I feel like I should say something about this weekend, just so that, when I look back, I can ask “What else was going on the weekend my dad told us his dad told him to kill him?” and have an answer. But I feel like the nephews are getting too old. The stories of our family time are often their stories, even if they’re not present, and maybe they deserve the possibility of someday reading this and not feeling like everyone’s laundry was hanging out on the whole internet.
I will say this, I am enjoying watching my nephews grow up. My oldest nephew is right on the verge of really and genuinely being a teenager. He is the tallest person in our family. He asks complex and grown-up questions. It is really like hanging out with a very young adult instead of a big kid. I don’t know when that happened, but it has.
I was making fun of him because he likes to eat Vienna sausages, which he says “vie-eeenna” and I said that, when he gets older, I’m going to stand on his law, my silver witch’s hair swirling around my head, shouting vie-eee-nnaaah aaahhh-ooo-str-eya-aye and that we would go to Vienna and then he would just have to deal with everyone being like “Vie-eeena? What the fuck?” to which he replied “There are a lot of things we pronounce differently in English than people pronounce in their own language, so they wouldn’t think anything at all except ‘oh, American.'”
Which, yep, is probably true.
As for the rest of us, sometimes it feels like we are all on a boat that has been slowly going down since long before any of us got here, each of us born to our own level of wetness, each thinking that love is putting one of us on a twelve-person lifeboat, and the rest of us standing on the sinking boat waving and crying as the loved one escapes. And I feel like, when I try to get into the lifeboat to prove it will hold all of us, I get turned on for wanting to hog the raft.
And I don’t think there is any fix for that.