Yes, technically, I've been an aunt for over a week. And I met my nephew yesterday. And he was named today. And I took him for a walk this afternoon. And I held him for about an hour after dinner (his and mine). But only this evening did I truly become an aunt.
My nephew, Gil, did the baby equivalent of cracking a bottle of champagne over my hull and proclaiming me the U.S.S. Aunt Esther. My adorable, precious, good-spirited, brand-new nephew peed on me.
It was nothing dramatic...no arcs of urine flying through the air with abandon and striking everything in the room before landing on my head. I had been holding him, and we were having a very interesting conversation about what a good boy he is and how he was going to be a great kid with lots of interesting things to say, and I might have begun singing some show tunes to him. Then, I handed him off to his father, so I could stretch. And someone said, "hey, look, he peed on you."
Let me tell you, those aren't words I'd ever heard before. And I'd be happy if I didn't hear them again anytime soon. Was it a tragedy? No...my pink Old Navy "Gemini" t-shirt certainly didn't suffer any long-term damage, and in a house where the washing machine is running pretty much round-the-clock, I could probably even wear it tomorrow.
There was more, of course. But the rest happened to my brother and not to me, so it was infinitely more hilarious. Having swaddled my nephew and put him in his bassinet (And how is that different from a cradle? A crib? A pack-n-play? A sit-n-spin? I know nothing...) we realized that Gil (G-Dawg/Baby G/G/McG/Gman/G-izzle) had peed. My brother decided to change his diaper. As soon as the new diaper was almost on, POOP! All over the changing table. Then all hell broke loose, with my nephew screaming like a banshee for the first time since I arrived, and my brother trying desperately to avoid his son's flailing, yet incredibly strong, infant legs while he simultaneously attempted to a) change his son into a clean diaper, clean nightclothes and put him back in his bassinet, and b) clean up the mess on the changing table before G-Dawg got any nastiness on him. It took three of us, but we took him down and showed him who's in charge. OK, so G is in charge here. But we made a fine showing anyway.
Is this interesting? Even a children's book will tell you that "everybody poops." Still, for this single gal, it highlights the difference between my world and my brother's and sister-in-law's new circumstances. Whereas I might be reluctant to keep a food diary for nutrition or weight loss's sake, my brother and SIL are keeping pee and poop journals. Not forever, just for the first few weeks. But still. I need to say it again: pee and poop journals.
It's not a glamorous road. And it makes my occasional thinking about doing motherhood alone seem utterly preposterous. The sleepless nights, the endless laundry and the consecration by bodily waste are not for the squeamish or the pampered. Even as I type it, I know it sounds cliche. But holding that little body, feeling him inhale and exhale, and looking into his eyes, I begin to understand.
(And let me promise you, this will not turn into a blog about my nephew. As Madonnesther is my witness, I shall remain as Urban Kvetchy as ever. Besides, I'm pretty sure that when my brother and sister-in-law realize that I'm posting about their son's peeing and pooping, they're going to insist that I keep their son off the blog. But until that dreaded day, indulge a new aunt the occasional post, wouldja?)
