Pip Jarvis
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a mum. I was a nurturer from the moment I could toddle around, pushing my dolls in a pram and dressing up my cat. That urge has never subsided, but – for reasons both complicated and simple – the likelihood of it happening has.
When my brother announced he and his wife were expecting, my feelings were far from straightforward. I was happy for them, of course, but I was also deeply sad. There was envy that they’d have what I so desperately wanted; grief that it wasn’t me; panic that it might never be me; anger at myself for making poor life decisions… My emotions ran the gamut.
But the hardest to grapple with was the guilt. I felt I wasn’t playing the part of the excited aunt-to-be convincingly enough. I was drained from the effort of putting on a brave face, and unsure I would be up to the task.
Fast-forward, dear reader, and you’ll be glad to know that I was smitten with my niece from the first time I held her. However, falling in love with my new role took a little longer.
During the first year, I didn’t spend a huge amount of time with my niece. Her parents were, as expected, busy adjusting to their needy offspring; I was superfluous in every way. And, let’s face it, babies don’t give all that much back during those early milk-drunk months.
And, aside from the practicalities, I intentionally created some distance. Being in proximity to what I yearned for was too painful. And as much as I melted at each gurgly smile, my sadness was always waiting in the wings.
For a long time, being “just an aunty” felt like a poor substitute for achieving my heart’s desire.
PIP JARVIS
I suspect I felt, on some level, that truly stepping into my role as an aunt signified giving up on my own dreams. As if by accepting my new status, I was saying that this was enough – if I were only ever an aunt, I’d be content. And I simply did not feel that way.
The way society treats childless women with pity or distrust is not helpful. Dating apps are awash with men proudly proclaiming their “fun uncle” status as kids clamber over them like jungle gyms. They seem unselfconsciously assured that this bestows on them “good with kids” appeal. I doubt many of these funcles are concerned that they might look clucky or be mistaken for a single dad.
As women – surprise, surprise – we don’t give ourselves the same grace. I would never post photos with my niece on Hinge. Partly because it’s not my right to do so (do the funcles ever consider this?). But also because being mother-adjacent doesn’t have the same cachet.
For a long time, being “just an aunty” felt like a poor substitute for achieving my heart’s desire. It was a consolation prize that brought moments of extreme happiness but was also bitter-sweet.
While the PANK (professional aunt, no kids) figure, with her cool job, passport stamps and thriving social life, has had some positive PR, she’s still not entirely free of derision. And, regardless of how full your life is sans children, the maiden aunt trope is always nipping at your heels. Especially as you age.
Yet time heals all wounds, some cliches exist for a reason, and two things can be true at once. I never for a minute thought I could love a child as much as I love my niece. I live for her mischievous smile, her scheming to obtain a second biscuit, her unsociably loud shrieks in my communal pool. When she snuggles into me while watching Peppa Pig or declares me her best friend (she’s as fickle as any three-year-old, but I take it while I can), I feel my heart quadruple in size.
The joy she brings to my life now outweighs my grief at not being a mother. I’m not sure exactly when the shift happened, or how, but it’s very welcome. With it comes relief, release and a new-found sense of purpose.
Parenting expert Steve Biddulph calls supportive aunts (and aunt-like figures) “pillars of mental health for girls”. It took me a while to realise that my new(ish) role could have real value, and I now plan to throw everything into embracing aunthood and the fulfilment it can offer.
As my niece’s language skills progress by leaps and bounds (she’s gifted, what can I say), I look forward to a future where I am her safe space: a trusted sounding board for her teenage dilemmas and a source of unwavering support – and snacks.
My window for potential parenthood may be closing, but being an aunt has opened up my world. My thinking, at last, is in step with my heart. And maybe, just maybe, aunthood isn’t a consolation. Maybe it’s the prize.
To anyone else who longs to be a mother but is “making do” as an aunt, I see you. Whether it’s infertility or circumstance to blame, I hope you find the peace and contentment I have. An aunt’s love is unique, unconditional and exactly as life-changing as you allow it to be.
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