My Year of Being Sissy
Whoa…I can’t believe this was a year ago today!
I’ve been Aunt Sissy for a whole year already. The little dude runs (and when he’s beat, he walks), calls everyone “Bob”, except his dad, whom he calls “Bob Dad”. He ate some cake the other night, and loves to dance, and favours trucks and things with wheels, especially stuff like wagons and trikes, which can be tipped over and the wheels spun and spun and spun by hand.
And, 365 days after we met, I’m still a sissy. Movies and photos and news programmes and tiny animals and memories of this and that, and most of all, tiny sweet things about my nephew continue to make me cry on cue. A movie the other day where a woman smiled just so. The cat starving down the block from my house. The bit in a novel given me by a friend, where the little girl character loses her best friend to a short-distance move just a bit too far to visit and no longer on the bus route.
I suppose, though, it’s better to be a sissy than just that little bit too tough.