said the Gruffalo’s Child or, alternatively, my nephew constantly quoting it this Christmas, despite being frightened of monsters at every turn and even scared of his own shadow.
Thanks to the pandemic, this holiday was only the second time I’ve seen my (now) 2 year old nephew in 2021, although plenty of FaceTimes/Zoom calls have been made in-between.
I have older nieces but this was the first occasion in a long time I developed some ‘parental’ skills as I read him a bed time story and stayed put until he’s snoring. My niblings, up until the age of about 5, grow very attached to me and, whether it’s because I don’t shout at them or heavily discipline them, I don’t know. I buy them things and might take them to the park, but I never think of myself as a ‘cool Uncle’.
The whole experience made me think again, that I’ll almost certainly never have children of my own. As a teenager I foolishly assumed “married at 25, dad at 30”. With both those milestones gone and not even a hint of either materialising, I wonder if it’ll ever come true or, indeed, if I even want it to?
When I think of the possibility of my own wedding, I consider it outlandish. Only a dozen people to invite and becoming a sweaty, anxious mess throughout. The best day of your life? Not for everyone. Certainly not for me. That’s not to say it’d never happen: it’ll come down to the desires of my other half.
Children is a similar situation. I’ve been back and forth on the idea in my life and have now, possibly ultimately, settled on “not” but I could be swayed. The efforts of one of my sisters and her husband to get their 3 girls under control, sacrificing all personal pleasures and free time, is a feat I selfishly don’t see myself accomplishing. I love them dearly but their energy and noise levels leave me needing a lengthly break in a dark, quiet room every hour.
For a plethora of reasons, many people should not become parents and, unless my mental state ever changes, I should probably count myself as one of them.