Better Than Family
My life as an "aunt."
by Mikki Halpin
September 7, 2009
I'm sitting at the playground watching Ruby do the rings. She has always been great at the rings — something I was never able to do as a kid. In typical Ruby fashion, she is encouraging other kids who think they can't do it to try, saying, "I was scared at first too, but I kept trying, and then I could do it!" The woman sitting next to me sighs as she sees her child walk off with another kid's toy, prying the bucket out of her two-year-old's hands and returning it to its tearful owner.
"Don't worry," I say. "Ruby went through a toy-stealing phase too. I was constantly mortified and explaining to her that it's wrong, and then one day something clicked and she quit doing it." The woman smiles, and says, "How old?" nodding at Ruby. "She's eight!" I say proudly, "Nine in August." We make some more chit-chat about how the years fly by, then collect our respective charges and leave.
At some point in this conversation I probably should have told her that Ruby is not my kid. But it's hard to explain. I'm not Ruby's babysitter. I'm not her nanny or a relative. My title is a strange modern-day one, one that comes with its own ironic punctuation. I'm Ruby's "aunt" or "auntie." Don't forget the quotes. While "aunt" confers the closeness of a blood tie, the quotes rein it in, making it clear that I'm part of a constructed family, not a biological one.
The nurse thought we were a lesbian couple (a misperception that happens to this day).
Ruby's mother, Marcelle, is my best friend. Nine years ago she dragged me into the bathroom at a party and pulled seven or eight pregnancy tests out of her purse. "I think I'm pregnant," she said, "and I think I'm keeping it." Like a true friend, I didn't point out just how insane it was to be carrying around a bunch of sticks she had peed on (they were in a plastic bag), and we discussed the situation. Ruby's father was living in Australia and unable to be very involved in her life. Marcelle was thirty-five and had always wanted to have kids. Many of our other friends thought she was making a huge mistake. I knew there was no talking her out of it, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. Instead I pledged to be a co-parent in any way she needed.
A month or so later, I was holding Marcelle's hand as we saw Ruby for the first time on the sonogram screen at Columbia Presbyterian. We both cried. The nurse thought we were a lesbian couple (a misperception that happens to this day), and I went home thinking about how brave my friend was. Like a good partner, I picked up a copy of What to Expect When You Are Expecting, and we were off. On August 30, 2000, we welcomed Ruby Jarrah Aviva Karp into this world. I was "Auntie Mikki" for real. When Marcelle handed me the baby for the first time, I was overwhelmed with fear and excitement. Ruby just blinked up at me, as sure of herself as she always is.
©2009 Mikki Halpin and Babble.com
About the Author
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Mikki Halpin is a freelance writer. She has written for many publications, including Glamour, New York, and the New Yorker. She is currently working on a book about fan culture. She lives in Brooklyn.
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