My son looks up at me but doesn’t see that I have no idea what I’m doing. I need to ask my father how this all works and luckily, he’s staring out at me from the mirror, his greying hair and crow’s feet reflecting back that he‘s old enough to know.
My son looks up at me with my eyes so I do the best impression of my father that I can and show him that I’m someone with the answers, someone who can guide him through.
My son looks up at me and pushes his right hand beneath his t-shirt to his armpit. He lifts his left elbow and snaps it down repeatedly over his cupped fingers, pumping out rasping fart noises so loud and so fast that we ache with laughter.
My son looks up at me with a grin and I realise that he already knows how this all works, he just needs to hold onto it.