Tia Is Another Word For. . .

As I’m sure most of you know, “Tia” is Spanish for “Aunt”---plus a whole lot more. . .

Tia’s just another word for “When you kiss me, slobber on me, and give me The Great Sickness of 2008, and then I return, still sick, motherless to Houston, because now she’s your Gramma ‘Lene and everything you feature is so much smaller and hypothetically cuter than I—well, I can’t hate you and call you a Germ Hive. Okay—so maybe I’ll say “germ hive” under my breath—but I for sure can’t hate you."

And why can’t I hate you?
Because I’m your Tia, and that’s another word for “Yes, I’ll share my candy with you. No, not the pink ones (those are mine--really--I mean it!) but you can have some of the others. In fact, you can have the whole rest of that bag if there are no pink ones left—I mean, isn’t candy yummy? I know! Hmmm, you have a tummy ache? Let’s go find your Mama."

And we look for your Mama
Because I’m your Tia, and that’s another word for, "This situation smacks of vomit or other unattractive bodily fluids. And if the fluid can’t be featured in a cocktail, not much of a chance I’m interested," I boldly stand aside while nudging the child toward Mama-but gently lest he spring a leak and begin to ooze startburst jellybeans (sans pink) all over a newly swept floor.

Hmmm…cocktails sound yummy
Because I’m your Tia and that’s another word for "Let’s make some cocktails!" And when Mama’s not looking, you may or may not get to do a little partaking. Not to shabby, eh? My sister/your Mama may pretend to be mortified, but you don’t find her putting up much of a defense to my argument that the family car trip appropriately punctuated with liquor goes quite a bit quicker. (not for the driver of course)

Being a Tia is certainly not being a Mom, but it’s not too shabby. The boys are still young enough to bond with me over a beautifully hand-crafted pair of black patent leather 4 inch high heels and the girls—well all I gotta do on that is bring out the lip gloss or something “diamond-y” and we’re good to go. (dont' think a 3 month old can't appreciate a high quality gloss) They love me even though they don’t really have to and I’ll continue to reward their love by pinching their bottoms, hanging them upsidedown by their feet, kissing their bare tummies, racing them down the street and telling them I win (none of this over-inflated self-esteem crap), and telling them they’re the cutest children I’ve ever seen --- really.