The onesies with monkeys. The tiny wash cloths. The toys with pieces so large, a starving camel couldn’t swallow them. The miniature socks meant for mice feet.
It was my sister-in-law’s baby shower at work. I was one of the only men. Since we work in the same place and I’m family, I was contractually obligated to attend. She’s due in about a month. It’s all becoming real. Monkey onesies will do that. My brother is taking it well. I saw him last weekend after he returned from a baby-shopping trip to Pottery Barn Kids. He did great. He only threw up once!
At the shower, happy people kept turning to me and saying, “You’re going to be an uncle! Aren’t you excited? Are you ready?”
“Excited? Sure,” I answered. “But ‘ready?’ I don’t need to be ready! This is my brother’s gig. I’m here to point and laugh when he shows up in a BabyBjorn.”
But it got me wondering: What does it mean to be an uncle? You know, what it entails and all. Whether I’m “ready.” Whether I need to be. Whether there are certain responsibilities I have to take on.
No one gives you a handbook. Godparents get assigned duties. Grandparents? They spoil your kids rotten and counter everything you say. “Oh, go on and let her jump off the roof, for goodness sake! You did, and worse you got was a double leg fracture and that crooked nose.”
But what’s my place? What is my job?
I’ve got the dad thing down pretty good. My 7-year-old daughter hasn’t fired me yet.
But “uncle” is something new. What role do they fill? I thought they just made highly inappropriate jokes and ate the last of the stuffing at Thanksgiving. Oh, and patted children on the head with knuckles that felt like a woodpecker’s beak.
I mean, I can do all that. Only, there has to be more, right?
Like, what will my name be? There are always unique family naming conventions when a child is born. My dad became “Pop.” My mother, “Grandma Evie.” My mother-in-law, “Nana.” My brother-in-law Richie, “Uncle Rico.”
What will my new name become? Uncle Bo-Bo? Uncle Bri-Bri? Buckethead? There’s nothing I could find on Google about this.
Do I have any say in it? Do I get veto power? Because this is going to stick. Other people are going to call me this! I don’t even remember my dad’s real name. Does the child get carte blanche in choosing my new name? What if it’s “Uncle Big Britches?” I do NOT want to be called “Uncle Big Britches.” I wear a size 33!
Are there other responsibilities as an uncle? Like teaching a kid how to whistle or throw a perfect spiral? I’ve never learned myself. When I loft a football, it looks like a duck hit by a cruise missile. It literally catches fire in mid-air due to multiple violations of the laws of physics. People won’t even hand me a football anymore.
What will I do if I hear this one day: “Uncle Bri-Bri, will you take little so-and-so to the park and teach him how to throw like Peyton Manning?”
Peyton Manning?!? Who the heck is Peyton Manning! I follow English futbol!
What if I have to start making crude jokes, drinking really cheap, warm beer, and sitting on the sofa after dinner with my pants undone at the waist. What if I’m supposed to be the “smart” uncle who recites Shakespeare whenever the moment strikes. I barely remember, “Oh Romeo. Romeo.”
The funny part is, if I’m looking for advice on being an uncle, I can start with the soon-to-be dad. He’s been an uncle for almost eight years now. He’s done all right. Especially on the inappropriate jokes that my daughter later asks about — “Dad, explain this to me: Why do the priest, the rabbi and the circus freak go into the bar?”
Maybe I’ll just run with it and see what happens. It should be pretty fun. A little one in the family again. Maybe it’s about the parental advice I can give. How to wrap a baby like a burrito. (Yes, most people call it “swaddling,” but I find the experience much more appealing if I picture guacamole and pico de gallo.) How to change a diaper without it being a life-altering experience. How to save for college without crying yourself to sleep every night.
Besides, the pressure’s all on that guy. This is his gig, not mine. Maybe I’ll just start drinking cheap beer, eating the last of the Thanksgiving stuffing and endure the horror of being known as, “Uncle Bri Bri Big Britches.”