On our most recent visit our manager was a frenetic fellow who behaved has if his bonus at stake. Each session requires two employees; a photographer and an assistant to coax smiles out of the wailing children. We began with my niece who, while not wailing, was slightly suspicious and was not inclined to smile just because there was a camera pointed at her with a strange woman dancing behind behind it. The manager jumped into our session to replace the assistant in no time. He wasn’t messing around. He had in his arsenal a well rehearsed routine that involved a stuffed kitty flying through the air, landing on someone’s head and flopping around. On at least one occasion the head was mine and Peppy, our over-caffeinated manager, paid no attention to my carefully coiffed hairdo. He proceeded to shuffle us around, using corny lines to manipulate the bewildered children. “OK, can you cross your legs for me? Criss cross applesauce” he said as he crossed my nephew’s legs for him as if he were a Gumby doll. I’m not certain, but I may have seen my nephew’s first eye-roll. If not I was internally eye-rolling enough for all of us.

When the time came for to the full family photo (in which I was included) the photographer began to position us. Just as we had assumed our places, Peppy returned from a smoke break to rearrange us. He sat the core family members in an simple arrangement and then asked me to sit on a large block behind them. The resulting portrait makes me appear to be some crazed family portrait crasher. We took several photos in this configuration and then I was dismissed. I was banished to the Lego table to sit with the families waiting while their anticipation turned to dread.

Once all the photos had been taken it was time for the sales pitch. The previously affable photographer morphed into a mildly pushy salesman right before our eyes. The sales pitch involves sitting in front of a computer screen while the salesperson begins to display the photos in a fashion not unlike the way the optometrist gauges your vision, but more quickly. “Which one do you like better? This one or this one? Is this one better or this one? Better or the same?” Once you have selected your photos you are obliged to chose the “Package” that you want, none of which really fit your desires.  Oh, and did I mention that it is at this point that the children traditionally run out of steam and begin to meltdown. These places must make a mint while stressed out mother’s agree to purchase many more photos (mostly in useless wallet size) than intended.

As we drove off to have lunch, my sweet photo obsessed sister in law absolved me of the obligation to attend future portrait sessions.

Yeah, that is probably a pretty good idea.

It isn’t about the love at all. We love these, our godchildren, with total abandon. They are adorable and sweet and, but for the occasional tantrum, (my nephew is 2 and 1/2 – tantrums are in his job description) really well behaved. For me it is about the patience. I don’t so much have it. I don’t know where my sister-in-law and brother get it. Maybe there was a patience supplement in the prenatal vitamins and she shared them with him. Or maybe there was a particularly compelling chapter or two about patience in one of the many parenting books they’ve read. All I know is I’ve known my brother a long time – like his whole life – and this patience thing he’s got going on is new.

Some people are, however, meant to aunt and uncle. And Bob and I are definitely in that team photo. Bob had a head start on me with his five nieces and nephews, but they were all in their teens by the time I came along. I can only conclude that my highly skilled aunt-ness makes me some kind of prodigy.

Uncle Bop Bop, as he is know by the under three foot crowd, taught our nephew to catch. And not only to catch, but to catch a football! I know, right? It was epic. Bob considers it his responsibility to nurture any athletic tendencies that the little guy displays. My brother is not without athleticsm. He is just from more of a golf, tennis and soccer background, where Bob hails from the football, hockey, baseball neck of the woods. And while my sister-in-law has made it abundantly clear that my nephew will not actually play football, Bob wants to nurture any and all sporty leanings. I think it is because he has seen me run and worries that my spaz gene might somehow infect the kid.

I played my share of monster trucks with my little gear head, though apparently I did it wrong because my version of play was met with “No! Aunt Di Di! Like this!” followed by a demonstration of the correct method (which really didn’t differ significantly from my original version, leading me to believe that monster trucks is a very nuanced game.) I learned what an excavator was and how it is pronounced in toddler-ese. I even found a t-shirt with an excavator on it that was just someone’s size (no, not Bob’s).

My niece, at nine months old, is too young to be indoctrinated into Uncle Bop Bop’s sports program or the delicate ballet of monster trucks so we mostly just bonded over hair: her lack of it and my abundance of it. I think her plan was to pull enough of mine out, one tiny fist full at a time, to fashion her own wig. Or quite possibly she thought all my hair was unsightly and was just trying to tidy me up to look more like her. Either way there was hair pulling. There was also peek-a-booing, giggling and some really good snuggling.

But the thing about these two charming little people is that when they are awake, they are in motion. They are almost always in need of something: a diaper change, a book to be read, a bottle, a game to be played, a sippy cup, a nap, a snack or the removal of a foreign object from their mouth. And it never ends. I was only left alone (and by alone I mean me and Uncle Remote Control) with them for a total of three, maybe four hours tops. I didn’t break them or anything, but I am pretty sure I couldn’t do that full time.

It was a wonderful, relaxing and bonding week. As I do each time I visit with my brother’s family, I was left with such admiration for them as parents and such gratitude for the amazing experience we get to share with them, however briefly. I was also glad to come home where it is totally acceptable for me to put my rambunctious “child” in his crate while I tend to the laundry or take a nap.

I work part time in what I lovingly refer to as “The Mommy Mall” and most of the time that is great. We have mostly delightful customers who have equally delightful children. I especially like the ones in strollers. (And may I take this moment to comment on the evolution of the stroller? Some of these things look like they were engineered by NASA.) I really enjoy the opportunity to chat with the adorable little cherubs, only some of whom look at me as if I were an alien.

Our particular store, however, is filled with sharp objects and more glassware than you can throw a toddler at. Please be forewarned: if you allow your children to treat the cook’s tool area as a toy box, I will have to hover to make sure Violet doesn’t lose a digit. If you permit your child to bang away on a $50 All Clad splatter screen while you chat on your iPhone, I will glare. Please don’t make me wrestle this object away from little Seraphina, because she may wail and interrupt your conversation.

If your child adopts an item that you are unwilling to purchase, may I suggest that you ask for it once and then retrieve said item from your child. Yes, I realize Brooks may cry and, while I am not a big proponent of making children cry, I may become homicidal if I have to listen to you negotiate unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. A retail environment is really not an appropriate place to let your children come to their own conclusions or whatever new age parenting method you are pursuing. On that note, I know that it is beyond thrilling that Asher is beginning to walk, but please steer him away from the Reidel crystal (and out the door) if you don’t mind.

While it may seem harmless to allow your children to play with kitchen tools in your home, it is not appropriate in a store. We are attempting to sell these items. When they have been in your child’s mouth they become decidedly less appealing, especially if your child is teething. I don’t know about you, but the only tooth marks I want on my spatulas are my own. The flour sifter you have at home may have been built to withstand sifting a plastic display lemon, but I can assure you, our floor model was not. Also some of the electronics are actually plugged in, so please, please, please do not let Charlotte press the buttons. We all love to press buttons, but let’s keep it to the ones in elevators, shall we? Unless of course, you want to mop up the double espresso that is shooting all over the floor.

Let me be clear, I love children. I really do. And being childless, I appreciate the opportunity to coo and gurgle at babies and have silly conversations with toddlers. I am simply allergic to unsupervised and overindulged children. And I judge their parents. I just do.

1) A sleep deprived twenty three month old child whose molars are coming in can throw a mad, ovary-shrinking tantrum with almost no notice.

2) That same toddler can, moments later, be so unbelievably cute and well behaved that you would sign up for a litter of him, if they were available.

3) The patience that is takes to be a parent is truly awe inspiring to those of us who whine about the trials of raising canines. (We have crates for Pete’s sake.).

I just spent a week visiting my beautiful new niece and my adorable nephew and I am exhausted. And I didn’t really do anything. I tried to get up with my nephew when he woke up crying in the night, but he wanted “Dad-dee” and was really clear about it. I didn’t bother to get up with my niece because she was more than likely hungry and my equipment, while similar, does not operate the way her mother’s does.

I visited a pumpkin patch and went on a hayride. I rocked a peaceful infant. I played blocks and changed two whole diapers – both the easy infant kind. I cooked a couple of meals, I shopped, I read a couple of books (with lots of pictures and not many pages) and I colored. And unlike everyone else in the house, I slept. And I am beat.

What I learned on my fall vacation – child rearing is hard work. My brother and sister-in-law have amazing patience and so much love. They are great parents and I am so proud of them.

When I found out that we were pregnant again, I admit I was hoping for a girl. Had I been the one bearing and parenting said child, I would not have wanted a girl. Girls terrify me. All my dogs have been boys for a reason. But from an “aunting” perspective this is awesome. I will now have one of each.

As I spoke to my brother last night and assured him that I would have been just as happy with a boy, Bob butted in to remind me that this isn’t about me. Oh, I, well, um, of course it isn’t. But then again isn’t it nice of my baby bro and his bride to supply me with a nice pair of children to work my “maternal” out with. If I can’t have little monsters of my own, this really is as good as it gets. The downside is that they live half way across the country. If they lived nearby, I would quit my job and be their nanny. I would take them to the zoo and go to their games and plays and….But they don’t so I will visit and spoil them rotten. I will send them gifts and record myself reading books to them. Bob and I will Skype them or Skype with them, I don’t know, web cams will be involved.

And if this new addition to our family is anything like her brother, I will fall head over heels in love. Her brother, my godchild, is one of my favorite people in the world and that is saying alot because I’ve only known him for a little over a year. I keep a picture of him in my mirror so that I can see his precious old man/little boy face each morning. I gravitate to the children’s section of stores now, looking for gifts. I cry each time I board a plane to leave him and each time he and his family pack up to leave me.

I have to wait until September to meet my niece. In the meantime, we have to come up with a name. I emailed my brother some suggestions last night. It isn’t like they are going to let me name her. My real responsibiltiy is to prevent them from naming her something awful. And lest you think that is not a huge responsibility, there was a time that someone was considering the name Dewey for my nephew. ‘Nuff said? These people need me.

But really it is more complicated than that.

I remember in a fit of teen angst telling my mother that I never wanted to have children because I never wanted anyone to feel about me the way I felt about her. Ouch, right? I apologized for that many times.I also remember saying that I wanted to be a mother because if I could bring one good person into the world with strong values and morals I would have done something significant. OK, so the indecision goes way back.

In my twenties I told my mother that if I didn’t marry by the time I turned 3o, I would have a baby by myself. My mother really wanted to be a grandmother, but she probably also knew that I was in my full of shit phase and that thirty would come before I knew it. As it turned out 30 came and went and that was actually when becoming a mother became a less interesting idea. Becoming a wife started to lose its luster as well. I had become self sufficient in many ways but what I didn’t realize was that I was developing a very unhealthy relationship with alcohol.

I was thirty-six when I met my husband, Bob. My hesitations about marriage disappeared. I never doubted that he was the right partner for me, although we definitely had some rocky times in the beginning. I was clear about one other thing, I did not want children and if Bob did or thought that he could change my mind down the road, he should bail. My mother had passed away a couple years before I met him and somewhere around that time I completely abandoned the idea of children (a psychologist’s wet dream).

As forty came barreling towards me, I realized that my window of opportunity baby-wise was closing. It made me rethink, albeit belatedly, our decision not to have a family. Bob and I discussed it; my gynecologist and I discussed it and then the three of us discussed it. No one was in favor of my “stop using birth control and roll the dice” approach. I thought we should put the decision in God’s hands. If God was trying to send me a sign, the big ass fibroid tumors I developed might have been it. I got a partial hysterectomy – decision made.

You would think that someone with all the ambivalence that I felt about parenthood would just move on from this. You would be wrong. The realization that I couldn’t have children hit me like a ton of bricks. I had always know that not having children would be a great regret in my life. I didn’t know that it would kick my ass. All these emotions hit me once again when I quit drinking. Once I broke up with chardonnay and Grey Goose, I realized I could imagine a life with children. Sober I actually did have what it takes to be a parent.

I have seen all the work that goes into parenting, but I have also seen the rewards. I always loved children. I still tear up sometimes when I think about not having my own. Of course we could have adopted – hell, we could still adopt. But what I’ve realized is parenthood is such a commitment that you either have to be a little naive or totally certain. We were neither.

We have children in our life in other ways: friends, neighbors and family. My baby brother and his wife made us the fairy godparents to my first nephew. (No dummies there – make the childless couple godparents.) And he is a joy – just really far away.

So I don’t fall into an easy category. No one does if you look closely. I am clearly not a mom, but I am not child-free by choice. I am child-free by accident or by indecision or maybe by procrastination. It is a constant process, but I am making peace with it. I feel so fortunate for all that I do have: Bob, my family, my sobriety and my sanity (OK that comes and goes). And of course I do have my two canine children and they give me Mother’s Day cards every year. And Hallmark wouldn’t make a card for me if I weren’t a sorta mom, would they now?