the pieces of my life

When I was eleven, my mother got the family a cat (something my father is still gleeful about: my mother got the cat even though my father is a determined non-animal person; a couple years later, my mother developed a severe allergy to cats. It’s the only thing that’s ever happened that’s made my father say, “Maybe there could be a God.”). We named the cat Biskets (yes, spelled that way. Remember, I was eleven). When Biskets was a kitten, he’d nibble at my and the Tweedle Twirp’s fingers. It felt so good, that little kitten gumming on my finger! My mother always said, “Don’t let him learn to do that! You’re training him that it’s okay to bite you and soon, when he gets bigger, it’ll hurt when he bites you.” Of course, Tweeds and I didn’t listen and, sure enough, Biskets got big, and his bites hurt! I think of this story now every time my son bites me. It’s so cute and sweet the way he gums me to soothe himself, but soon those teeth will be coming in and I’ll have to start smacking him with a newspaper.

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