We were stranded recently at the Atlanta aerodrome, the one with the Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton in the lobby.  Perched on a completely inadequate ledge beneath this redoubtable fossil, we attempted to amuse ourselves with some translations of Sanskrit plays—entirely derivative—whilst someone’s unholy brood played at Jurassic Park.  Our concentration somewhat impaired, we pondered how the little brats proved our theory that children should be sedated when travelling. 

Suddenly, over the top of our Indic dramaturgy, one of these disagreeable infants sprang, announcing itself as a Velociraptor osmolskae in a voice quite unsuitable for its proximity to the royal ear.  At the same time a second disagreeable babe lodged its unsanitary claws in the royal thigh, proclaiming that it was a Velociraptor osmolskae and that its sibling was, well, such incivilities are not worth repeating.  We tried to maintain the peace by commenting that Velaciraptores hunted in pairs.

“What kind of dinosaur are you?” the first urchin wanted to know.

We smiled politely and returned to our book, hoping this plague of children would rapidly dissipate.

“How old are you?” the second urchin asked.

“Twenty-six,” we answered, and it wasn’t the first time.  Indeed, we have been twenty-six so many times, we’ve gotten quite good at it.

“Wow, that’s old,” one of the urchins commented; it is immaterial which.

“Old enough to purchase absinthe.”  We again became absorbed in our book whilst they vivisected that honourable beverage’s name.

“When I grow up,” Thing One offered, unsolicited, “I’m going to extract recombinant deoxyribonucleic acid from ancient amber and clone dinosaurs.”

“No,” Thing Two rejoined, likewise unsolicited, “I’m going to extract recombinant deoxyribonucleic acid from ancient amber and clone dinosaurs.”

“Well, I’m  going to clone bigger dinosaurs.” And so it began, with  the two Things each vowing to create bigger, meaner, and more gianormous dinosaurs than the other until they both laid claim to the rather obvious fossil that loomed over us.  This prompted us to remark that, with the help of Oil of Olay, we had reanimated drier scales than those.  When, in response to their queries, I told them to ask their mother about Oil of Olay, they scurried off, only to reappear shortly thereafter with the tell-tale white bottle.  They attempted to smear its contents on the petrified Tyrannosaur and were quickly apprehended by the Department of Homeland Security.  The department’s concern was less that the fossil might be damaged than that the bottle of Oil of Olay exceeded the allowance of fluid ounces for carry-on baggage.  The silence that followed was conducive to our renewed perusal of Sanskrit tragedies.  We were certain that several decades in Guantánamo Bay would do the children good; character-building, to be sure.

But the Tyrannosaurus rex was casting a shadow over the Abhijnyanasakuntalam of Kalidasa.  We closed the volume and sought distraction by revising the royal will.  This we do from time to time in an effort to, as it were, secure immortality. In the last half year we have been elevated, threefold, from the status of a mere aunt to a great one.  Our three fecund nieces were the first to be disinherited.  Whoever said young people keep us young never had to deal with the little ankle-biters for more than an hour.  Age hath not power over us; young people make us old. 

It was not easy to decide against having children.  Or pets. Instead we have heartwood pine floors.  We have never regretted this choice, although, to quote Master Shakespeare, “...you are the cruell'st she alive, if you will lead these graces to the grave and leave the world no copy.”  But we will not be copied, except, perhaps, that the awful urchins referred to above might, after our demise, recombine our deoxyribonucleic acid and unleash upon the earth our counterfeit.  In anticipation of such impious acts committed upon our body, we have included in our last will and testament language enjoining such attempts. 

We are an ephemeron, here for a short space of time, a candle waxing brightly before it is extinguished.  But when the first flush of youth is, well, flushed, we do not cease to be.  We only become metaphors for fine wine and cheese.  One day we overhear that we are right spry, well preserved, or a credit to our moisturiser.  Children are callous.

Heartwood pine floors, on the other hand, are at once durable and lovely.  They are also completely incompatible with child rearing, as we had to remind the three fecund nieces when they descended upon us with their brood.  But the babies do have their charms.  The grandnephew smiled at us.  One of the grandnieces began crawling during the opening ceremonies of the XXIX Olympiad.  Overcome with benevolence, we patted the head of the other grandniece just as her mother informed us that she had entered the child in a baby fashion show.  We recoiled.

“Roswitha,” we said, in a firm voice reserved for reprimanding children, “you will not have this baby painted and arrayed like Jezebel, put on display for the leering masses, and exploited so shamelessly.”  We clutched the infant to our breast; she squirmed a bit.  With our free hand we dove for the Rolodex, hoping to contact our solicitor in order to make yet another alteration to our will.  This time we would not merely disinherit our niece, we would have her pay for our funeral.

“But, dearest auntie,” my niece replied, obediently, “she gets to keep the clothes.”

“Oh.”  We released the toddler, who scampered back to her mum.  “Very practical that.”

The babies used their talents at cooing, crawling, and toddling to upstage the Olympics.  To be sure, we could have switched the telly off altogether and reduced our carbon footprint.  When they finally left, we found ourselves very tired.  A stiffness had settled into our bones, and we rose from our chair with difficulty.  From the mirror, a ghastliness stared back at us as we began our ministrations.  Turkey wattles, crow’s feet.  If it is the province of old age to endow us with ornithological traits, why can we not also have wings?  Or, at the very least, some totally kick-ass plumage.

The subject of birds brought us again in mind of that extinct Tyrannosaur back at the aerodrome, whose descendants now flitted and chirped about, hardly inspiring the terror of their remote ancestor.  It was only a fossil now, a collection of rocks that, when reassembled, showed the bare bones of a fearsome creature.  Muscle and sinew are all gone, but the bones attest to its substance and, when wired together, great height.  What a thing that old dinosaur must have been that it could now, millennia later and reduced to a fossil, affect children with horror and bed-wetting.   If we cannot turn back the clock and erase the ravages of time, there is, at least, comfort in that.

When not babysitting or polishing her heartwood pine floors, her Majesty answers e-mail sent to her at HRMQueenJames@aol.com.