Sometimes, you just have to ask

Once upon a time I was sitting at the kitchen table, poking around in a bowl of heart-shaped Red Hots. I didn't like cinnamon candy, but it looked so good. I was mourning my dislike of the candy and the unfairness of it all, so I asked Mom, "Mom, why don't I like cinnamon candies? Everyone else likes them." Now, I didn't actually expect an answer to this question. I was mostly just venting. Imagine my shock when Mom replied with, "What? You don't know?" "No. Should I?" She looked shocked and dumbfounded that I didn't know, which I thought was silly, because why should I know why I didn't like a particular food besides the fact that it tastes gross? She then proceeded to tell me the following story.


I was still young enough to sit contentedly in my car seat on the floor while Mom went about her business. This particular day, she and one of her friends were making suckers. The smell was pretty strong, so they stuck me in the next room where they could still hear me. The distance was perfect, until they decided to pull out the cinnamon flavoring. The smell filled the room with its potency. Suddenly, Mom heard me gasp, so she came running in to see if I was ok, only to see me not breathing and turning blue. The smell was too strong and I couldn’t breathe. Thankfully, she suspected the problem and quickly ran me out to fresh air. What a relief! I immediately started breathing and was soon content once again. The only scar I carry from the event is not caring much for cinnamon; I can only imagine how traumatic that had to be for my poor mother.


Who knew that there was actually a story? Mom, can you tell me any other stories about my past that I don't remember and haven't heard a billion times?