Bitey

Last night young Samson got into full Edmund Hillary mode and made his first ascent (assisted by mama) of the stairs. Our pride at the young climber's mobility and stamina was tempered by the fact that we now need to buy yet another gate for the house. Getting between floors in our place is now like a cross between prisoner intake protocol and an extreme sport.

This morning, another milestone. Our hero (dada) was bitten. Not by the cat --- he bites me all the time, and if I may digress for a moment here, I've always found that refusal to acknowledge even the hand that feeds somewhat appealing about cats. Indeed, Ishmael (the other small mammal in our house) has no compunction about taking a nip even while being petted. I like to think he serves as a kind of corrective to any Panglossian fantasies we might harbor about a universe that is orderly and fair.

But back to the story of the morning: Sam has been a bit bitey lately but to date has only bitten mama (and the cat, which was simultaneously hilarious and gross as the cat yowled and Samson sat up with a mouth full of fur). It didn't hurt that much, but I issued the sternest "NO" I could. At which point, he looked up at me and cried. Then he put his head back down on my shoulder and cried some more. I calmly explained that we don't bite in our house (and probably most houses, but I don't want him to think it's some kind of universal law and have his worldview upended the first time he gets bitten in kindergarten) and that it hurts. So that should be that. Right?