The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
As a man without children, I often find myself unceremoniously left out of any conversation concerning the success, failure and daily dramas of my nieces and nephews.
That's unfortunate.
And I’ll tell you why.
When my brother’s daughters were young and without a firm grasp on words, they both referred to me as Umple John.
I loved it, of course, this sign of my status, or lack thereof, in their family.
Umple — Half uncle. Half pimple.
Popular culture is full of uncles. Take Uncle Sam, for instance, or the Man from U.N.C.L.E. On TV, there was Uncle Charlie on the show My Three Sons, and Uncle Fester on the Addams Family.
For their part, the Beatles had their forlorn Uncle Albert.
And who wouldn't want to hang out with Seinfeld's oddball Uncle Leo or John Candy's slapstick Uncle buck?
Still, we uncles get no respect, no love.
In many households, parents are the self-professed all-knowing and all-seeing decision makers with the weight of the world (it's their children's futures, get it?) thrust upon their shoulders.
And you, the childless one, well, you don’t have the slightest idea of what it takes to actually bring these youngsters into the world and raise them right.
Not just barren of children, you're also barren of any legitimate insight.
So, it’s STFU, thank you very much.
“Little Sally — Gasp! — now has a boyfriend and she’s just twelve and we don’t know his intentions and, well, what would you know?”
(Well, for starters, I was both twelve and a 12-year-old boy!)
"Little Jimmy’s been caught a) shoplifting b) drunk at school c) smoking pot d) just being a regular little jerk! We’ve really got a problem here. What could you possibly add?”
(I, ahem, was caught doing all of the above, and more. So, perhaps I could add a little perspective?)
Having sex that produces a zygote, Mom and Dad, does not necessarily make you the most qualified person in the room when it comes to kids.
Granted, you know your own child imminently better than anyone, but to be so territorial to dismiss humbly-offered opinions is a slippery slope. Once you start with Umple John or Aunt Blister, you’ll likely repeat the crime with Little Sally or Jimmy once they’re old enough to start spouting their own opines around the dinner table.
A case in point.
I have a just-turned-teenager niece and she is a complete handful, a half-Chinese, half-Caucasian little operator in Orange County, Calif., a wannabe hipster and Drama Queen who cares far more about her makeup (which she spends hours applying), becoming a model or rap-video dancer (at 5-foot-2 no less), moving to Beverly Hills, feuding with friends, making prank calls to unsuspecting boys, wearing inappropriate backless dresses to social events, finding ways to ditch piano practice, (running away at the slightest hint of parental guidance), than she ever does about her grades.
OK, OK, she's not that bad. She can often be quite charming and is accelerated academically, but you get the point.
I mean, she’s barely thirteen.
In one of her more infamous prison escapes, she left behind a note warning her parents not to “call the cops,” that she just needed some “time and space” and that she’d be home in a few days.
She was back within hours. Whatever.
Her rebellion baffles her poor mother, whom she sasses because of her perceived lack of English or cultural awareness (both total BS.)
The father, a quiet, capable, well-educated man, has a much firmer handle on this child. He’s extremely tech-savvy, so he imposes his discipline by depriving her access to her life-blood, the sweet honey of any 13-year-old, the raison d’etre for life itself.
Her smartphone.
But my brother-in-law often travels abroad and, Lordy, when the cat’s away, this little less-supervised mouse does indeed play.
I've spent time with Miss Precocious. Last Christmas, she and her mother joined me and my wife on a hiking trip to California Redwoods.
I wrote a piece about traveling with a 12-year-old.
She barely looked up from her phone the entire three days, sighing in the car, demanding to know three billion times, "Are we, like, there yet?
Not long after that fiasco, me and my wife rolled into my niece's home-turf, the day before my brother-in-law was due home from an extended trip. That afternoon, we three (me, my wife and her sister) went to pick up Princess.
She was in trouble at school. (Again.) I vaguely recall that it involved spreading gossip, getting blowback and then challenging some girl to an after-school fight that she advertised on social media.
Sort of like West Side Story, but in Orange County.
The principle got involved and there was talk of suspension.
The two sisters appealed for me to talk with this girl.
Later, with me and the kid in the back seat, I turned to her.
“Why?”
She eyed me suspiciously.
I told her how, at 13, I was a little punk who gave my parents fits; how the police came to my house, how teachers called and strangers complained and how my parents, grasping for answers, took me to see a child psychiatrist.
“Nobody understood me,” I told her. “Nobody.”
I saw a tiny crack in her resistance, but knew not to push.
I asked for her side of the story.
She gave it. I nodded.
To my mind, it was all about establishing trust.
I let the matter drop.
The following day, with her father home, we sat at the dining room table and I made a comment to my niece about the trouble at school.
Later, Dad took me aside and, in a polite way not intended to cause umbrage, said I was “stepping on” his parenting.
Now, those of you who know me, I can guess what you're thinking: No way would I let that say-anything Glionna anywhere near my impressionable kids, and you have a point.
(But if you comb your hair the right way, no one will see it.)
My brother in law knows me, knows the fact that the bridge between my brain and my mouth is an unencumbered 16-lane freeway.
He never stops me from being, well, me.
I apologized.
We left it at that.
Yet, I later reconsidered my actions.
The child’s mother had asked me to speak with her.
And I did, but mostly I just listened.
These days, I still offer avuncular advice, when asked.
One niece who once called me Umple John is now 16 and nearly six-feet tall. She recently asked me to edit a class self-identity essay she wrote about coping with her height.
It was a good piece and we talked briefly on the phone. I told her that her height will be a sweet asset her entire life.
And my adult nephew calls when he wants to discuss some thorny issue.
I listen, I comment and, together, we break it down.
I’m always there for these young blood-relatives of mine.
But I'll admit, whenever I hear of the latest teen troubles in The OC, I am less sympathetic.
“Well,” I say, “I’m sure the Father of the Year has it covered.”
And he probably does.
Poor guy. I mean, some kids are just handfuls, like I was.
Still, I believe he missed an opportunity to expand the dialogue, even just a bit, when it comes to a young girl trying to find her way.
Because we uncles, even ones without kids, have been around.
We've seen a thing or two.