When I was a little adult, I loved bacon. I remember my mother frying up slices of bacon on Sunday morning, in preparation for breakfast. By the time breakfast was ready, half of the bacon had already been eaten. No one in my family liked bacon as much as I did, so everyone assumed that I was the one who ate half of the bacon before breakfast had started. It turns out that I was not the guilty party. My mother is the one who ate the bacon as she fried it.
One day, my dad told her that she should try to restrain me from eating so much of the bacon. She responded that I usually have only one slice. He told her that he counts the slices every Sunday, and at least half of the bacon is usually gone before breakfast starts. She was stunned that he actually counted the bacon slices. She told him that instead of counting the bacon, he should hold me on his lap as she fried the bacon. For about a year, I spent every Sunday morning sitting in my father’s lap.