When I was a boy (10-11), My grandmother gave me a cat that was very agreesive, and doing a number on the rest of her cats. Bombey was big old non-descript tom with split ears and nose, missing tufts of fur, and other interesting scars. It was one of those big round-faced toms that looked like he as walking on his knuckles.
But Bombey was my baby. He slept with me every night and I used him for a pillow and he just rumbled and put me to sleep. Not a cat in our neighborhood would come into our yard, and more than one pidgeon was reduced to feathers behind our garage. But I could do anything to that cat and it never even showed it claws.
Every cat is different. I've only ever had one that scratched me, and it only did it once. It was still young, and it took umbrage to something I was doing and took a swipe at me.
I put that cat in a corner and kneeled down in front of it. I put out my hand and the cat took swipe. So I swiped back, just a little tap to the nose. I put out my hand again. I could see the cat was thinking it over. It took another swipe. So did I, a little harder. This went on about three more times. Each time he took I swipe I'd tap his nose a little harder. The last time the cat looked as though it could not believe I had actually hit it that hard. I put out my hand. It laid down, turned its head upside down and looked at me for all the world as thought it were saying, "you win, I surrender." It never scratched me again.
This is about the way you have to deal with kids, too; at least until you can explain things to them in reasonable terms, like, "this is my house and I'm bigger than you are. That's why you have to do what I tell you."
Hank