When I was age two to four, my family lived in a one-bedroom apartment. My memories of that time are mostly of still visual scenes containing an object that impressed me. My first profound memory was when my mother left me to give birth to my brother. She was only gone three nights, but it felt like a year to me. I was a little over three, so that seems quite normal. I recall sleeping under a window beside the kitchen sink, which is where they moved me to make room for the baby in the bedroom. But I dunno, I could have been sleeping in the kitchen that whole time.