“Don’t worry,” I say. “Ruby went through a toy-stealing phase too. I was constantly mortified and explaining to her that it’s wrong, and then one day something clicked and she stopped doing it.” The woman smiles, and says, “How old?” nodding at Ruby. “She’s nine!” I say proudly, “She turned nine in August.” We make some more chit-chat about how the years fly by, then collect our respective charges and leave.

At some point in this conversation I probably should have told her that Ruby is not my kid. But it’s hard to explain. I’m not Ruby’s babysitter. I’m not her nanny or a relative. My title is a strange modern-day one, one that comes with its own ironic punctuation. I’m Ruby’s “aunt” or “auntie.” Don’t forget the quote marks. While “aunt” confers the closeness of a blood tie, the quotes rein it in, making it clear that I’m part of a constructed family, not a biological one.

Ruby’s mother, Marcelle, is my best friend. Nine years ago she dragged me into the bathroom at a party and pulled seven or eight pregnancy tests out of her purse. “I think I’m pregnant,” she said, “and I think I’m keeping it.” Like a true friend, I didn’t point out just how insane it was to be carrying around a bunch of sticks she had peed on (they were in a plastic bag), and we discussed the situation. Ruby’s father was living overseas and unable to be very involved in her life. Marcelle was 35 and had always wanted to have kids. Many of our other friends thought she was making a huge mistake. I knew there was no talking her out of it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Instead I pledged to be a co-parent in any way she needed.

A month or so later, I was holding Marcelle’s hand as we saw Ruby for the first time on the sonogram screen. We both cried. The nurse thought we were a lesbian couple (a misperception that happens to this day), and I went home thinking about how brave my friend was. Like a good partner, I picked up a copy of What to Expect When You Are Expecting, and we were off. On August 30, 2000, we welcomed Ruby Jarrah Aviva Karp into this world. I was “Auntie Mikki” for real. When Marcelle handed me the baby for the first time, I was overwhelmed with fear and excitement. Ruby just blinked up at me, as sure of herself as she always is.

I’m not Ruby’s only “relative.” She has many other “aunts” and “uncles.” As a single mother, Marcelle has been adept at crafting a family out of friends and neighbours. There is Kendrick, who coached Marcelle during the delivery; Josh, who used to live upstairs and provides necessary roughhousing; and our amazing, generous, loving friends Maren and Michael, whose three daughters provide Ruby with all the sibling energy she needs, and who have invited us into their home for every holiday. Maren is the kind of supermum who makes dried apple witches and homemade costumes for Halloween, exposing Ruby to some old school motherly crafting she certainly won’t get from Marcelle or myself.

Being an “auntie” lets me function on both sides of the mother-daughter line. The first time an infant Ruby threw up on me, I felt it was a badge of honour. Now I irritate her every summer by pointing out the spot where she did it, after yelling at her to put her bike away. But I also get enlisted to play pranks on Marcelle at slumber parties.

Now that Ruby has her own phone, I’ve been able to cut out the middleman — or middlemum — and make plans with her all on my own. I like to text her during the day to see what she is up to. Her answers are often short and to the point. “Recess,” she will say. (Sometimes Ruby’s life is more exciting than mine.) She tells me about the other kids at school and what’s going on with her play. Other times we make up stories together on the phone and I play tricks on her, pretending I can see her and describing her outfits. One day she’ll figure out I am talking to her mother while I am texting her.

In truth, I could do more. Marcelle is extraordinarily self-sufficient, and remarkably stubborn about asking for help. Sometimes I’ve had to gently remind her that she doesn’t need to do it all alone, that I am around for the hard stuff as well as the fun stuff. But at the end of the day, I still go home to my life; I am not truly a co-parent.

So, when people ask me if I have kids, I say no. On paper, I’m a textbook spinster — I’m 44, single, with two cats. I’m just an “aunt.” But for me Ruby is much more than my “niece.” She will always be my little girl.

I don’t know why people ask. Think about it: if the askee was to be honest with you, there are really only four answers. If you’re lucky, the answer’s ‘I don’t know, we’re not ready?’ But perhaps it’s one of these:

- We’ve been trying for a year and it’s not happening. Which is why we don’t talk about it — do you really want to hear our painful fertility dramas?

- I don’t want them, but he does. The fights are getting tense, but the silence is worse. Do you really want to hear our domestic dramas?

- I don’t want to be a parent. After careful consideration, I think my life is better without kids. (Also, I subjectively judge the quality of your life as having declined since breeding).

For me, it’s the last reason.

Babies are sleep-thieving aliens. Toddlers are noise-and-break-stuff machines. Children are precocious annoyances, and you can’t tell them bawdy jokes. And teenagers… I didn’t even like them when I was one.

Theoretically, I like some kids on a case-by-case basis. My cousin’s ones are cool: the girl is evil like I was; I dig it. The boy is cute too. But after ten minutes with them I’m shooting dust. All my ‘kid conversation’ pieces have been exhausted. I’m bored; as are they.

Everyone thinks their child is extraordinary. It’s sweet. The product of their genes and nurturing is a work of art. A friend once told me it was a biological thing — the lovey overload was to stop mothers drowning their offspring after the 63rd consecutive night of two hours’ sleep.

Parents discuss their wonderful masterpiece of a child whenever they can. Even if you don’t think you do it, you probably do. And prefixing it with, ‘you’re probably sick of hearing about Arabella, but yesterday at playgroup…’ doesn’t make it ok.

I love dogs, and my partner and I can talk about the puppies we want for hours (‘a red staffie called Gavin! Then a beagle called Dolby! Then a Rottweiler called Ziggy Von Satan!’ etc). But children? Don’t like them. Never will.

Some give the ‘it’s different when they’re yours’ speech. It’s cliché ninety-four in an ongoing series (see also: ‘once you’re a mother, THEN you’ll understand!’ Understand what? That I’m a slave to my hormones? I already know that, thanks to my monthly chocolate-wine-and-tears sessions).

I’m used to the child-bragging. What I hate is when people think their child will ‘convert’ you. The scenario is always the same:

Breeder: So when are you going to have kids?
Me: not really a ‘when’ so much as a ‘why’. The answer: no good reason. So, never.
Breeder: But [wonders of childbirth, sacrifice and tearing from V to A]
Me: Yeah, see, following careful consideration, no.
Breeder whips out wallet and smacks you across the face with their children’s photos. ‘But look at MY kids, though, see? SEE? NOW you see it, DON’T YOU.’

I was at breakfast with a few of my friends awhile back. My friend’s fiancé had bought a workmate. The talk turned to children. The workmate — who had seemed lovely until exposing her breeder-nazi doctrine — asked why we weren’t having children. I didn’t have the energy to educate her, or play mind games like bursting into tears and telling her we’re infertile (I do that sometimes, in the hopes that they’ll think twice next time before asking something that is essentially none of their fucking business).

So instead of rattling off the extremely valid reasons NOT to have a child, I just said I don’t like them. Cue ‘Oooooh, how COULD you?’ diatribe about the wonders of children.

Then she gets out her digital camera. She scrolls to a picture and whips it out with a flourish that says ‘here! Now I have the ace up my sleeve that shall win this debate!’

It was a picture of a child. From her colourings (blonde, blue eyed, pale), it probably wasn’t hers (Mediterranean, olive-skin, dark/curly hair), but I bet it was related to her in some way. A niece, perhaps.

Anyway, it was a child. Not ugly. Not a cherubic angel. Just a child, like in a random google image search for ‘child sitting with toy’. Bugger this, I thought.

‘Meh,’ I said, offering the camera back unbotheredly. ‘Oh! You pest!’ She said, snatching the camera and trying to keep it all very light, but annoyed and clearly taken aback. My partner turned around and asked what the picture was. ‘Just some generic child’ I said, to the consternation of the work mate.

She was expecting me to play the game. To say, ‘oh, you’re right, she is VERY cute, yes.’

I didn’t feel like playing the game that day. Us barren folk have a stock-standard set of responses to coo at doting parents when we see a child or baby that looks like… every other child or baby. ‘What lovely eyes!’ or ‘Wow, how cute!’ or ‘Oh! She’s very alert!’ (My mum taught me that one. I don’t know why, but it always goes down a treat). I don’t like children, and no matter how unique and special yours is, seeing a picture of it isn’t going to make my belief system come tumbling down and have me yank out my Mirena IUD and spermjack my partner as soon as we get home.

Our life choices are our own. Your choice wrecks your sleep patterns for sixteen years. Our choice guarantees that in our old age, we’ll have no one to look out for us and we’ll end up in a home where the mattress is lumpy and the orderlies steal from us. Respect that and we’ll try not to freak out next time your kid spills juice on our laptop.

Lisa-Skye Ioannidis is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian whose mother is slowly accepting never getting grandchildren from her.