Aunthood Premonition

It has always been easier for me to picture myself as an aunt, as opposed to a mother. I've always known I'd hold my brother's child, a deep-rooted nugget of a feeling I first experienced when I was newly home from college and taking my kid brother out for late night seasoned fries at Denny's.

We sat in the smoking section because I was desperately trying to be cool enough to smoke (a habit that never took root, thank heavens) and Rob stared in awe at the Straight-A sister who was now chain smoking and struggling to maintain mediocrity at school. We talked about Dad. We talked about Mom. We talked about our communal high school and the teachers that ruined lives. We talked about music. And Rob, in his not-old-enough-to-drive wisdom, talked me off a ledge he didn't know existed.

I remember walking in the parking lot, smoking another cigarette by the door of a beloved Nissan, and thinking to myself, "he'll be a wonderful Dad." It wasn't a flippant feeling, not one of those "oh, you'll be great" remarks people throw around like confetti, and it wasn't something I said aloud. In that moment I just knew he'd be a Dad, and a great one.

I'm not someone who relies much on premonitions or dreams, visions of the future. My rational self discounts those hunches pretty quickly. But I've had a handful of moments where everything clears away and the image before me feels promised, indisputable. Just a snapshot and just a feeling, but I remember those moments vividly, even if the sensible side of me wants to brush them aside as wishful thinking.

And so, since standing in a Denny's parking lot in my late teenage years, I've know you were on your way, Lilly.  I wasn't sure of when or whether you'd be a girl or whether you'd be born with a mad mop of hair. But I knew you were on our family's horizon, and I've been excited to meet you for roughly 15 years. I knew you'd be born to the greatest man I know, second to our father (your granddad), and after meeting your mom a few years ago, I knew you were hitting the jackpot on the Mama side, too. I knew, years ago, that you'd be lucky to be born into our family.  It isn't until now that I have a keener grasp of that blessing. Luck has nothing to do with it. God gave you a gift when he gave you your parents, just as much as He gifted you to them.  You'll figure that out on your own, bit by bit.

Meanwhile, welcome to the world, beloved girl!  It's a glorious place, and don't let anyone tell you differently. Scarred and fallen, yes, but there's proof of God in every step and breath, which you'll learn as you grow. We have family traditions to school you in (burning Red Sox hats in fireplaces, Steak night, climbing Pinnacle, license plate game rules, Christmas Eve Mass, our Redbirds) and you'll be the inspiration for new traditions, too. And while I have no intention of sitting in a smoking section with you, I'd be honored to share a plate of seasoned fries someday and tell you how much your Dad used to drive me crazy.  He'll drive you crazy, too, someday, as only the best Dads do. Cut him some slack.

When I was born our Uncle Rodney wrote an article for the paper and welcomed me, the first of his small brood of nieces and nephew. The yellowed article is tucked into my baby book and while I know I read it years ago, I don't quite recall what it said. Perhaps one of these days, little Lillian, when you're flying around on your hovercraft and watching baseball on the moon, you'll faintly recall your Aunt Rachel's blog post and smile. I hope they have a Denny's on the moon.