We are bathed in the halo of a nightlight. It's just enough to make out the features of his face and how close he is to sleep. He's been fed and nourished and now the cadence of the rocking chair lulls us both. His eyelids flutter but he hasn't quite given in.

His fingers feather over my cheek, my mouth, my chin before his arm drops down slack on my chest. Soon. His eyes shut and so do mine. I rest my head against the cushioned rocking chair and let my thoughts wander for a few minutes.

Who will this sweet boy grow up to be? I'm not in any rush to lay him down, though his big sister awaits bedtime across the hall.

This Monday night routine nourishes and feeds me, even as it summons the ache I know too well. He is not my son. She is not my daughter. I am their auntie. 

From the moment they were born, they became my niece-in-love and nephew-in-love and I cherish them more than words can say.

But as the years have passed, this question bubbles up more than I’d like. Will I ever have children of my own? Will I be a perpetual aunt instead of a mother?

I can nurture someone’s children- and love doing so- but it does not fill the void of a dream deferred.

The other week I took my niece-in-love to dance class. While she pirouetted, I sat in the hallway with her baby brother and tempted him to nap. It never ceases to amaze me the way my best friends trust me with their children. Most of my babysitting over the years has been of the date night variety but now that the kids are getting older, we’re branching out into new territory.

A territory that invites public commentary and questions.

People passed by with knowing smiles as I bopped and swayed him to sleep. I prayed no one would ask me how old he is. His auntie has never been good at numbers, much less the preference to measure a baby’s age by weeks instead of months. His mom knows exactly how old he is, I remind myself.

Still, I feel I’ve failed in some way, even when the question isn’t asked. A mother would know and I’m not a mother.

I look the part. There’s no reason why I couldn’t have kids, save for that pesky business of not finding a husband yet. While I know singles who have adopted or gone other routes, that’s not a choice I want to make.

I live in the tension between what I want and what my reality is and most days that’s fine. A fleeting thought may bring up questions- why? when? how?- but I’m used to the not knowing. I usually process it and move along with my day. Then there are days when those fleeting thoughts sting like arrows and more often than not, they come compliment of what someone else has assumed or said to me. Bless them.

The past 3 years I nannied for an amazing family. I adore the little girl I took care of. At the same time, it was bittersweet. So often people took in our brown hair and blue eyes and assumed she was mine. We have a special relationship and I hope it continues for the rest of our lives. I wasn’t her mom and didn’t covet that role for myself.

Sometimes we’d be out and about and someone would tell me I was a good mom. A pang resounded in my heart because I thought I would have had my first child a decade ago and it hasn’t happened. Because I felt like a pretend mother. Because I wish it was true. Because now I’m “advanced maternal age” and there are only so many years left before the dream becomes a fantasy. Because I wish I understood the references my friends, conference speakers, and even pastors make.

I look at the children in my life and have no doubt of my impact on their lives and this counts for so, so much. Even on the days when it calls up my own questions, doubts, and heartache.

I wouldn’t trade being Auntie Yee and Miss Leigh for anything. All I can do is be my best self, for me and for them. Now is for snuggling, reading stories, giggling, and playing with the children already here.

And if that’s all this life holds for me? Then I will do my best to call myself blessed and trust it is as it should be.

 

This post was originally published at A Deeper Family. 

“I can't go.” I heard the pain and regret in Erin's voice.

I had expected as much and commiserated with her before hanging up. Mind whirring, I booked a flight from Chicago to Nashville, grateful to find one for under $200 at such late notice. I removed odds and ends from my luggage and tried various configurations until the bulky shower gift and my clothes fit in one bag.

Is this how it would be from now on?

My two best friends were pregnant at the same time. I was thrilled for them. And then this...

Back when A Deeper Story started, I harbored a secret dream of maybe one day guest posting for them. If I was lucky. It seemed such a long shot to be alongside some of my favorite writers. I never imagined I'd one day be asked to be a contributor! But friends, that's exactly what has happened. A Deeper Story launched two new channels: A Deeper Church and A Deeper Family. I am honored and humbled to be writing monthly at A Deeper Family. Today is my first post. Click on over to read the rest.

Shortly after my niece-in-love Anna's first birthday, I had an epiphany. I'd puzzled over what to buy her for her birthday and landed on the idea of making her something, like I had for Christmas. Whatever I decided to make for Anna, I'd make for my other niece-in-love Katelyn.

As the idea formed in my mind, I knew it was a winner. My aunt had made me a cloth busy book when I was a baby. Each page had a different animal and an activity. For instance, you could zip the alligator's mouth open and close.

I loved my book, which stood up to my loving abuse all those years. In truth, I probably appreciated it more as an adult than I did as a kid but I do have fond memories of playing with it. I'm in awe of Aunt Kathy's hard work. Especially now.

A few weeks after Anna's birthday, I stopped by Kathy's house and picked up the pattern. She gave me a few tips as I leafed through the pages.

What on earth had I gotten myself in to? I realized that I'd never really sewn with a pattern before, outside of a pair of shorts sewn with my childhood best friend Ruth and her mom when we were in 3rd grade. That's a lot of years ago. I like to sew though and I knew Anna and Katelyn would like the books. It would be worth it, I told myself.

I started gathering fabric here and there. Then I moved to Nashville. Then my office was a disaster and I couldn't really get to the sewing machine. Then I needed more fabric. With each excuse, the girls grew older. Katelyn turned one. Then we celebrated Christmas. Anna turned two. Rinse and repeat.

This past December, I was fed up with myself and this project. I kicked it in to high gear, finishing entire pages. I brought most of it to my hometown over Christmas in an ill-fated attempt to finish. The lion and the giraffe were completed. The self-imposed deadline was extended to Anna's third birthday at the end of January.

And yet, that came and went as well, as I apparently believed it was possible to edit my WIP and work on the most complicated sewing project of my life at the same time. I buckled down. The books would be finished by the time Mark, Erin, and Katelyn visited at the end of February. Come hell or high water.

I covered almost every surface of my home with various sewing implements. My grandmother's trusty Singer held up mightily until the last day or two of sewing. My hand became swollen from needing to manually feed the machine forward.

As the kangaroo fabric seemed particularly hostile toward being sewn, I vaguely remembered Grandma saying the machine had been giving her difficulty a good year or three before she died. I have no idea whether it was ever fixed or tuned up. Lord knows I haven't a clue about such things. Finding a Singer repairman has been added to my To Do list.

The night before my friends arrived in town, I brought all of the cloth pages over to Tracy's to use her machine to close up the tabs.

Her machine whirred through the stitches like a dream, a welcome treat after the Singer's distaste for work.

Then there were merely 60 eyelets between me and being finished. I poked holes and realized I didn't have the right toolkit for the large eyelets.

Another trip to the craft store snuck in between playing with my nieces-in-love and sitting on the window seat with my best friends.

Finally, hammering, hammering, hammering. Feeding the pages through laces. Letting the books fan close.

The books are not sewn as well as my aunt's professional version. There are crooked stitches, even on the machine. But they were DONE. And there was much rejoicing in the land.

Two years after I conceived this idea, I wrapped the books up and doled them out to Anna and Katelyn. The looks of wonder on their faces...my joy was complete.

They even asked to take them on the car ride to the museum.

Anna and Katelyn will learn how to tie and lace, button and snap. It may be that their parents will enjoy playing with them more than they will for now. If the books haven't fallen apart, some day they'll appreciate the labor, the same way I appreciate my aunt's effort.

And if not, well, that's OK, too. I finished. Favorite auntie status is still intact.

A few crafty stats:

Hours spent: approximately one million

Times I said "I can't wait until this project is done!": about 6,233

Supplies: purchased from 4 stores, my mom's stash, and my own odds and ends

Sewing machines used: 3

Injuries: 1 (needle-pierced finger now mostly healed)

Happy nieces-in-love: 2

Yes. It was worth it.

Are you crafty? Do you tend to make things with more love or more perfection?

There are a lot of babies in my life but most of them dwell far, far away in Illinois.

I joke with my friends that I'll be the one taking their kids out for their first tattoos and listening to anything they can't tell their "lame" parents. But truthfully, I'm in awe of their children and their love for me.

I get to be Auntie Leigh by phone and have face time once or twice a year. It's certainly not enough for my liking. Especially when they're too young to remember who I am.

On the other hand, I have lots of face time with my niece-in-love Anna.

When she was born and especially once I moved to Nashville, I told everyone that my goal was to be her favorite Auntie. She has real aunts, of course, but Aunties are in a different category.

Watching her grow up, day to day and week to week, has been a treat. Hearing the evolution of how she says my name has been an even bigger treat. We've graduated from "Aa Ee" to "Aunt Whee."

Maybe it's the way Joel and Tracy seamlessly adopted me into their family or the times I've babysat her or just the sheer number of hours I've camped out on their window seat with a book or my laptop.

But I'm pretty sure I've won the Favorite Auntie contest.

Most afternoons I head over to their house to work on my WIP or blog posts for awhile. Something about getting out of my house helps me stay on task. We joke that the window seat will be in the acknowledgment section of my novel.

While Anna sleeps, I type away. If I'm still there when she wakes up, she'll patter down the stairs and run toward me for a hug. She might bring me fake ice cream or a teacup. It's a fairly good routine.

Wednesday night Tracy called me as I was heating up dinner. I babysat for someone else that day and was unable to sit at my usual perch. She told me when Anna got up for her nap, she came downstairs and hauled herself up on to the window seat. She grabbed a book and said, "I want to be like Aunt Leigh."

My heart melted!

Then Anna got on the phone and told me the story in the way only toddlers can. There's so much to love about this girl and Wednesday's dream of being like Aunt Leigh. All the cool kids read books while sitting on window seats, after all.

As I write this, I'm sitting on the window seat. Anna has just bequeathed her baby doll and blankie to me while she plays in another room. Sounds like it's time to join her.

Any honorary nieces and nephews you'd like to brag about?

I lie still as she steps around me.

"Feet!" she cries, and places a baby blanket over my feet with her mama's help.

A Pillow Pet is wedged by my thigh and then a real pillow placed over my head.  A blanket here, a mound of stuffed animals there.

The pitter-patter of feet are my soundtrack as she runs between this room and hers, amassing more items for my cocoon.

The Aero mattress beneath me is comfortable.  I close my eyes and think I could lay here forever.  And all the while, Clifford and Larry the Cucumber and baby dolls join my slumber.

I hear her laugh, pure glee, at her creation. At times, she firmly pats the latest adornment into place, not wanting an inch of my body to be exposed.  I hear her roar as she wields the stuffed mastodon against Clifford. Clifford, of course, will not be undone and I wiggle my body so he can fight back.  This, too, makes her laugh.

I could lay here all night but it's time for me to emerge.  I burst forth from the blankets and toys with a yell, as she throws her arms up and squeals.

And then wants to do it again.

So I lay back down and wait.  And in the midst of her careful blanket placement, invite her to snuggle.  I don't expect her to take me up on the offer but she does, nestling her body against mine. 

We lay there and giggle together.  She shares Pink Animal with me, making sure I have something comforting to hold on to.  Ah, I think. I'm holding on to a two year old wonder.  This is all the comfort I need.