The onesies with monkeys. The tiny wash cloths. The toys with pieces so large, a starving camel couldn’t swallow them. The miniature socks meant for mice feet. It was my sister-in-law’s baby shower at work. I was one of the only men. Since we work in the same place and I’m family, I was contractually obligated to attend. She’s due in about a month. It’s all becoming real. Monkey onesies will do that. My brother is taking it well. I saw him last weekend after he returned from a baby-shopping trip to Pottery Barn Kids. He did great. He only threw up once! At the shower, happy people kept turning to me and saying, “You’re going to be an uncle! Aren’t you excited? Are you ready?” “Excited? Sure,” I answered. “But ‘ready?’ I don’t need to be ready! This is my brother’s gig. I’m here to point and laugh when he shows up in a BabyBjorn.” But it got me wondering: What does it mean to be an uncle? You know, what it entails and all. Whether I’m “ready.” Whether I need to be. Whether there are certain responsibilities I have to take on.
A Christmas gift from a brother … almost
This is the actual text message exchange with my brother: He writes: Just got my Xmas present from you. You were very generous this year. Perplexed, I write: Huh!?! He replies: I just bought my Christmas present from you … for myself. Therefore unless you are some Christmas hating heathen, you are required to spend the same amount on yourself, or you get the Scrooge/Grinch Before They Learned Their Lesson Award. Confused, but playing it off — like I know what in the heck he is talking about — I write: Cool. How much you spend?
Brother bonding under power lines and the roar of a chain saw
As the giant mulberry branch crashed to earth, nearly crushing me to death, all that ran through my mind was this: “Man, I sure do love these projects with my brother.” When I say “giant,” I mean the kind of branch that brushes the fuselage of airliners. They never seem so big when you’re standing there pondering the angle of the cut, how it will fall or why if there’s beer in the fridge you’re out here in the first place. But the minute it starts to go — the minute it starts coming for YOU! — the full scope, scale and size become crystal clear. RUN!
A Man in Search of a Hobby
Maybe I need a hobby. I was thinking about this as I sat listening to my brother. He collects vintage motorcycles, restores them, loses sleep over them, caresses them lovingly like Kobe beef, says things like, “you sure have a pretty tail pipe,” and then spends most of his waking hours buying parts from far-off lands so he can get them to run for all of 13 seconds. Then they stall and the engine has to be rebuilt. These are really old bikes. When I say “vintage,” I’m not talking about 20-30 years old. I’m talking about the kind of motorcycles the Hun used to invade China back in 176 B.C. Well, maybe not that old. But these British bikes certainly pre-date me. I don’t typically pay attention to all these conversations with my brother about timing chains and oil gasket breaches, so I can only guess they hail from around World War II. With my brother, though, it’s not enough to merely collect and restore bikes. And it’s not enough just to ride them. So instead he has taken up racing — what you call “hobby expansion” or “hobby extreme.” That’s when putting something on a shelf or in a garage simply won’t do. This way you can consume more time and money on your hobby, and further infuriate your wife. (Guys who want to prove that they’re really into their hobbies have steel plates holding their legs together. My brother does. That way people know you’re hardcore about […]