At Grandma Leah's holiday table, we saw our reflections in the polished
cutlery and serving dishes. When Great Aunt Fanny died the neighbors crowded into her bedroom to marvel at her flawlessly arranged drawers. A cousin once balked at the rust stains in my kitchen sink and begged me to let her bleach them out.

My mother is so fastidious, the sheets and towels in her linen closet are
tied in bundles with ribbon. Pencils bounce off the tight drum of her hospital-cornered sheets. And feel free to eat a meal off her kitchen floor.

But the diva of all dust-busters was my mother's mother. Every summer,
Rose was on her knees on a rubber pad sanitizing the porch floor of the cottage we rented, then making her way down the stairs, still on her knees, cleaning each one as she went. Her counters glistened. Her mirrors were fingerprint-free. She came after us with a broom if she caught us on her Victorian velvet sofa.

I am the aberration in this gene pool.

I inherited the sofa that Rose kept in perfect condition for 40 years.
Within a year, the upholstery was tattooed with cat pee.

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The dentist is telling her to stop sucking her thumb. "You're a big girl now. Big girls don't need to do that," he insists, and launches into a litany of horrors that have befallen or will befall her -- from calloused skin to buck teeth to being teased -- if she doesn't end this wretched habit now.

I clutch the edges of the counter behind me. This man is threatening my daughter, and I am swimming so far out in bad memories that I cannot catch my breath long enough to protect her.

I sucked my thumb until I was 11. I sucked with passion, with devotion, and I adored every succulent moment. I sucked while watching television, while riding in the car, while lying under the covers at night, the forefinger and thumb of my other hand plucking soft tufts of flannel from my pajamas and rubbing them against my upper lip.

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