diana cowgill

I don’t know if I want to have kids. I have a long and pretty equal pro and con list on the subject, and while I’m not too young to seriously think about it, I am far too immature to seriously think about it. So, I don’t. When someone asks if I might someday, down the road, eventually want kids, I say no because babies lead to stretch marks. This answer is usually enough.

My ambivalence toward the fruit of my own loin does not insulate me from an unexpectedly strong maternal draw. I have friends with kids. A beloved cousin has a kid. And I would do anything, anything, for the little rascals. I would take a bullet. Drive them to baseball practice, read to them, watch them play the piano. The ones I’m really super into are all babies right now, so we don’t have a lot in common. But soon they’ll be old enough to do stuff, and I will fall into the role I was born to play: Auntie Di.

Auntie Di is a wonderful combination of me, wealthy, and in a really good mood, mixed with an archetypal drag queen. Auntie Di is fabulous. Auntie Di is encouraging. Auntie Di believes in you and loves you. She knows that the things within you that nobody understands, will serve you beautifully in the long run. Anyone that tries to tell you otherwise is an ass.

Auntie Di asks you your opinion. She thinks you’ve got a great sense of humor. She doesn’t think you’re unrealistic; just that other people give up too easily. Auntie Di will be there for you. Your parents aren’t perfect, Auntie Di will acknowledge, but they do their best, and any of their failings have been good intentioned and noble. Auntie Di will tell you, so that you believe her, that a person’s intentions ALWAYS MATTER.

Auntie Di will buy you things. Things your parents wouldn’t, but when she does it’s okay. She will let you know that money is nothing more than a tool, and that it should never be valued too highly. Auntie Di will take you on adventures. Sometimes with your parents, or your brothers and sisters. Sometimes just you. And you will look forward to them. You will learn a lot. You will laugh a lot. You will feel great about yourself when the day is over.

As you get older, Auntie Di will sometimes swear around you. You will love this. She will make bawdy jokes and talk about menopause. She will let you know that if you’ve got boobs, it’s okay, and if you don’t have boobs, it’s okay. Hers never came in, and it’s okay. If you’re a bit fat, Auntie Di  will tell you that you’re a beautiful, interesting, lovely person. If you’re skinny and spotty, she’ll tell you that you’re a beautiful, interesting, lovely person. In either case, or neither case, Auntie Di will tell you that she is better off for knowing you. She likes you very much. And these things really don’t matter all that much in the long run.

As you get older still, Auntie Di will be insatiably curious about your life. What do you like? What do you hate? What inspires you? What makes you happy? What do you want, really, out of your life? When you ask her something, she will answer you. She will look you in the eye, and Auntie Di will try her best to tell you the truth. She will predicate her opinions by saying that they are just her opinions, so don’t put too much stock in them. Auntie Di will tell you that we all grow up differently. That the only mistake you can make is to compare yourself to somebody else. When you tell her you can’t help it, Auntie Di tells you that’s okay. She thinks, for what it’s worth, that you’re the greatest kid. Then you’ll go to the movies.

The people whose kids I have my eye on have no idea what they’re in for. What their little ones mean already. The heat of the fire their being born has put under me. Being a good auntie requires me to be a good person. A better, more principled person than I’ve ever been before. Kids need decent, loving people in their lives, which Auntie Di is. She’s an aspirational, better version of myself.

It disappoints my parents that none of their kids are totally sold on continuing the blood line. But they know me. They know I’m very immature, and poor, so I’ve got no business spawning right now even if I am approaching my late twenties. If I fell in love with a spectacular guy, I suppose, who was far out of my league in a couple of vital ways… then maybe. But right now, I’m okay. Planning how to be the world’s greatest aunt takes up plenty of time.