Uncle Roy came to become synonymous with trips to Disneyland, and rambles on the beach. We went to water parks and he took all of my kids down corkscrew slides in his lap, or when they got older he dared them to try the fifty foot drops.

 

He has been here on Christmas morning, with thoughtfully wrapped gifts like wooden puzzle boxes, or shopping sprees to Barnes and Noble. He read entire books out loud to my children, including The Railway Children, and Mr Poppins Penguins. We shared a tent at Yosemite, and when a bear broke into the car just outside the flimsy nylon, I clutched my pillow knowing that he would risk his life for my little cubs.

 

When Uncle Roy comes for Thanksgiving, he brings the yummy stuff... fizzy drinks that stingy mom never buys, and the sharpest cheeses.

 

Don't get me wrong. My kids love me and all... but I spend a larger portion of my time with them on boring things like manners and nagging. Uncle Roy... is all play.

 

There comes a time when our kids upgrade from nine year olds who snuggle on the couch and still go on errands with me, to teenagers that sleep in until noon. I notice that when the amount of time I can expect to interact with one of my children whittles down to seconds in a twenty four hour period, I tend to bolt the truly vital information in those rare opportunities.

 

Zack will be making an appearance just as I am grabbing the car keys.

 

"Did you mow the lawn?"

 

Really? If all I have is fourteen seconds is that kind of information actually my top priority? I do not recall Uncle Roy ever asking those questions when we picked him up at the airport. He was more likely to smile his wow-it-is-good-to-see-you-smile, and crush you in a bear hug.

 

Excuse me. I think I need to go get him a fizzy drink and a plate of cheddar. Not only that, I will bite my tongue about the broken toilet.