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Authors: Dan Bucatinsky
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phone, Aunt Cuckoo!” Ring. Ring . Eliza would look at me, worried. Then, thank God, the click.
“Hello?”
I could breathe again.
Eliza would beam from ear to ear. “Hi . . .” she’d say, suddenly shy, as though she were talking to Lady Gaga, or Anderson Cooper or okay, no, Cinderella .
Julie would always say the same thing: “It’s peanut butter jelly time!”
Eliza would laugh. Highlight of her day. I couldn’t help but resent Aunt Cuckoo for it. And Eliza. Here I was, working so hard to be her parent, to love and provide for her and teach her about kindness and moderation and limits. Why didn’t she like me, her own father, better than our friend, an unabashed, hedonistic, sugar and TV pusher? Oh yeah, that’s why.
At especially low moments, I would try to imitate Aunt Cuckoo. “Peanut butter jelly time!” I’d sing. And my kids would just look at me. Blink. Blink. I’ve seen that look countless times in casting. A look that says, Aww. Nice try. But we’re gonna go a different way .
Bedtime was no different. I’d pick up a book and three-year-old Eliza would just say, “Can we call Aunt Julie?” I’d think, No way! It’s story time .
“No, sweetie. Aunt Julie is—is—well . . .” No. Don’t do it , I’d think. But I couldn’t help myself. “Julie is sick. Very sick.” I’d hit an all-time low. Sick? Did I really want to be that guy?
“I mean tired, sweetie. She’s sleeping, which is what you should be doing.” I’d try and distract her with some tickling and tempt her with an organic, all-natural, fiber gummy bear. Didn’t quite cut it.
“Sweet dreams, monkey. Tomorrow morning, Daddy is going to make pancakes in little animal shapes and—”
She’d cut me off: “Call Julie?”
“ Yes! Fine,” I’d concede. “Tomorrow you can call Julie.”
Next morning, my sleeping angel’s eyes peek open, blink, and her first words are “Call Julie?” For the love of God! What about Daddy’s pancakes, huh? What about Daddy’s fucking pancakes in the shape of Daddy’s broken heart?
On the afternoons of Julie’s visits, Eliza would even sit in a chair at the front door and wait for her up to an hour before she was scheduled to arrive. She wasn’t waiting like that for me to get home. How did it happen? My daughter had become a crazy, stalky fan of the one person who had done everything in her power to talk me out of having a child in the first place.
Of course it is a two-way street. The kids did more for Aunt Cuckoo than any of us grown-ups could. They loved her unconditionally and made her feel important; they made her able to laugh and run and forget herself, at least for the amount of time it takes to get through 101 Dalmatians and a dozen chocolate-chip-and-partially-hydrogenated-oil cookies. But there it is. I didn’t do that.
I want life to be neat and predictable and safe and calm and quiet and controlled, with no surprises like tricky little heart defects. But Eliza herself proved how small and wrong and petty that thinking was with her big, open, generous heart. After all this time, turns out it was Daddy who had the heart defect, not Eliza. So my kids teach me what Aunt Cuckoo teaches them: that life is infinitely more fun when it’s crazy and unpredictable and undisciplined and fundamentally bad for your health. And the sooner you get an Aunt Cuckoo in your life to show you that, the better.
chapter six
To Cut or Not to Cut
D on and I decided to try and adopt another baby just before Eliza’s second birthday. We were conflicted about it, for sure. It was only about a month after Eliza’s heart procedure—an ordeal that seemed to test the very limits of our emotional capacities. She was fully recovered. Tons more energy; she was a different kid, really. We took a little longer. I mean, every time she’d smile at us or do something cute or, you know, not dead-like, we’d squirt tears of joy.
“Did you see that? She’s eating yogurt!”
“Hello?”
I could breathe again.
Eliza would beam from ear to ear. “Hi . . .” she’d say, suddenly shy, as though she were talking to Lady Gaga, or Anderson Cooper or okay, no, Cinderella .
Julie would always say the same thing: “It’s peanut butter jelly time!”
Eliza would laugh. Highlight of her day. I couldn’t help but resent Aunt Cuckoo for it. And Eliza. Here I was, working so hard to be her parent, to love and provide for her and teach her about kindness and moderation and limits. Why didn’t she like me, her own father, better than our friend, an unabashed, hedonistic, sugar and TV pusher? Oh yeah, that’s why.
At especially low moments, I would try to imitate Aunt Cuckoo. “Peanut butter jelly time!” I’d sing. And my kids would just look at me. Blink. Blink. I’ve seen that look countless times in casting. A look that says, Aww. Nice try. But we’re gonna go a different way .
Bedtime was no different. I’d pick up a book and three-year-old Eliza would just say, “Can we call Aunt Julie?” I’d think, No way! It’s story time .
“No, sweetie. Aunt Julie is—is—well . . .” No. Don’t do it , I’d think. But I couldn’t help myself. “Julie is sick. Very sick.” I’d hit an all-time low. Sick? Did I really want to be that guy?
“I mean tired, sweetie. She’s sleeping, which is what you should be doing.” I’d try and distract her with some tickling and tempt her with an organic, all-natural, fiber gummy bear. Didn’t quite cut it.
“Sweet dreams, monkey. Tomorrow morning, Daddy is going to make pancakes in little animal shapes and—”
She’d cut me off: “Call Julie?”
“ Yes! Fine,” I’d concede. “Tomorrow you can call Julie.”
Next morning, my sleeping angel’s eyes peek open, blink, and her first words are “Call Julie?” For the love of God! What about Daddy’s pancakes, huh? What about Daddy’s fucking pancakes in the shape of Daddy’s broken heart?
On the afternoons of Julie’s visits, Eliza would even sit in a chair at the front door and wait for her up to an hour before she was scheduled to arrive. She wasn’t waiting like that for me to get home. How did it happen? My daughter had become a crazy, stalky fan of the one person who had done everything in her power to talk me out of having a child in the first place.
Of course it is a two-way street. The kids did more for Aunt Cuckoo than any of us grown-ups could. They loved her unconditionally and made her feel important; they made her able to laugh and run and forget herself, at least for the amount of time it takes to get through 101 Dalmatians and a dozen chocolate-chip-and-partially-hydrogenated-oil cookies. But there it is. I didn’t do that.
I want life to be neat and predictable and safe and calm and quiet and controlled, with no surprises like tricky little heart defects. But Eliza herself proved how small and wrong and petty that thinking was with her big, open, generous heart. After all this time, turns out it was Daddy who had the heart defect, not Eliza. So my kids teach me what Aunt Cuckoo teaches them: that life is infinitely more fun when it’s crazy and unpredictable and undisciplined and fundamentally bad for your health. And the sooner you get an Aunt Cuckoo in your life to show you that, the better.
chapter six
To Cut or Not to Cut
D on and I decided to try and adopt another baby just before Eliza’s second birthday. We were conflicted about it, for sure. It was only about a month after Eliza’s heart procedure—an ordeal that seemed to test the very limits of our emotional capacities. She was fully recovered. Tons more energy; she was a different kid, really. We took a little longer. I mean, every time she’d smile at us or do something cute or, you know, not dead-like, we’d squirt tears of joy.
“Did you see that? She’s eating yogurt!”
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