Avuncular

My sister never wanted kids. Ever. Growing up, the mere idea of children gave her cause to grab at her stomach or guts (or lower) as though she'd recently dined at the restaurant in Alien and expected birth or even conception to feel much the same. Even though John Hurt's character had a chest-burster, the imagery was roughly the same in her mind. I suppose if I gave it more thought, it'd probably be the same for me, too, though Teeth gave me as much vaginal imagery as I ever wanted to contemplate.

"No," she'd said to our parents about a child rearing future. Flatly. Emotionless. Certain. Any time the topic was brought up again, the reply came with even greater certainty. By the time I'd come out as gay, I always found it odd that Mom believed it was still more likely that I'd give her children than my sister. When Nicole married her husband, Mike, the topic arrived once more and was just as quickly dismissed. Mom and Dad grew content with the idea they'd not have grandchildren. I never had any thoughts of having my own, nor ever finding children at my sister's home.

We'd have puppies, instead.

Thus, I hope it can be understood the peculiar mind-twisting that began when Nicole spontaneously started talking about kids. It began after Mike's brother had his kid. Clair. I'm not certain I can give this how-is-she-related-to-me child's name the emphasis that her name is given verbally. Italics? Clair. Nope. Her name is uttered as though Jehovah had been planning to name his chief angel Clair, but was disappointed at making a boy angel instead. She's doted upon, and talked about constantly. Her name finds its way into every conversation, completely regardless of just how irrelevant her presence in the interaction is.

"How is the new game?"
"Great. Third weapon is , and you can fly."
"Oh. I don't think Clair would like that game."

There is silence. We all know Clair is three. There is blinking, confusion. We want to talk about the game again. But, we cannot. Clair is present, now... even though she's miles away. For a brief moment, we hate Clair. We realize it isn't her fault. We know it is the grandfather, the mother, the father. We know it is due to their peculiar need to insert Clair into everything that we find her somehow invasive--a pushy little prom queen who cannot understand that the world doesn't revolve around her, but we cannot quite find a way to prove her prim gown, golden crown, and glory-aura are not the cosmological center because everyone else seems to think we're the ones who are wrong.

When the Clair-obsessed had departed after one such conversation diversion, Nicole once turned to me, rolling her eyes in the same way that I was rolling mine. "It won't be the same way with me," she said. I nodded, agreeing, though I couldn't quite wrap my head around her meaning. How could it be the same, anyway? Then she told me of her hopeful plans to adopt. She and Mike had been talking about it for a while--almost immediately after Clair was born and Nicole suddenly felt a strange maternal feeling that she'd either never before possessed or had carefully suppressed until that moment when it suddenly fought to explode out of her chest. It was apparently as surprising as Hurt's alien, but far less devastating. "The process is long, hard. Who knows what'll actually come of it, but we're gonna try." I nodded, congratulated her, but was left unsure what to feel, myself. I knew of the idea of the maternal feeling. I'd heard of paternal feelings, too, though that's usually stuffed up in the closet so motherly moments have their spotlight. I suspected there wasn't even a word for the uncle version.

Adoption proved to be more than just long and hard, but also eventfully fruitless--at least at the time of this writing. Money, waiting time, and interviews were all rough obstacles, but the flat black-and-white Rejected permitted no questions. It was flat. Emotionless. Certain.

Appeals were possible, but looking at Nicole gave me the impression of a couple who had been trying to conceive, only to find that there are few options for removing stains after a late-stage miscarriage. I imagined she was thinking how much more money and time could they invest into something with a much larger level of uncertainty than they'd expected. I didn't ask if she was thinking that. I didn't ask if she even felt she had anything in relation to that hypothetical couple. She didn't offer the thoughts, either, and much like other elephant-in-the-room topics that go ignored long enough... it seemed to grow invisible, hide, until it'd been out of sight for so long that I'd thought it had simply moved on.

I no longer wondered what word might exist for an uncle who felt "maternal." I no longer hypothesized what kind of 'funny uncle' I would be at family gatherings with my sister, her husband, their child, and myself with my partner.

Until now, when I see a strange picture on my sister's Facebook status. "I was bored," her status claims, and thus she went to an image morphing site that would blend her face with her husband, graphically calculate the likely countenance that their six-year old girl would have. I didn't ask if she was thinking of 'trying.' She didn't offer her thoughts on it, either. But, looking at the picture suddenly sparked something different. It made me reflect on those doting crazies, placing Clair's name on imaginary altars. I'm not sure I buy into it, yet, but I'm sure it is connected to those maternal and paternal feelings. All I knew is that looking at that strange, pudgy cheeked theoretical blend of my sister and her husband seemed like more than just looking at a graphic calculation. Different.

I looked it up. Avuncular. "In the manner of being an uncle." Oddly enough, the etymology of the word "uncle," itself, originally referred to the mother's brother. The 'maternal uncle.' It's strange.