"Go ahead, boy. I'll have your shirt ironed in just a second," I hear Mommy telling him through the monitor.
"Noooo, Mommy. I don't want to go," he protests.
"Why not, son? What's wrong. Mama has your leche ready," she coaxes.
"But Mommy, I'm just in my t-shirt," he explains.
"So?"
"I don't want Mama to see me until I'm dressed," he says.
"Ohhhh. It's alright, boy," she says through a cheek-to-cheek grin, "Just explain to Mama that I'm ironing your shirt."
So he comes into the living room and peeks around the corner into the kitchen with his hands crossed over his chest.
"Here's your leche, son," I say, holding out his sippy cup, but he won't budge.
"What's wrong, papa? Come on in and get your milk," I say, "so I can see your new t-shirt."
He shakes his head and just refuses to come in, so I have to promise him that I'll look away while he steps in to retrieve his milk, and won't look at him until he's fully dressed. Which I do.
And when Mommy's done with his shirt, he swaggers into the kitchen and does a couple of little GQ turns on the rug to show off his new (and freshly ironed) polo, and then marches his little peacock tail back into the living room.
