I was sixteen when I first became an aunt. In all honesty, I wasn’t entirely thrilled at the idea.

I’m the youngest in my family. From the ages of fourteen to seventeen my family revolved around weddings (three in 22 months). Needless to say, those years of pivotal emotional development were surrounded by constant change. My sisters were leaving one by one each year, and with the last wedding and everything settling down, my parents were expecting their first grandchild.

I didn’t realize until the last wedding was over that I had been holding my breath, waiting to selfishly have my parents all to myself.

That didn’t happen.

As time went on, I continued/continue to live with my parents for a few reasons.

Concerning finances, it’s simply cheaper than having my own place; but it was also a chance to have my parents to myself for the first time ever.

While I could probably write an entire article (and probably will) about the benefits of getting to know your parents as people, this article is about one of the greatest perks of living with my parents: getting to see my nieces/nephews regularly.

My mom babysits for two of my sisters on a pretty regular basis. This usually means that if I’m not at work or school, I’m helping with the kiddos. It took me a while to realize that aunts aren’t typically that hands on in the lives of their nieces/nephews, and that’s their loss.

As a Christian, a nerd, and introvert, the idea of having a typical college kid’s social life is not tempting to me in the slightest. Being an aunt has provided me with a busy life that doesn’t allow much time to make new friends.

I mentioned above that I wasn’t too keen on being an aunt at sixteen. My idea on the subject didn’t much change until I was nineteen.

I’ve often pondered if most aunts love their siblings’ babies so much that it hurts, and I hope they do. I haven’t been blessed to be married and have my own short-stacks yet, but I do know the joy of a small child telling you they love you.

I’ve had a screaming six month old in my ear during the wee hours of the morning (while I attempted to do homework.)

I’ve been thrown up on, peed on, and even pooped on.

I’ve gotten sick multiple times due to my ankle-biters.

I’ve had decorations broken and my bedroom taken over.

I’ve spent hours in the middle of the night with a fussy toddler.

I’ve woken up, fed, dressed, and dropped a child off at school.

I’ve built forts and had rambunctious sleepovers.

These may seem trivial, or even a list of accomplishments, but that’s not how I see it.

You see, I’ve always wanted to make a difference.

As a child, and even young adult, I imagined the best way to accomplish such a task was to be a medical missionary.

While this is still very much a concept I want in the picture, I no longer feel like I need this goal to feel accomplished in life.

I’m not a mother (a role I desire more than anything), but I’m influencing eight (yeah, EIGHT) of the people I love most in this world on a regular basis. If I fail at everything else in life, it will have been worth it, as long as my munchkins know they are important and loved tremendously.