mini-human

When I was five years old, my parents bought a Victorian house that was slipping calmly toward dilapidation. Even after we moved in, big rugged men would come to the house early in the morning and begin sawing and hammering away. It irritated me. Being the thinker that I am, they disturbed my thoughts. It was fun when they left, though. Then I was free to rearrange the saw horses and random lumber to my perfect clubhouse scheme. Apollo wasn't much bigger than a football, so I was free to roam around on my on. The ceilings were so high that I could yell and hear the hint of an echo. I don't think Mom ever understood how much fun that was for me despite my efforts to demonstrate. It beat the heck out of watching Apollo eat. That image might be attached to my first memory of vomiting. Baby food doesn't have the best smell in the world. Take a couple of spoonfuls of that smashed up food and smear it all over an infant's face and watch him push it back out of his mouth with a tongue that he didn't know how to use ...ugh. Maybe I was really impressed with how Mom just kept smiling and hugging the mini-human during that messy, smelly ordeal. She had to have an incredibly strong stomach to manage that. Of course Dad was sure to remind me that I was much more smelly than Apollo.
Like I always say, MOM is WOW spelled upside down.