It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when little Yusuf, just three years old and already acting like a tiny philosopher, disappeared into the bathroom with a picture book under one arm and a juice box in the other. His mother, Amina, didn’t think much of it. He was potty-trained, independent, and quite proud of managing “big business” on his own.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
At the fifteen-minute mark, Amina raised an eyebrow. “Yusuf? You okay in there?”
No answer.
She knocked gently. “Yusuf, sweetheart, are you finished?”
From inside came a voice far too casual for comfort: “Not yet, Mama. I’m reading.”
Another five minutes went by. Now Amina was concerned—not because she thought anything was wrong, but because she knew how suspiciously quiet a toddler being “busy” could be. That was either the sound of brilliance… or chaos.
She opened the door slowly.
There sat Yusuf, legs swinging off the toilet, picture book in hand, wearing the expression of someone contemplating the meaning of life. His underwear was around his ankles. His little face was serious. Too serious.
“Yusuf!” she said. “You’ve been in here forever! What’s taking so long?”
Yusuf looked up at her, sighed like a man who’s seen too much, and said, “Mama, I’m waiting for the raisin to come out.”
Amina blinked. “The… raisin?”
He nodded solemnly. “I ate a raisin. And I want to see it come back.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or call a doctor.
“Sweetheart,” she began gently, “that’s not exactly how digestion works.”
Yusuf flipped a page in his book and replied with pure confidence, “You don’t know that. I’m doing an experiment.”
Amina turned around and walked straight out of the bathroom before she could burst out laughing and ruin his scientific integrity.
The next day, he gave up waiting and declared, “It probably turned into something else. Raisins are sneaky.”
The moral? Even when you’re three years old, trust your gut… just don’t expect it to return things.
