I often chuckle when I think of myself as a "gay uncle." Whenever I hear that someone has a gay uncle, and a lot of people do, I picture a flamboyant, colorful stereotype like Big Gay Al from "South Park." Unlike Big Gay Al, I don’t wear nauseating floral print shirts or a stuffy silk ascot, but like Big Gay Al, I do love animals. I guess that makes me half of a Big Gay Al. I wish I had a dollar for every time someone has confided in me how much they adore their gay uncle. Often, with no kids of our own and more expendable income than the average heterosexual, we spoil our nieces and nephews. We can "spare the rod" and teach them very bad habits, then send them home to our straight brothers and sisters and not have to consider the consequences. I taught my older niece how to burp really loud. For that minor indiscretion, my mother threatened to take me out of the family tree, or at least tear me limb from limb.

I have two wonderful nieces. Amber is 11 years old, and Katie is 5. They really do grow up so quickly! I remember holding Amber for the first time shortly after her birth. Before I took Amber in my arms, my mother coached me on the proper way to hold a newborn, as if I were going to grab a hold of her by her tiny ears and swing her around the room. "Support her neck! Watch out for her little fingers! Remember the soft spot in her head!" That soft spot thing really creeped me out. I know the fact that you’re born without a completely closed-up skull makes it easier for your mother to birth you, but I think God could have come up with a better design. Incidentally, there should be government funding for a study to find out if that soft spot ever closed up on right-wing Republicans. There could be a correlation. Pat Robertson does have a funny-shaped noggin.

As the soft spots in my nieces’ heads closed, two soft spots in this gay uncle’s heart opened. Sometimes I’m glad that I have two nieces instead of nephews. I often relate better to women than men on an emotional level, if not a sexual level. But I’d love to dress up like Big Gay Al and attend all my alpha male nephew’s baseball games. Maybe I’d even attend as my drag alter ego and really give the umpire hell. I can just picture Anita with her hair piled a mile high, in a slinky sequin cocktail dress and four-inch heels, screaming from the sidelines like a banshee when the umpire yells "Strike!" after my darling nephew misses a pitch. I’d get right up in the old man’s face and swirl my head on my neck like the trashiest "Jerry Springer" guest. Then again, my nephew would probably take a dog to his senior prom and I’d have to read her up and down for her tacky Sears gown. It’s probably best that I don’t have a nephew.

I am always amazed by the boundless energy my nieces possess. A few weekends ago, my brother and Amber came up for a visit, and I kept Amber all day Saturday while my brother bowled in a tournament in Who-Knows-Where, Pennsylvania. My devious plan was to get an early start with Amber and exhaust her before evening. I would have had a better chance exhausting a binging caffeine addict after nine pots of coffee. The day’s events included breakfast, a trip to the zoo, two hours at Chuck E. Cheese, the movies, pizza, decorating a sun-catcher, computer games, dinner, and cartoons. On most Saturdays, I’m lucky if I do a couple of loads of laundry and clean out the litter box before plopping down on the couch for some Game Show Network and Court TV. At 11 p.m., Amber was playing with my cats, who were just as exhausted by the visit as Uncle Eric. I joke with my nieces, telling them that they pick up my cats so much that they’re going to grow handles.

Now, Amber is moving into the nebulous land of puberty, and before you know it, her hormones will be racing at the speed of light, transforming her body and confusing her emotions. Before you know it, she’ll realize that she has a gay uncle. I have never had "the talk" with her, and I don’t know that I ever will. I don’t want to "come out" to my nieces and announce that I’m gay like I’m confessing incontinence or incurable hemorrhoids. I think my nieces should grow up and realize it gradually and accept my sexuality as just another wonderful characteristic of wonderful Uncle Eric. I know that Amber knows I’m gay, although she hasn’t quite wrapped her head around it yet and lacks the words to express it. During her recent visit, she played with one of Anita’s wigs and then asked me why I had shiny dresses in my apartment. Not lying but not disclosing the full truth, I replied, "You know that I sell dresses on eBay." "Oh," she replied matter-of-factly. "I always thought you wore them." She’s smarter than the average bear.

Growing up, I was never very close with my uncles or aunts…or my cousins, for that matter. I always want to be close to my nieces. I love young people, and I realize that it truly takes a village to raise a child. As saccharin as it sounds, I want to be a positive, consistent influence in their lives. I want them to believe that they can accomplish anything they want, that they are special individuals worthy of love and acceptance even when they take a wrong step on life’s winding road. I want them to dream big dreams and live big lives. I want them to embrace new ideas, different cultures, and all their feelings. I want them to love all creation—humans, animals, and plants. I want them to cherish me like I cherish them. I want them to be my friends when we’re all grown-up. I want them to adore tofu, gourmet coffee, and Cher. Given that they don’t live close to me and are often shuffled between my brother, their two different mothers, and several sets of grandparents and uncles and aunts, I realize that everything I want to teach them is kind of a tall order. But I think this gay uncle is up for the challenge.