Every Child Should Have One

  Now that I have a niece (look at that Abigail, you’re not even a week old and already somebody’s writing a blog about you!), I’m trying to decide what I want her to call me. Sure it seems like it should be easy, place uncle in front of the first name. The End. But I’m not really sure I want to be Uncle Zach; not when pretty much everyone calls me ‘the attach!’. It’s hard deciding among: Uncle Attach!, Uncle the Attach!, or (current top choice) the Attuncle! Currently in last place? Uncle Walrus, because: a) I look nothing like a walrus; and b) my diet in no way involves seal meat. Though this name could be re-evaluated later on in life when I’m more portly and mustachioed. I imagine Uncle Walrus dressed in a red sweater vest and tie. Sort of like a heavier, drunker Mr. Belvedere.
  I have made the decision that I’m going to be her crazy uncle. It’s something I feel I missed out on growing up. My uncles were great. They had wonderful stories, and I always liked having them around, but none of them really brought the crazy. Thankfully my mother’s cousin filled that void (in spades!), except that he didn’t show up until I was starting high school, and I feel like I was cheated not having someone like that around during the important developmental early-childhood and tween years. At high school age, the crazy relative is just remembered as the guy who shows up for holiday dinners and tells stories like how he got booted from a merchant marine ship off the Pacific coast of South America because (as the ship’s cook) he was tired of making bagels every morning. No, I want to be the guy who shows up on Abigail’s 8th birthday and asks her if she wants to go see the horsies run. That’s the type of crazy I plan to be.
  Of course this means I have to alter my life plans. As my roommate pointed out, it’d be for the best if I remained single. Having a crazy uncle is one thing, but having both a crazy uncle and aunt? That’s when invitations start getting “lost” in the mail. I was planning to have a normal life: a career, family, remembering birthdays, and not showing up in Hawaiian shirts for family funerals. All that’s been tossed out the window. It’s time to reprioritize. How soon do you think I can move to Fiji?
  I need stories to tell. About bar fights, and broken limbs. Stories involving rickety planes and motorcycle failure. The time I fought of a grizzly bear in the Yucatan. About forgetting anniversaries and random tattoos and ever more random women. Tales that are uncomfortable to tell at dinner, but inappropriate to tell while at the hospital.
  The one thing I would never do is put my niece in harms way. Like I’ll never have her help me smuggle drugs up from Guatemala. But I’ll totally tell her about the time I did (and subsequent jail time spent in a forced labor camp outside of Mexico City).
  I want Abigail to realize that her uncle loves her; and also realize that she never, ever wants to be anything like me.