I’m not a dad. As it stands, I’m the proud uncle of my nephew Buddy and my niece Winners. As an uncle, I’ve got high standards of enthusiasm. I’ll try to explain why.
While it’s great to have fun with kids and support them without giving up a lot of personal freedom, that’s not the real answer. The truth is that unconditional love comes easily for me. These two kids have become part of my family and it’s never been a struggle to care for them and spend time together.
On the other hand, conditional love has always given me fits. Finding and sustaining it so that I can have a family of my own has felt like I’m drawing a map so complex that I can’t comprehend it. To marry the woman of my dreams and get to bangin’ out some babies seems to require nothing less than perfect planning and execution. And I’ve always fallen short. I got somewhat close not that long ago, but it wasn’t meant to be and that was the end.
So, if I do come across as an overly mushy uncle, it’s because I’ve got to flex my unconditional love for them. To keep it bottled up would be weak, and I refuse to do that. And yes, I want more than just unconditional love, but what I’ve got now gives me more than enough to keep fighting and hoping for the long-awaited joy of conditional love.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why am I being so damn emo? Will I ever be funny again? Well, let’s check out some Uncle Stories and find out.
###
The day my nephew was born, I was allowed into the hospital room to see him, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my dad. I was excited and not thinking clearly--just too impulsive in the moment. I opened the door feeling pumped up about this new addition to our family. The first sentence I ever said to my nephew ended in an exclamation mark.
“Hey, Buddy!”
My sister-in-law gave me a look. Her son was swaddled in her arms as she rested in bed. She was weary and bold and battle-tested in ways I will never understand. Without a word, she scolded me with a “newborn babies aren’t crazy about loud outbursts” kind of look.
At her bedside, my brother squinted at me in disbelief. And of course, my dad crossed his arms and frowned at me.
It occurred to me that it’s bad to exclaim greetings to someone who’s only been alive for a few hours. They have no idea what’s going on and they freak out easily.
How did I not know this? I’m incorrigible, that’s how.
The boy stirred against his mom but managed to hit the snooze button on Uncle Nick’s dumb blurt. He spared me his ears-splitting cry until the second or third time we hung out.
I murmured an apology and fell quiet. The others spoke in low parental tones, rarely saying a word. A peaceful, tired and soothing feeling filled the room again. I regained my nerves and--trying hard not to fuck up--I whispered, “Congratulations.”
That’s how it went down the first time I met my Buddy: Loud outburst, awkward remorse, whispered congratulations, caught a glimpse of his baby Yoda blob of a face. After five minutes I left them in peace and stewed on the lesson I’d learned.
The one thing in my defense here: I was too thrilled about seeing my Buddy to play it cool and subdued. I show love like a true nerd and it can be startling.
###
Six months into the boy’s life, my family went to a Brewers game. We had a great big convoy of 9 or 10 of us. The boy was fastened to his mom’s front in a baby carrier. It was a blazing hot day and Miller Park was packed. On our journey from the parking lot into the stadium, our progress bottlenecked to a halt in a throng of people. We trudged through crowded concourses and escalators with no elbow room. Our walking strides got reduced to sad waddles en masse.
I believe this was the first time my nephew had ever been in a crowd of that size. I watched him for signs of nervousness. At six months, his babyface was starting to lose its blob look and find its own distinct features--puffy cheeks and quizzical dark eyes. Did he like seeing this mob of sweaty humans getting in its own way? Did he just catch that whiff of beer farts and urinal cakes wafting from the Men’s Bathroom we’re passing by at a snail-like pace? Who are all these noisy strangers in silly hats? Why are there too many of them? What’s their deal?
As if he was reading my mind, the boy removed his pacifier, twitched his lips, and his cheeks rippled as he let out a high-pitched Birdman-esque bird call sound: “Bbbbbbbblllltttt!” He smiled mildly.
He got me laughing. That relieved the stress of all those high-speed, worried thoughts. I realized: “Oh, right. I’m the one with lots of dreadful anxiety. I’m the one who hates feeling stuck in a mass of humanity. Not him. Me.”
I calmed down. We made it to our seats in the right field bleachers. I sat down and breathed deeply in and out for a minute or two. The boy’s calm, silly moment got me to relax. Someday I’ll have to be a calming influence for him in a moment of distress, in a show of gratitude.
###
The summer of Buddy’s second year, we began two traditions, the first of which was playing video games. With modern options out there like the Playstation 3 and the Xbox 360, my choice to get the boy started was clear: The Super Nintendo. Uncle Nick’s favorite system.
I spent a lot of time at my parents’ place, where I hooked up a SNES in the air-conditioned basement. Whenever a game flickered and glitched on us after flipping the power switch, he watched as I flipped the power back off, pressed the deep eject button to set the game free, and blew dust (or the thought of dust) out the bottom of the cartridge. I popped the game back in and--presto chango--the title screen appeared and we were treated to a classic 16-bit soundtrack.
“Now, that was a teachable moment,” I’d say to Buddy, his eyes gleaming, his smile full of wonder.
After seeing me do this a few times, he took initiative when we were faced with a title that was stubborn to get started. He followed the steps: Power, eject, blow dust out, insert, power. Super Mario World came to life on the screen. He joined me on the couch and picked up the second controller.
“Dus’ in a partridge,” he explained.
As I passed some of the early levels on the first try, Buddy got humbled by slowKoopa Troopas and visibly bummed out whenever Yoshi fell down a pit. But I could see his desire to get better and the improvements he was making little by little.
While running and jumping to the right with my heroic plumber on Yoshi’s Island 4, careful to avoid those spiky balls in the shallow water, I saw a concerned look on Buddy’s face. I pressed pause and asked him if anything was the matter.
“Does Mario poop?” he asked.
I’ve never laughed so hard at such a deeply philosophical question. He kept a straight face as I giggled uncontrollably, waiting for an answer.
Buddy cracked me up with that poop joke. Years later, with gratitude, I managed to get him back.
###
I don’t make it a point to lie to my nephew, but when it came to The Adventures of Batman & Robin, I did convince him that he was playing on the second controller as Robin, who is in fact a non-playable character. While Robin does make occasional appearances, flying the Batplane and getting captured by the Penguin, only Batman does the real adventuring. Buddy discovered this ruse at the age of three, but these were simpler times.
In fairness, this was a very tough game for me to beat at the seasoned age of 32-ish, and there was no way toddler Buddy could get past the Maze of the Minotaur on level five and advance to the sprawling chessboard boss-battle with the Riddler. The sight of a vast stretch of red and black squares was puzzling to Buddy.
“OK, the Riddler’s got him stuck in a game of human chess,” I tried to explain. “It’s human chess. Only, with Batman.”
“What’s chess?” he asked.
I paused the game. Sensing that there might be a chess game stored somewhere in the basement, I went scrounging. To the right of the furnace, I found a cabinet that included a sombrero, binders of baseball cards, and eureka: a thin, dusty, rectangular box with a game of chess inside.
I set the box on the carpet before Buddy.
“Check out chess,” I said.
He dumped the contents onto the carpet. Thirty-two plastic totems rained down, clinking and scattering. He shook again and out fell the board with a clatter and a soft thump. He unfolded the board and nodded at the simple pattern of squares. He picked up a piece and sized it up.
“What’s this?”
“That’s called a rook. It looks like a castle, but for some reason, they gave it a fancy name.”
He found another piece.
“What’s this?”
One by one, I told him all the names of the chess pieces. Several times, I said, “That’s also a pawn.” Still, he didn’t look appeased. He squinted at me, more puzzled than ever.
“Well, which one is Batman?”
###
That same summer, I had a theory that Buddy would enjoy swinging around a plastic bat, and using that bat to crush a plastic ball, to see how far he could crush it. So I bought him a tee ball set that caught my eye at the neighborhood Walgreens. Great purchase.
I believe the label read “For Ages 4 & Up.” But that didn’t stop me because, as we know, I am one stone-cold badass who doesn’t abide by squares.
One afternoon when I visited my parents to hang out with Buddy, I put my theory to the test in the backyard. I showed him his new tee ball set. He seemed intrigued. Bat on my shoulder, I made sure he was standing a safe distance away. Then I propped the ball on the tee, took a few quick practice hacks, found my stance, and smacked the ball 20 feet across the backyard. It rolled to a stop at the foot of the neighbors’ chain link fence.
Buddy thought that was so awesome. His journey to become a slugger began on that day. The two-year-old rookie showed a low swing-and-miss rate and the contact he made got more and more solid as the summer went by. He could be a jerk if you gave him access to a hose and one time he bit me, but Buddy never hurt anyone or himself by swinging that bat.
(So, a minor point to consider: The “Tee Ball Kits are For Ages 4 & Up” rule is for lamewads.)
When my dad saw that Buddy had become a fan of tee ball, he was thrilled. And apparently, he also got the urge to crush a ball with a bat, for the purpose of seeing how far he could crush it. He’d loft the ball in the air, transfer his other hand to the neck of the bat, step into it, and clobber the ball farther than Buddy and I could manage. Dad quickly came up with the goal of hitting a homer over the house. Ranch-style or not, it seemed impressive at the time.
My nephew and I became spectators. Gripping a toddler’s red toy bat, my dad tossed the ball into the air again and again to get his timing and swing just right. Buddy and I took our seats in the grass 10 feet behind him during his derby warm-ups.
“We’ve got the best seats in the house,” I said.
His face scrunched up in response to that remark. He shook his head, disappointed.
“No, no, Nick,” he said with a sigh. “We outside house. And Papa gon’ hit ball over house.”
His logic was flawless. I mean, there was no way to argue with his rebuttal. Instead, I just felt kinda dumb and had a good laugh as my dad hit a moon shot over his own damn house.
###
It’s petty to feel butt-hurt because your niece was a lot more excited by the gift her parents got her on her second birthday than she was about the gift that you gave her, but here we are.
Hear me out.
Gathered around the supper table with the guest of honor in her finest Minnie Mouse shirt, sitting in her chair that was literally high, I was hoping that she would delight in the present I got her. I thought we all were--that Winners’ older sisters, my sister, other brother, sister-in-law, and parents all wanted that validation.
First up, grandma and grandpa set their present on the tray before Winners. She dug into the wrapping paper tentatively at first, and looked for confirmation on whether or not to proceed. She was encouraged to continue, which she did with newfound fervor, casting aside shreds of Hallmark sheaths that floated down to the floor.
It was a pink tea set, with an abundance of cups, saucers, plates and spoons. Winners smiled complacently at the timeless gift. My mom snapped pictures and chanted, “Yaaaayyyyy.”
Next came her mom and dad’s present. The little girl tore through the thin barrier between mystery and treasure with no delay. She was rewarded with a Talking Elmo doll. She was smitten. It was as if Elmo was all four members of The Beatles and she had a front-row seat at the Ed Sullivan Show.
“Elllllllmmmmmmoooooooo!” she squealed.
I was glad to see her happy and carried away in her rollicking bliss--up to a certain point. We waited three minutes as she expressed her joy. Still, she had this to say:
“Elllllllmmmmmmoooooooo!” she encored.
Again, I can’t stress enough that I was glad to see her happy… but my present was next and it was clearly getting upstaged.
My gift was a picture book of classic Disney tales. The storytelling was simplistic. The illustrations were wondrous. The collection had absolute bangers like Lion King, 101 Dalmatians, and Dumbo. And more! Winners was nonplussed though. I’d tell you the name of the furry creature she kept hollering about, but I’m sick of giving him credit.
My sister made her humble offering next. I don’t remember what it was because it was met with the same response as mine. The Most Valuable Present had stolen the show early and my memory just stopped with the bother. I made a silent vow to one day teach Winners the value of books.
In 2021, I called my sister to ask her what she gave Winners that year.
“I have no idea,” she said. “Something trivial, for sure. Maybe a sweatshirt. Or socks or underwear.”
Blast! My sister had wisely managed her expectations.
“OK, whatever present it was, all those things are pretty good,” I said. “And you know what? Talking Elmo sucks.”
“Yeah,” she said in a tone calmer than mine. “Talking Elmo is stupid.”
In this way of me being petty sometimes and trying to learn from my past mistakes, I finally felt validated, thanks to my sister.
Talking Elmo is crack for babies. It’s true. However, when I reflect on my own childhood, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had that effect on me. Heck, I was like five when I felt the TMNT-to-crack comparison. The big picture truth is that every generation has their version of baby crack.
Winners, who no longer screams for Talking Elmo, I love you so much.
###
As with the boy, I babysat Winners sometimes.
With toys littered on the living room floor, Winners gave me a skateboarding Rosita. The Sesame Street doll contrasted the menacing T-Rex in her hand. Between fits of laughter, she began to roar like a dinosaur as she dashed at Rosita and me. She wasn’t able to catch us because we took evasive actions. I had visions of the gigantic green predator from Jurassic Park thundering after a jeep of terrified humans, and so I darted away with the turquoise Muppet in hand.
“Ahhhh!” I said.
“Corre por tu vida!” Rosita might have screamed.
We jogged a few laps, past the rocking chair and into the dining room, circling the supper table, back into the TV room, to the front entrance, then dodging Winners and her T-Rex as we hustled and retraced our steps past the rocker. We did this until we legit got winded and had to stop and face our fate. The tireless Winners and her T-Rex caught up with us, one of them barely panting.
Mentally, I said a quick prayer for Rosita, that the T-Rex would swiftly bite her head off so that she may die a merciful death. May she celebrate her Quinceanera in 10 years time, en cielo con Dios y familia difunto.
Winners as T-Rex asked Rosita a question.
“Would you be my friend and go down the slide with me?”
What a plot twist! Rosita and I were pleasantly stunned. To go from the dread of being devoured to the joy of descending a slide so suddenly shook our systems. Of course we accepted. We had overlooked the wee playground atop the coffee table. Winners escorted us to it and made true on her offer.
Now, this was a welcome change from the Buddy style of action-figuring I had gone through in years past. His team of heroes with the likes of Batman, Iron Man, and the Scooby Doo gang always outnumbered my crew of villains, and the fights were so lopsided. I was not allowed to get in any offense whatsoever.
“Could we try the Joker sucker-punching Batman--just once?” I had asked Buddy. “Then the Joker could laugh his head off; that builds a little suspense. Like, ‘Maybe the Joker’s side is gonna win this time,’ you know? Then pow. Your team of good guys gets all fired up and destroys my bad guys. How about that?”
“Nah,” Buddy had said.
Instant veto. No dice, Uncle Nick. Seconds later, his heroes eviscerated my villains. Aquaman drowned the Hobgoblin in a dog bowl. I’ll spare you the other grim details. Basically, the experience made me feel like a pro wrestler who loses in a squash match every time to make the champ look strong.
The two of us have since stopped playing action figures together, citing creative differences. But with Winners, I hope T-Rex and Rosita will meet again someday. The two of them took turns going down the slide and it was beautiful.
Flashlight in hand, I explored the space within this “house.” I made a comet tail against cartoon-character sheets, beaming light into the far corners, where the baby gate made a fence by the front entrance of this house.
“So, if this place is a house,” I finally conceded, “Which room are you in, Buddy?”
“The living room,” he grinned.
“I’m in the dining room,” Winners laughed, not a foot away from Buddy.
“OK,” I said. “So, where’s the bathroom? Uncle Nick’s gotta take a poop.”
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