On Being An Aunt

We all know Jane Austen as a great writer. But to her family, she was Aunt Jane, and that was how she liked it. She thought it was far more important to be a brilliant aunt than a brilliant writer. And you know what? She’s dead right.

An Unlikely Aunt

I never thought of myself as aunt material. The sound of small children makes me want to put my fingers in my ears. In younger years, when they invaded my mother’s house, I barricaded myself in my room.

Even now, if there’s a baby sitting near me in a café, you will not find me cooing at it. Instead, I’ll be praying that it stays silent long enough for me to enjoy my brew in peace. And they’re conversation killers. Once they enter a room, they draw all the oxygen towards them.

When my sister announced that she was going to make me an aunt, I burst into tears. But when the baby arrived and she placed him in my arms, I fell in love. Even though he spewed all over me. As he grew, so did our relationship. With a little guidance, I got the hang of how to play with him. All you had to do was get down on the floor. Meet him at his level. Ask him what he was up to. And give him lots of cuddles.

Aunts Then and Now

In my own childhood, aunts didn’t get down on the floor. They patted you on the head and said, ‘Aren’t you after getting tall. We’ll have to put a pot on your head to stop you growing. What class are you in at school now? And who’s your teacher?’

Duty done, they disappeared to the kitchen to chat to your mother. Or they’d issue you with instructions, usually ending with the words: like a good little girl. Like, ‘Would you ever go in and get me my handbag, like a good little girl.’ When they re-emerged at the end of the visit, they palmed coins into your hand and told you to, ‘go and buy an ice-cream for yourself.’

The Aunt Template

But I did have an aunt template that I could follow. I had one aunt with no children, who happened to be my godmother. She filled my life with trips to the pantomime, excursions to castles and exotic food. She took me on shopping trips and I came home laden with clothes and books. She showed me that aunts could bring a little fairy dust into a child’s life.

Aunts can do the things that parents are too stressed to do. They don’t carry that weight of responsibility, and have full licence to act the maggot. I have perfected the art of blowing the perfect raspberry.

I roll down hills. I bump down stairs, bum first. I watch contraptions being built. When my nephew visits, I fill him with hot fat, sugar and caffeine, all the things he’s not allowed eat at home. I make myself slightly sick on the hurdy gurdies (fairground rides for non-Irish readers). And I give myself bum burn on the water slides.

Mad Aunt on Bumpers
Bumping around on the hurdie gurdies

A Thoroughly Modern Aunt

In the past, parents could rely on a council of elders to help them raise their children. But the modern aunt is not cast in that role. They give no instructions to do things like a good little girl. If I did, I doubt my nephews would listen. I’ve made far too many snorting sounds and danced too many crazy dances to ever be taken seriously. Still, it’s a privilege to watch them grow up from the sidelines. And it’s a privilege that I’ve been allowed a small role in shaping them as people.

I’m now an aunt twice over, and with the changing shape of our family, I’m expecting more additions to the brood in the coming years. And I hope to make auntship, as Jane Austen called it, an artform. The presence of these babies will be all-consuming, and my relationships with my siblings will go on the back burner.

But there will be new people in my life to fill the gap. And I know I need to have children in my life, to stop me going vinegary in my later years. And I won’t be the aunt who tells them how tall they’ve grown. I’ll be too busy rolling down hills and dancing silly dances, laughing all the while.

2 thoughts on “On Being An Aunt

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s