Unclehood

I felt a minor sense of strangeness on the day my nephew was born, a small degree of nervous expectation. When the news came through, its suddenness helped with the sense that something momentous had just happened. But I felt less than I thought I should.

Mostly, I just stared at my phone awkwardly crafting a text about Peppa Pig World, which was meant to signify my warmest congratulations.

I sensed my parents were feeling something I was not. Of course they were. And it’s not strange that their emotions are what I recall, as my dominant feeling to date had been happiness for them becoming grandparents.

I thought the Peppa Pig text said everything about who I could possibly be as an uncle. Slightly removed, dropping the odd cultural reference here and there (which would gradually evolve in age-appropriateness as he grew up, staying one or two steps ahead just to keep his parents on their toes). Vaguely nurturing. Visibly scared.

I thought I’d be other things too.

Chronically hapless and not to be trusted until he’d reached the age he could be safely dropped from a great height. I imagined I’d hover at the sidelines, announcing my ineptitude before it could be observed.

I doubted I could entertain a baby, even if I do think the Hey Duggee ‘Stick Song’ is an artistic high point of the last decade. I didn’t think babies enjoyed sarcasm or polemic and I thought that’s all I had to offer.

I also didn’t think a baby could entertain me. A lack of fine motor skills or good conversation and a startlingly solipsistic view of the world. What’s to love?

It was as though being any other way might be a betrayal of my perpetually single, ‘never wanted children’ self. It was also a tool to reassure others, much easier than trying to articulate whatever my current position on my relationship status was. My life would just look different but not lonely.

I don’t want children. This essay isn’t that. That is a rational view that I stand by, and it’s reinforced every time I babysit my parents’ dogs and teeter on the brink of collapse after two 6am starts.

But I’d rejected any concept of nuance. ‘I contain multitudes’, sure. I just didn’t sense the childcare multitude was lying in wait.

However, it turns out I am a raging cliché. Just not in the way I expected.

At first I was afraid. Hovering as expected. The presence of a new tiny human was, at best, interesting.

The singular goal, in the early days, is to achieve a sense of implicit contentment. That is, if the baby is not crying, you’re doing ok. If they briefly engage with your existence for three seconds via a grasp of the finger or a fleeting glance, then you’re knocking it out of the park.

I’d bought him a Quantum Physics for Babies book as a handy shield, and some clothes from JoJo Maman Bébé. A reminder that my involvement would be mainly financial, tasteful, a little fun in a wry, self-referential way.

I apologetically balanced him on my knee for the requisite five minutes. He didn’t cry. My heart didn’t swell. Yep, this is pretty much how I thought things would go.

I’d muted the family WhatsApp chat and was already preparing a series of well-judged eye-rolls in anticipation of the photographic onslaught.

Then I made him really laugh for the first time.

I’d gotten slowly into my stride, and was trusted enough to occasionally babysit solo for three to four minutes, while the other person went to steam the sweet potato.

I had become adept at scanning for danger, anticipating his boredom and rotating in a new toy (or preferably in his case, baking tin). He’d had his first piano lesson at six months. Although I haven’t really grappled with the concept of him becoming a better player than me.

The big set piece came when my Mum was holding him and we fell into a rhythm: he’d drop a ball from a respectable height; I’d catch it and add a stupid sound effect.

This sparked hilarity, a raucous and intentional cackle. The budding child psychologist in me suspects it was because he was recognising his agency at that point. Cause and effect. He was the one dropping the ball. And we were both enjoying the circular logic of our routine.

That’s the big surprise, the underlying camaraderie. I knew, even with maximum hovering, I’d have to be the entertainer sometimes, and find something new in my wheelhouse that wasn’t a witty 90s pop-culture reference.

But I underestimated the mutuality. The idea that I’d actually enjoy his company and find him pretty witty too.

I do other funny things now: peer through glass doors, pretending I am trapped behind them; allow him to shut the door on me in mock distress (doors are a big thing right now); chase him around the kitchen, never not visibly surprised when he changes course to catch me out.

As ever, my algorithm confirms to me who I have now become. Hopelessly devoted Uncle with cash to burn on Moomin jumpsuits, hedgehog jumpers and baby DJ decks.

But even more strangely, hopelessly devoted and fairly competent Uncle, who sits at his desk, smiling at his phone when the eighth variation of the same photo pings through.

It’s a joy, but there’s also a quiet niggle in realising I can be this person too. I see my nephew in short bursts when visiting home, and there’s an awkward dance of locking and unlocking this new self. A need to reconcile the person who loves openly but lives quietly. I haven’t figured that out yet.

Surely there’s no place better for that journey of self-discovery than Peppa Pig World.