I have many wonderful “aunties” in my life, from blood relatives to godmothers to loving neighbors, without whom my life would be incomplete and without whom my teenage years would have been absolute hell—rather than merely sheer agony.
My older daughter’s Hebrew name is honor of my maternal great-auntie Ala. Ala’s twinkling blue eyes and mischievous wink were a delight to all who knew her and a respite for my mother (“Auntie, save me!” she would yell across the hall in their shared Brighton Beach apartment, when in trouble with Ala’s sister Rena). She was protective—she told me the numbers on her forearm were someone’s phone number until I was ready to hear what they really were. She was hilarious—from her I learned that a sense of humor is the key to surviving and thriving.
Auntie Ruth lived next door to my paternal grandparents for over 40 years. When my father expected a bad report card, he ran to her house with the unopened envelope. “Of course he got straight A’s!” she would recount to me with love and pride.
Auntie Judy is my godmother; from her I experienced the love from being the first baby in someone’s adult life. Auntie Donna, actually a first-cousin-once-removed-by-marriage, was the original MILF and made holidays by the pool in Florida endlessly entertaining. Auntie Janice took the collect calls from very homesick me during a semester abroad in England.
Having so many wonderful Aunties in my life made me even more appreciative when my own sister became an Auntie to my kids. I could not have managed my first six weeks of postpartum life without my sister who was mercifully transitioning from one job to another when I delivered my first child. Mere was born to be an Auntie and jumped into new role with her characteristic gusto. I can still see her whirling around the apartment with Sloane strapped to her in the Baby Bjorn, folding laundry, cooking spaghetti squash, and singing songs from “Wicked.” And our second daughter, Tanys, never plays second fiddle—she and Auntie Mere share a feisty temperament and love of mischief, especially as it relates to their older sisters. Distance and a busy law practice did not deter her from being our in-case-of-emergency, most reliable sitter, and the girls’ de facto third parent until her own sons arrived. She is not as mobile anymore but she is always available and willing to open her heart and home to us at a moment’s notice.
The only way my husband Dave and I could even partially repay her was to sleep train her 5-month-old twin boys, Everett and Ronan, who were waking her a combined 12 times each night. My sister and brother-in-law stayed at a hotel with my girls and my husband and I each took a twin. Ronan fussed for two minutes and slept the rest of night. Everett screamed bloody murder for three hours (which broke this committed Weissbluthian), but took only 1 oz. of the pumped breast milk I brought in for him as he blinked his long blonde eyelashes and cooed at me from around the nipple. “You little dog, you! You played me!” It took four (four!) nights but Mr. Everett finally learned to self-soothe and forever wrap me around his finger. Lest you think Ronan is left out, Ronan only has eyes for Sloane, who dotes on him, while Uncle Dave will always have a special place in his heart for “the easiest baby this family has ever produced.”
It pains me greatly that a rift in the family leaves my husband and me with a niece and two nephews we are not welcome to see. We have oceans of love to give and wait impatiently for the day they will reach out or find us on Facebook. I channel all that extra Auntie juice into the children of cousins and close friends. Theirs are the birthdays I always remember and for them I splurge on toys and clothes too impractical for my girls (and NYC apartment).
Once, while being reprimanded by Mere, Everett told her: “I am going to live with Auntie Lani. She gives me so much candy!” Good auntie-ing is all the bad parenting we wish we could do—unrestrained bribery (“If you give me a smooch I will buy you a toy!”), never saying “no” (“Of course we can have more cotton candy!”), and fierce competitiveness (“Who is the best Auntie ever?”).
Being an Auntie is motherhood without stretch marks, cracked nipples, sleepless nights (mostly), potty-training, homework help, and college applications. It is providing candy without paying for dentist appointments; Disney without discipline; parenting off the chain like there is no tomorrow!
I promise I will settle down once the kids are older and the stakes are higher. I will not be providing my nephews with age-prohibited substances or let them drive my car without a license. I am just laying the groundwork now to let them know there is another (semi) responsible adult who loves them unconditionally, knows all the crazy stuff their mommy and/or daddy did when she/he was younger, will be good for a little extra cash and a lot of extra patience, and is the place they can run to when they feel like running away. After all, the boys can take over the bedrooms vacated by their cousins no doubt on en route to Auntie Mere.
Lani Serota is a city mom madly in love with her two daughters, her husband, and New York City.
