[I’m afraid I can’t possibly capture this moment accurately, but I’ve got to try.]
Wednesday, we had people over and Justin cleaned up his bathroom in anticipation of guests (his bathroom is downstairs where “everything” is, so it doubles as the guest bathroom).
Around eight pm or so Justin was getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth and so forth, when I wandered back to see how he was doing.
“How’s it look?” He asked, shoving the toothbrush in his mouth and gesturing at the bathroom.
“Not bad.” I looked over the space, then turned my attention to his bedroom, directly adjascent to the bathroom. “Your room looks like a bomb hit it, though.”
He did the pre-teen glower over his toothbrushing. “Lemme taak car ov da,” he muttered around the brush and foam as he squeezed past me.
Still brushing with one hand, he reached around the edge of the doorframe, flipped the bedroom lightswitch off, pulled the door closed, and walked back to the sink to rinse. Just before spitting, he looked back at me through the vanity mirror. “Ta daaaaa.” Sardonic doesn’t cover it.
I managed to get back to the family room before I started laughing.
