“What’s happening?! Are you OK, son?”

My son is standing on the laundry box in the bathroom. He appears to be having some sort of baffling, upright seizure.

My mind races through my paediatric emergency first aid training. On its first pass it can recall almost nothing beyond the horrible coffee in the training suit, and the bum ache.

Oh, and that the lady sitting next to me used to be an expat, and used to think she was lactose intolerant, but it turned out she had mild IBS.

But emergency first aid... nothing.

On the second pass it trawls up something about the recovery position. “I can do the recovery position!” it thinks. But I should only do it after the seizure has stopped. And presumably after he lies down.

My daughter's got funny ideas about what's funny

His head is lowered in concentration. He is making a sort of rhythmic grunting noise. His body is being bent this way and that, as if by some insane, evil force.

His arms are flailing too and fro like super-charged pendulums. It’s as if he is a puppet being controlled by a giant, angry robot that desperately needs oiling. I watch, perplexed and horrified.

I’m not the kind of parent who loses touch with what my kids are “into”. I don’t get perplexed or horrified by the popular culture of young people.

I keep my finger on the pulse. I like to be aware of what music kids are into. I made a playlist for them that includes Katy Perry. I am an amazingly cool Dad.

“Son! Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” my son replies, his voice jiggling.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m flossing,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, utterly perplexed.

As I watch him twitch and spasm, I start to feel old. So very, very old.