Rocket launchers and sailboat crew.

This summer my older sister Kyla asked me to take care of her 1-year-old son, Anas, a few days a week since the babysitter requested Ramadan off. The boy is cuter than a box of puppies and I wanted to help out around the house so of course I agreed to fulfilling my aunt duties. I did, however, have my hesitations. I've taught children before and made sure they didn't injure themselves or each other for 45-minutes once a week but I've never cared for a single child for an entire morning.

"Don't worry," Kyla said. "I'll be up to feed him breakfast and then you can get him dressed and play with him, give him snacks when he asks for them." Those issues were the farthest from my mind. Dressing a kid, I can do. I tell my students all the time to put their shirts back on and to pull up their pants and help with the occasional shoe. Playing with a kid...that's my job. Giving him snacks...I can cut grapes and pour out peanuts and cheerios. I was not worried about that part. The diaper changing and my gag reflex when it comes to human feces and the constant crying and trying to put a less-than-willing toddler down for a nap were all different stories.

The first day was okay minus the fact that I forgot to change him out of his pajamas all day. Worse things could have happened. Days passed by and I found his unending energy was a lot to handle while fasting and trying to feel awake at 8:30 in the morning with my usual caffeinated aid. I tried my hardest nonetheless, finding games to play that both of us could enjoy equally. The Sleeping Game is a favorite of mine. I "pretend" to fall asleep, as does he, and within a minute or two the silence is too much and he squeals out of delight and we start the game all over again. I also enjoy pulling him around on his tricycle outside and making pitstops at pretend shops around town so aunty can catch her breath and not overexert herself while fasting in the the humid New England summer.

Last weekend, my younger sister came home for a visit. Amber and I are close so I was excited to see her but a little someone was way more excited to see her. As soon as she came home, all you could hear were shouts of "Aunty Bee! Aunty Ambee!" No more shouts and giggles of "Aunty Ah-wee?" No more interest in popping his head in my room, ogling me and then running out of the room giggling. My hug requests were rejected. My lego ships were uninteresting. My attempts at Little Piggies were denied and requested by another. It was the longest weekend of abandonment. I sought solace in my room and books and in the company of other members of our family. I should have learned through countless experiences by now not to get too attached to people.

The weekend came and went and Amber went back to her apartment in Boston and I was faced with the challenge of trying to be an rational adult and still do my best job as caretaker. I decided to take Anas out for a few walks so he didn't bother my sleeping father and brother-in-law too much. I got him dressed after an agonizing 45 minutes of trying to convince him to eat his breakfast, packed some snacks, put on some baby sunblock and headed out into the neighborhood. I took him around as he named everything he could remember, avoiding holding my hand to point out things and ask what they were. He pointed out the beautiful flowers and the various fascinating bugs, waved to school buses and acknowledged each animal "over there." We arrived home later and my father put him down for his nap.

I took a break to take a nap myself and later in the evening when my mother and sister came home from work, I woke Anas up to greet his favored family members. I collapsed on the couch next to my mother as my Kyla went downstairs. Anas climbed on the couch in between us. He went over to nana, fell onto her, hugging her and said, "I love you, nana." Just stab me in the heart. Then he got up, turned to me and collapsed on me, hugging me and said, "I love you, Aunty Ah-wee." My exhaustion faded and I said, "I love you too, Munchkin." He got up from my lap, turned toward his nana and repeated the hugging and "I love you" process between the two of us four times for good measure before scampering off to find his trucks.

Talking to yourself is encouraged here.

When I decided to give teaching a try I wondered to myself if I was giving up on my dreams of writing. I'm still not completely 100% sure if that's what I've done but I don't think so. I think when I decided that I wanted to be a writer it was because the only thing I ever felt I was slightly better than mediocre at was english and baking. Baking is a hard sell because there are so many bakeries out there and I didn't know if I would have the guts to go forward with that dream so I stuck with english because it seemed like the safer choice. And what else to do with the english language than become a writer?

After feeling disappointed with myself and the quality of my writing in comparison to my classmates around me who were writing stories constantly and writing really well in my opinion I felt myself really slipping away from my love of writing and even my love of reading. I constantly felt like giving up and my stories were too sappy and emotional and that's not who I was. Or who I am, I should say. I remember riding my bike to my internship at a magazine in Boston and feeling like, "I can't do this. I'm nowhere good enough." There are several times in my life when I wish there was someone or something, some little creature that could sense my emotions without me saying so (because I bottle things) and know that I just needed a little push of encouragement. Or even to tell me, "Okay, it's not working out, don't freak out, maybe your path needs a little adjusting, a little detour." Of course such people do exist but who ever heard of opening up to people and reaching out for a little guidance? That's just not the way we do things here. But I figured things had to start moving because I felt like I had been standing still for too long.

So I got offered a job overseas about a month after completing my teaching course, crossed my fingers and headed off to a small city in the middle of Europe where I didn't know anyone, didn't know the language and had no clue as to what I was doing. I still feel that way after two years. I know a few more people and I'm trying to improve my language skills but I still wonder, "What the hell am I doing? Is this actually going to be my life?" I wonder if I'm a good teacher, a good friend, a good daughter, a good potential wife and a good sister let alone being a good writer. But I haven't given up writing and trying to figure it out so I guess my alternate route isn't so bad. I know people tell young adults all the time that bull about it taking a long time to figure out what you want to do and that's it's okay and you should take your time. That's okay if you're rich and have people taking care of you. But for those who can't afford to take that much time to "find themselves" we kind of have to pick one thing we're kind of good at, try to improve ourselves and cross our fingers that we haven't made a horrible choice.

Sometimes when I'm neck-deep in kindergarteners and asking myself, "Can I do this?" I think, "Well, you seem infinitely happier than the past several years so I'd say that's a plus."