The Burrito & Boo

I haven't actually written about the Burrito, or Boo, too much here, but a few weeks back they both moved to San Antonio, and here I am...without them.

Burrito is my niece.  I wasn't there when she was born, but three months into her life I entered it in a big way.  I agreed to watch her during the day, for two months, while my sister attended leadership school.  It was a wild crash course in babysitting for a guy who had never really babysat before.  My one experience was with a brood of young children that somewhat almost completely spiraled out of control, until they finally, finally went to bed, and the only real disaster was my inability to figure out where exactly the milk went in the fridge, which ended up in a milk jug that fell out of the fridge, and...Well, I never babysat again, until Burrito.

And even though it was occasionally frustrating (she wouldn't stop crying sometimes, until I took her for stroller rides, or carrying walks), it was also completely magical.  I had no idea I loved babies, and then I fell in love with Burrito.

And I stuck around for nearly another year, in a supporting capacity, and then my sister asked me to watch her again...for a year.  She was headed out for a tour in a delightful Asian land, and once again needed someone to look after Burrito.  Burrito and I headed off to Maine, and my dad's house (the one I had lived in while my mom took on her last few years battling cancer), and...my dad was not especially inclined to spend too much time helping out directly, so...I went into another crash course in babysitting. 

This was life as an uncle raising a toddler: Wow.  I mean, wow.  It was beautiful.  Taxing, certainly, trying to do it all day every day with occasional breaks (and learning to yearn for that illusory hope of a three hour nap, a three hour nap).  But beautiful.

Some will say that the man who emerged on the other side spent too much time merely being Burrito's friend, and that my subsequent, previously unfathomable career as a program assistant in a child development center is flawed for that same reason.  But I've taken to the idea that being a child's, especially a young child's, chief advocate is perhaps the best thing you can be if you find yourself in positions like this.  Constant encouragement.  Endless fun.  And always, always worrying when things don't seem to be working right.

All I can say is, if you look at small children and your first thought is how much of a nuisance they are, you are not among my first choices for shining examples of humanity.  Maybe you have good reasons to think that, but for me, small children especially are my favorite people.  They're the only ones who get to truly just enjoy being people. 

Now, my experiences are with babies and kids just up to the age of five.  My nephews in Maine are my closest working experiences outside of that range.  Funny enough, but at the moment I have two babies with their exact names.  Let's call them Bert and Ernie.  Bert is the older one, Ernie the younger.  The baby version of them is actually the reverse (Ernie's older).  Bert was my best friend in those years while my mom was dying.  I got to spend additional time with him during the Burrito year in Maine.  Ernie is probably more like me when I was a kid, which has been difficult to appreciate practically, since Bert always tries to monopolize my time.  I haven't gotten to spend time with either of them since I followed Burrito to Florida in the fall of 2017.

And now Burrito is gone.  My sister has a new family in San Antonio now, and so the makeshift one that was in place for the past near-four years has come to an end.  I struggled a great deal with this initially.  I wanted to remain an active part of Burrito's life.  But eventually, it seemed more rational to let the new family exist on its own terms.  A reboot.

Yeah, reboot.  Boo is my sister's cat.  I've had her in and out of my life since December 2004.  For whatever reason, she warmed to me immediately.  My happiest memories with her are from the 2005-2007 period where my sister and I shared an apartment in Massachusetts, and every day I returned home from work Boo would warmly swash back and forth across my legs in greeting.  That's where she became a botanist, "pruning" plants meant to decorate the dinner table.  That's where she stole Lando's blaster, to defend her food from ants.  That's where she was exposed as a gravy vampire.  That's where she became obsessed with the common laundry room across the hall, dashing out of the apartment at every opportunity to sneak her way in, if she didn't sabotage herself by liberally helping her claws to the stiff carpeting along the way...

Recently she'd taken to relaxing next to me, spent most of her time in my room, and joined me at night.  And I find myself missing her, actively, in these recent memories, most of all.  I keep expecting to see her amble into view. 

And I miss Burrito's penchant for constant possibilities, her endless inventiveness, her restless repackaging of reality, and yes, even the goofy winter hat and mittens right in the middle of sunny Florida...

But they're a part of some other narrative.  Maybe mine will find a family, one day.  We'll see.