They say that being a mother is the greatest reward for any and all of the women of earth. Whether she stands tall on an African plain, with a baby strapped around her swollen arms. Whether she is running through Central Park, pushing a tri-wheeled pram ahead of her and her LuLuLemon covered calves. Whether she is squinting into the sun from behind an inky black niqab, shrouded and hidden, with her brood of future rulers waddling about her feet. Whether she is cradling another sick child against an empty breast while the commuters run by, oblivious to her very own miracle of life. In any and all of these instances, women are bred to believe that their single purpose is to incubate the next generation of mewling minors, ready to consume, kill and copulate.
Well I say fuck that.
I say fuck that because I’m not a mum and I likely never will be. I say fuck that because I am more than a uterus on legs. I say fuck that because even the mums I know confide that every so often, they wonder why they can’t just walk out their front door, and never return. I say fuck that because ‘they’ are usually men, ‘they’ are usually men with ancient books that were written by other men, ‘they’ can fuck right the fuck back to where they fucking came from. I say fuck that because I am an Auntie, I’m pretty much the awesomest Auntie there ever was and all little girls need awesome aunties.
When I was a little girl, one of my favourite stories was Anne of Green Gables. I loved Anne, I wished I had a kindred spirit, I wanted to run over the hills of Prince Edward Island and I wanted to run into the strong open arms of Gilbert Blythe. Like Anne, I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to immortalise the people I knew and loved, just as she did, I wanted to visit Charlottetown and stay with Aunt Jo and be posh and civilised and dance around to opera in my pantaloons. Aunt Jo is critical to Anne’s success at school, at university and ultimately in her career. Without rich, lonely, childless Aunties, (even though she is actually Diana’s auntie), how can we expect our next generation of girls to thrive?
Without her kindly Aunt Em, who adopted her after her parents died, Dorothy would never have lived in Kansas. She would never have met the Wicked Witch with the sassy sandals. She would never made her way to Oz, with the trio of slightly paedophilic escorts. She would never have followed her Yellow Brick Road.
Without Aunt Beru, how would Luke have found himself on Tatooine? Would we have seen him staring off at the two suns, hoping for a better life? He wouldn’t have been ferreting around in the sand, running into another somewhat paedophilic Obi Wan who showed his Force and his shining sabre.
Where would Scarlett and Melanie have found themselves without Aunt Pittypat and her sanctuary from impending civil war in Atlanta? I can assure you Miss Scarlett and Miss Melly would have died and Gone with the Wind would have gone in chapter 22 rather than chapter 63.
Being an Auntie is, aside from being quintessentially dazzling in all ways, an intrinsic component of who I am. Sapphire, Smack and Squeal; the three little people that call me Auntie (actually they don’t, they just call me by my first name), 2 little girls and a little boy that joined the evolving cast of characters in my life over the past 6 years. During that time, they’ve opened my mind to all the wonders of runny poo, projectile vomit and Disney Princesses. They’ve made me laugh (the first time Squeal said fuck), they’ve made me cry (when Sapphire wrote that I was her hero) and they’ve made me remember facts and figures I’d buried deep in my longest term memories expecting never to retrieve (Smack does love asking a question or seven during a Star Wars replay).
I’m not their mummy, and when they are sad they will never run to me. I’m not their Daddy, so they rarely obey when I reprimand them. But I am their Auntie, so they know that when I am in town, the credit card is steaming for a swiping, and it’s time to play.
Who else do they know that will buy them every unique iteration of Elsa’s dress? Who else do they know that will run down the winding paths of the Zoo screaming, repeatedly, ‘it’s penguin time’ with no regard for the fact that while this boisterous behaviour might be acceptable for a three year old, from a forty year old, it is questionable at best and perhaps even a little unnerving? Who else do they know who can sing every single word of ‘Under the Sea’? Who else do they know that has seventeen cartoon movies on her laptop, ready to show at a moment’s notice? Who else will share her Lego with them? Who else is truly, just as much of an infant as they are? #fortyyearoldchild
Who else has opened up her homes in both Paris and London to tiny people that get dangerously close to her precious’s? Who else has dragged two lumps of tired flesh across Disneyland Paris? Or dragged a Trunki topped with a tired toddler through Heathrow? Who else has a suitcase, already packed full of tiny shoes, tiny jewels and tiny custom-made T-shirts? Who else is proud as punch that her little people have been able to see the other side of the earth before they saw the inside of a classroom.
Aunties have that unique role in a child’s life, like Anne’s Aunt Jo, to spoil, to show, to share and to love unconditionally. I never knew how much I would love stewarding those three little souls; after all, as a rule, I literally cannot stand children. But when you see one that has a little bit of your own genetics, somehow, your biology takes over and you find yourself changing their shitty nappies without a shuddering dry wretch of revulsion.
And this year I am gunning for the prize of Ultimate Auntie Ever. This year at our place, Queen Elsa and Princess Anna will be handing out the presents. #goingforthewin
