times a week.
The niece and nephew who still live here in town (my brother’s children) will be moving far away in a few months, too.
Nobody seems particularly affected by this turn of events. No one but me, apparently.
I don’t know that my sister’s kids miss Auntie. I know they love me. And I know they enjoy spending time with me. But they don’t seem sad to have gone from seeing me so regularly to basically not at all.
When my sister-in-law talks about their upcoming move and I share how sad I am that they are leaving, my nephew, Felix, just shrugs and says, “We just need some new adventures.”
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want them to be sad. Honestly, I’d much rather they were happy.
But I do wonder if anything I did for them meant anything. I wonder if our bonds will continue to stretch and strain until one day, they just snap. I wonder if Alex will still call me his “other mommy” a year or two from now.
And I wonder if being an aunt really matters, at all.
A few weeks ago, I told my therapist that it’s no wonder I never had kids. When would I have found the time?
I’m joking, of course. But also not joking. I really was Other Mommy to these kids — particularly my sister’s.
It felt like such a fulfilling pursuit these last fifteen years. I didn’t have my own kids, so why not give all this loving energy to them?
But for some reason, it doesn’t feel fulfilling anymore.
I feel left behind. I feel lost.
I feel like I spent my life looking after everyone but myself.
I don’t know what else to do. I think I have to retire from aunthood. I don’t think anyone cares about aunts. I really, really don’t.
And you know what? I’m going to say something unforgivably selfish, and the world can blast me all it wants: I think we should care about aunts. I mean, dear god, what a blessing we are. We’re helpers, we’re extra mothers, we’re big sisters, we’re teachers… And we do everything for free — for someone else’s children.
You know what? Scratch that selfish comment. Aunties are the least selfish. Those of us without kids are so used to hearing that propaganda that we can sometimes get a little lost in it. But hell no, we aren’t selfish. What kind of selfish person would take care of other people’s children for free, all while considering that emotional and physical labor to be a privilege?
I have been anything but selfish. I have been selfless. For fifteen years. For other people’s children.
Although, maybe that’s the problem.
As I sit here writing this on Mother’s Day, my phone is pinging every few minutes. I’m not looking at it because I’m the only one in the group text thread who isn’t included in these Happy Mother’s Day messages. I’m the only one who doesn’t have kids. I’m the only one who doesn’t have presents to show everyone, like my sister’s new t-shirt, adorned with photos of the kids that says, “We love Mom!”
You know what? I want a t-shirt with their faces on it that says, “We love Auntie!” Yeah, I do. Selfish? Screw that. What have you done for your nieces and nephews lately? Wait until Aunt’s Day when it’s my turn? When’s that, honey? No, you can’t google it before you answer. If you don’t know the date off the top of your head, that shows you how little anyone cares about Aunt’s Day. It’s July 26th, FYI, and absolutely no one celebrates it. So again: screw that.
I guess this is it, then.
I wish I could say that many will be sad to see me retire and move on to new adventures. But I really doubt anyone will notice.
At least I can know that I did more than my best while I was on the job. I always was an over-achiever. I guess I’m just not sure anymore what I was hoping to achieve…
© Yael Wolfe 2022
