I was standing at the bathroom door, where my fifteen year old son was imploring members of the family to view his masterpiece. I’d already asked him twice to flush the toilet, but he ignored me, grinning maniacally and staring at his excrement.
‘But Mum, it’s brilliant. See how it curves at the top?’
He was really proud. Me, not so much.
‘Get your phone. Let’s a take photo,’ he said.
‘Lucas, I am not taking a photo of poo. Now, flush it and get to school.’
‘I’ll just get my own phone then.’ He brushed past me like a flash. Then, he stopped abruptly, turned to glower at me and said, ‘Don’t flush the toilet while I’m getting my phone. OK? This has to be photographed. Eric and Aaron are gonna love it!’
Leaning on the door frame, I tried to remember him as a toddler: cute, chubby, compliant and loving. Nothing like he was now. Towering over me by at least twenty centimetres, broad-shouldered and strong, Lucas was a young man. Clearly, still immature, but a young man.
Before I could blink, he’s back with his phone already on camera mode.
‘There!’ he said proudly. ‘That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’
He flushed the toilet, washed his hands and left for school, still grinning widely.