The fun aunt syndome

I have always taken the role of “aunt” very seriously. Because I have no children of my own, I’ve made it my mission to develop more than a “sit across the table at Thanksgiving” kind of bond with my niece and nephew.

Along the way, I must admit that I’ve cheated a bit. Because everyone knows that the quickest way to a kid’s heart is letting them have, do, and get away with everything, I’ve worked hard to be the “fun aunt.” I’ve bought my niece and nephew donuts with sprinkles, gave them quarters for the game machine, and let them stay up late, forgo their car seat through the neighborhood, and use my body as a punching bag/trampoline/jungle gym. No amount of pain or parental wrath was going to keep these kids from liking me.

For quite a while, this dynamic worked for all of us. My niece and nephew enjoyed having a playmate who came equipped with money, transportation, and privilege. I got squeals, hugs, and unadulterated excitement out of the bargain. However, someone really ought to warn us naive non-parents about the dangers of trading in the role of adult for playmate. There’s a booby trap just around the corner and personally, I walked squarely into it.

Recently, while my sister and brother-in-law attended a pool party, I volunteered to babysit for my 6- and 11-year-old niece and nephew. The evening started innocently enough with my niece and me watching TV and my nephew playing basketball outside. When my nephew grew bored outside and came in the house to antagonize the girls, that’s when trouble ensued.

Before I knew it, we were chasing each other around the house, fending off each other’s assaults and slamming doors to block our respective pursuers. During one of these defensive acts, my finger unluckily was positioned directly in the door’s path and the end of this ill-fated digit was smashed like a pecan in a nutcracker. After I yelped in pain – and surprise – the first thing out of my six-year-old niece’s mouth wasn’t “are you ok?” or “we’re sorry” or even “we didn’t mean to.” Instead, it was “It’s your own fault because you started it.”

I slunk to the kitchen to nurse my hurt finger. But what stung even more than my injury was my complete and utter impotence in the situation. Because I had never once seriously disciplined these kids, they didn’t expect me to and I didn’t know how. I had willingly forfeited these kids’ respect years ago in exchange for a regular dose of hugs and high fives. Now that we were all “pals,” they accorded me the same indifference that they would’ve given any of their buddies. I knew that any chance of commanding a little respect with these ruffians would be seriously derailed unless I did something quick.

Pushing back my hurt (finger and feelings), I summoned my grownup courage and most authoritative voice and asked them to come out so we could talk. I told them that I was angry at them, not because they had accidentally slammed my finger in the door (yes, I was as much to blame as they) but because they had not apologized. My finger was truly injured (I pointed a swelling exhibit A at them as proof) and I might not be able to type, i.e. do my job, for a few days. And for good measure, I threw in that I was indeed a grownup, whether they knew it or not, and back-talking wouldn’t fly with me anymore.

The two of them were stunned by this unexpected display of adult bravado from me and sheepishly, they both apologized. Before their parents returned that night, they included me in a game of flashlight tag – their way of telling me that they still liked me, adult or not. By accepting, I let them know that all was forgiven.

While I implied that I would report this little episode to their parents, I decided against it. As a newly minted adult, I had to learn to assert my own authority without using the threat of my sister and brother-in-law’s power as a crutch. And maybe, deep down, I still wanted to keep the tiniest vestige of my old identity in tact. After all, “fun aunts” never squeal.