I love my nephew more than any child I’ve ever known to date.

Look at him: how could I not?

My nephew thinks I live in the computer (thanks, iChat™).

He always asks me if it’s snowing in “Cand-an-duh,” and when I say that indeed it is, he begs me to let him come visit.

Of course you can, Precious. Any time.

Every time I talk to him, the first thing he IMMEDIATELY asks, before “How are you?” or “What are you doing?” or even the good ol’ standby “I PEED ON THE POTTY!” is, “WHERE’S KYKEE?” I’m certain he loves my husband more than he loves me, which is just really lousy, inasmuch as Poor Kyle never fed or burped or changed the kid. But I still love him. Dearly.

Sometimes, if I think about it too much, I am overcome with gut-wrenching sobs at the idea that something horrible might ever happen to him. What if he runs away or gets kidnapped? Or gets hit by a car in the middle of the street? Or drowns in the bathtub? Or chokes on a slice of apple? Or accidentally dies playing pass-out games with his adolescent friends after school? Or gets targeted in a terrorist attack? Or any number of awful, terrible, life-ending possibilities?

How could I handle it?

(I’m not sure there’s an answer to that question; all I know is I’m certain I won’t be able to handle such anxieties with my own children, which means I should never have children.)

He calls me “Mo!” or sometimes “Momo!” {always with an exclamation point} (an evolution from back when I tried to get him to call me “Auntie Mill,” which soon turned into simply “Mill,” and finally, my favourite, “Mo!” Survival of the fittest, and fit it does.)

Here’s 22 seconds of proof:

(Just for the record, this voicemail is six months old. He left it for me in September of 2009 and I have cherished it every week, never having the heart to erase it, until it finally occurred to me that I could record it. I’m sentimental like that.)

A few days ago, I tricked my husband into thinking I was pregnant (shortest-lived April Fool’s Day joke in the history of the world, by the way), and later, after he composed himself, he confessed that he had felt totally excited and thrilled at the thought that we’d be parents (which was at the same time both a joy and a fright to hear, because on the one hand how sweet is it that my husband’s excited to have kids, but on the other hand HELLEN KELLER, MY HUSBAND’S EXCITED TO HAVE KIDS). And so it’s been on my mind a lot lately, this whole idea of parenthood and motherhood and kidhood and the like, and I have come to the conclusion that with me as awesome as I am, and Poor Kyle as awesome as he is, how can our spawn possibly fail?

(Famous last words, right?)

No, but seriously: I think it’s reasonable to assume that our baby would turn out not unlike my much-beloved nephew—you know, same general bloodline, equally stellar parents, innate propensity to use words like “innate” and “propensity…”

And if so? If our little baby turns out even half as sweet and kind as my sister’s kid? That’d be just fine by me.

(However, if our baby doesn’t measure up, let me tell you what…heads will roll.)

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