Super Aunt

Newsletter 2024-10-11

I’ve got a super aunt on my hands. My sister Sasha recently swooped in from her home in central Missouri to take my fourteen-year-old to a concert in Indianapolis—on a school night. As a parent, I can’t hope to imitate that level of coolness. My job is to say no to most things and pay for the rest. Sasha doesn’t have that limitation. As an aunt, she can swing by, save the day, and then disappear into the ether until the next major holiday. If I were an uncle, I would be just as fun as Sasha. Except that I am an uncle, and I’m totally not.

I have seven nieces and nephews on my side and six on my wife’s. That’s thirteen separate opportunities to be an exciting, disruptive influence in a child’s life. I’m currently batting 0.0. In my defense, which is all this newsletter ever is, I had all four of my kids before any of those nieces and nephews were born. I was set in my unfun, curmudgeonly ways as a dad by the time I had a chance to rile up somebody else’s kids. Even worse, I’m a godfather for at least two of those children. In those cases, I’m supposed to be entertaining and holy. Maybe my siblings had me confused with somebody else. I do have a passing resemblance to St. Thomas Aquinas. We have the same ears. The era before my nieces and nephews were born was a golden age for me and my brood. My brothers and sisters spoiled my kids while I didn’t have to do anything in return. Now, I’m expected to reciprocate. Thank goodness there are overachieving aunts like Sasha to compensate for me being me.

Sasha only recently transitioned into super aunt mode. Prior to that, she was busy with college and then law school. She’s shockingly young. I’m nearly forty, while she’s basically a teenager. That joke would be funnier if there weren’t an actual teenager in my family. I have four kids, the oldest of whom is a freshman in high school. My youngest brother is a senior. That’s what happens in large Catholic families. I need a genealogy chart to keep track of which blood relative I’m disappointing this week. Sasha isn’t quite a high schooler, but she might as well be. After finally putting higher education in her rear view mirror and establishing herself professionally, she was ready to take on the aunt gig full bore. Over the summer, she made an appearance at the annual Fourth of July family reunion for the first time since she was a kid. Well, more of a kid. Anyone with an age that starts with a two is still a child in my book. She also began sending birthday cards with money for nieces and nephews. That was a risky move. While there’s only seven on that side now, there could always be more. Not from me, but from my siblings. That brother in high school could have twelve kids by the time he’s my age. Those birthday cash gifts might end up costing Sasha more than law school. Even that would be cheaper than her latest gambit as a super aunt.

Sasha had planned to take my oldest daughter, Betsy, to a concert for her thirteenth birthday. She’s fourteen now, but that’s just how it goes sometimes. The good concerts don’t always line up with the important age-related milestones in your niece’s life. Months ago, Sasha discovered that a musician both she and Betsy liked was playing in Indy in October. I keep forgetting who it was, but it’s some guy with two first names. That should narrow it down. Sasha lives five hours away in central Missouri. She offered to make the drive to take Betsy to the concert. After half a year of anticipation, the big night was Tuesday. Sasha planned to drive in that day, arriving at my house by noon. I told her that worked for us, but only I would be home in the middle of the day. She promptly adjusted her schedule to arrive at 3 p.m., closer to when the kids get off school. She was making this trip to be a super aunt, not a super sibling. The specter of three hours of small talk with me would scare away even the most stout of heart.

Betsy also had to adjust her schedule. High School sports are serious business. Last spring, when Sasha cleared these plans with me and Lola, Betsy was finishing up eighth grade. We had no idea what her schedule would look like in the fall at a new school. The concert turned out to be the week of the conference cross country meet, which is a big deal, but only for the extremely small set of human beings participating in it. Shockingly, that didn’t make breaking news on any of the major networks. Skipping practice was out of the question. So was skipping the concert. I couldn’t cancel the adventure after Sasha spent money on non-refundable tickets. All sins are forgivable, except for that one. The priest would kick me out of the confession booth. To avoid that terrible fate, I asked Betsy’s coach for a compromise. She said Betsy could run immediately after school so she could still make it to the concert. That let her get home an hour earlier than usual. She had just enough time to eat and shower before she and Sasha needed to head out. All that was left was to deliver on my part of the bargain.