I tried to find the cat's name. I didn't though.

I remember the first time I ever felt betrayed. I was three and a half and my sister had just turned five. My parents were throwing a Halloween party for all their friends and coworkers on base. It was a costume party. I was a strawberry. About an hour into the festivities a monster walked trough our front door. It’s funny because I distinctly remember being terrified, yet completely reassured knowing my father would never stand for such an awful thing in his household.

The monster, as I would find out years later while leafing idly thorough an old album, was a good friend of my parents. He was dressed to the nines in a full on CATS costume inspired by the Broadway show. Admittedly, if I had met the man now I’d be floored by the brilliance and, really, perfection of the costume. But what the hell kind of person would do that to a three year old? Jesus, there were kids at that party.

That, however, has little to do with my sense of betrayal. My father greeting him jovially and shaking his hand has everything to do with an early experience of utter confusion and terror, but not betrayal. That comes later, in the kitchen, with the one person who should always, always believe you when you are being your most earnest.

My sister and I were both cowering behind the kitchen table, equally relieved to find another who could see the thing in the living room for what it really was. My mother came in with her empty hors d'oeuvre tray and gently prodded us to get out there and show off how cute we looked all dressed up. My sister was a pumpkin. We were steadfast in our refusal.

She began to leave and we began to whimper, begging her not to go out there because there was a monster sitting on the fireplace. There was a monster. I knew had never been so right.

I wanted her to stay so badly. I remember her kneeling down, or maybe she didn’t, regardless I know I wasn’t listening to her reassuring words. I do remember, though, her turning around and walking out that door, carrying a new tray of very small hotdogs and toothpicks. Taking snacks out to the monster sitting on our fireplace and leaving my sister and me in the kitchen alone.

I tried to find the cat's name. I didn't though.

I remember the first time I ever felt betrayed. I was three and a half and my sister had just turned five. My parents were throwing a Halloween party for all their friends and coworkers on base. It was a costume party. I was a strawberry. About an hour into the festivities a monster walked trough our front door. It’s funny because I distinctly remember being terrified, yet completely reassured knowing my father would never stand for such an awful thing in his household.

The monster, as I would find out years later while leafing idly thorough an old album, was a good friend of my parents. He was dressed to the nines in a full on CATS costume inspired by the Broadway show. Admittedly, if I had met the man now I’d be floored by the brilliance and, really, perfection of the costume. But what the hell kind of person would do that to a three year old? Jesus, there were kids at that party.

That, however, has little to do with my sense of betrayal. My father greeting him jovially and shaking his hand has everything to do with an early experience of utter confusion and terror, but not betrayal. That comes later, in the kitchen, with the one person who should always, always believe you when you are being your most earnest.

My sister and I were both cowering behind the kitchen table, equally relieved to find another who could see the thing in the living room for what it really was. My mother came in with her empty hors d'oeuvre tray and gently prodded us to get out there and show off how cute we looked all dressed up. My sister was a pumpkin. We were steadfast in our refusal.

She began to leave and we began to whimper, begging her not to go out there because there was a monster sitting on the fireplace. There was a monster. I knew had never been so right.

I wanted her to stay so badly. I remember her kneeling down, or maybe she didn’t, regardless I know I wasn’t listening to her reassuring words. I do remember, though, her turning around and walking out that door, carrying a new tray of very small hotdogs and toothpicks. Taking snacks out to the monster sitting on our fireplace and leaving my sister and me in the kitchen alone.

Imagine:

You're three and a half and this walks into your house.



I think you'd be under the kitchen table with your sister begging your mom to ignore the hors d'oeuvre tray and cower in the kitchen with you too.