Graham is in the bathroom brushing his teeth, and I am cleaning up.
“You know what kind of son you are?” I ask placing a hand on his shoulder.
“What kind?”
I squeeze off a long, rattling fart.
We laugh.
“You know what kind of dad you are?” he asks smiling.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
He belches loudly, very loudly for a six-year-old actually.
“That,” I tell him, looking over my glasses, “was immature.”
“And childish,” he adds. “But I’m a child. You are a dad.”
He has a point I suppose, but I don’t care very much.