My first blog post has nothing to do with pizza or politics. It has to do with the people I love. The people I call family. Some of them are relatives. Others are friends. And then there are the children of relatives and of friends. The ones who call me “Aunt Stacy.”
I grew up in Memphis – the South (with a capital “s”). Everyone is someone’s aunt in the South. The honorary name becomes so much a part of the person, everyone calls them by that name. My sister and sister-in-law will frequently refer to me as “Aunt Stacy” when I’m in Memphis. As do my nieces, great-nieces, great-nephews and my sister-in-law’s cousin’s adopted son. My mother may be the only one who never calls me Aunt Stacy.
The other people I call family are dear friends, their children and their parents. I’m going to see one of my “sisters” tomorrow and watch my “niece’s” dance competition. I’m going to see my “nephew,” his dad and his stepmom. I’m going to see some other dear friends, who will undoubtedly refer to me as Aunt Stacy to their toddler/daughter. And I will love it.
It can be convoluted to explain to a new acquaintance why the kids call me Aunt Stacy when I’m not actually related. I told someone last summer – when I was dropping my nephew, Holden, off at zoo camp – that we’re not blood relatives. We’re love relatives. ‘Cause that’s the truth. Families are made all kinds of ways, and everyone who embraces that fact is better for it.
And I LOVE being Aunt Stacy.