Mine! Mine!

Years ago, we had the good fortune to have our niece and nephew live with us. No one was happier than my own children, who considered the entire time to be an extended sleepover party.

One day, several neighbor children were over playing with the 9, 8, 7 and 4 year olds in our household. At one point, I had to announce, "OK, everybody who doesn't live here has to head home. My kids need to get ready for dinner."

My 7 year old, who never heard a statement with which she couldn't quibble, said, "Well, Jeremy and Sarah aren't really yours."

"Of course they are," I said. "They're my nephew and my niece."

This subject had apparently been a topic of discussion among the children, because my 9 year old nephew elbowed my 7 year old daughter in the ribs and said, "See? I told you."

I never claimed to be their parent, but that certainly didn't mean that they weren't mine.

I tend to use possessive words about kids in my Girl Scout troops, Cub Scout dens, theater classes, debate team - there's lots of kids that I'm unrelated to that I claim as "mine." Even years later, I'll refer to them that way. One of my Scouts is now serving a church mission, ten years after I was his leader, and I still call him "my Scout."

Sitting in the coach's lounge at a debate tournament a couple of years ago, I was called to the door by someone saying, "Your kid needs you."

"Which one?" I asked. I received a strange look in return.

"The only one that's - actually yours."

"You mean, the one that I actually gave birth to?"

"Yeah. That's the one."

Well, I had to ask. They're all "my kids."

Years ago, a friend's mother asked her, "Why do Sharon's children call you "Auntie'?" Her answer: "I don't know. I guess it's kind of her way of making the whole world part of one big family."

For the record, the world is indeed one big family. I admire cultures in which all elders are referred to as "Auntie" and "Uncle." I belong to a church in which we refer to each other, even people we've never met, as "Brother" or "Sister."

I also like to lay claim to those people that I want in my life.

There was a time when this friend with the puzzled mother was the person that I loved best in all the world. She made adolescence bearable; no small feat. I never imagined a reality in which she wasn't an aunt to my children.

Not too many years ago, I introduced another childhood best friend at the sandwich shop where we'd taken him for lunch. The ladies behind the counter know and recognize us, and this time we'd brought someone new with us. "This is my brother," I said. "Nice to meet you!" the ladies said. He lived within walking distance of the shop; I hoped that if he came back, they'd remember him (and treat him the way they treat us.)

When we sat down to eat, he said, "So, I'm your brother?"

"You know that. You always have been," I said. He first called me his sister when we were both still teens. My kids have called him "Uncle" since they could speak. That's more than half our lifetimes ago.

"Yeah," he said. "I know. I'm just surprised that you still claim me in public," and winked.

I was delighted to see how my adult son viewed some of these relationships. When I was a kid, there were people who told me that all childhood friends, including those from high school, would necessarily fall out of each other's lives. There was nothing permanent about them, I was assured. Now, of course, I've been out of high school for over 30 years, and most of my friends are still here, in my life. I don't even think that we're exceptions.

I was telling my youngest kids some story or other about something that happened in high school, describing how the adults at the school often underestimated the loyalty between the kids in the theater department. Prone to bickering among ourselves, we closed ranks around even the kids who annoyed us if we perceived a threat from outside of the group.

My son (a university psychology student) said, "I don't know why that surprised them. That's classic family behavior."

"That's the thing. They didn't see us as a family."

My son gave me a look, and said, "Mom. Two words: Uncle Tony."

My son has grown up in a reality in which a number of those theater friends are called "Aunt" and "Uncle." Even the ones without the formal titles hold a special place in the family. It was nice for me to know that my children had no question as to who could be our family.

My son does, though, rib me when I talk about my granddaughter. "You don't have a granddaughter," he'll say. This is only biologically true. I used to reply, "Ask her mother. She'll tell you." Now that the little princess in question is old enough to have her own opinions, I say, "Ask her. She'll tell you." (Sometimes I add, "Uncle Alex.")

I know that it's sometimes confusing for people. I might mention, for instance, my niece Linda, and leave people who know my family puzzled. "Is that Lynne's daughter, or June's?" The answer, which I always give when asked, is, "She's my friend Michelle's daughter. I've always been her aunt."

We recently discovered the perfect word for these "family by choice" relatives - they are bonus relatives. It's a fantastic description. It almost denotes receiving them as a gift, which they are.

Often, though, I only need the one word - "mine."