Sighing, she dropped the laundry basket next to the ironing board. She filled the iron’s reservoir with distilled water and plugged it in. The shrill whistle from the kettle reminded her that she intended to relax with a cup of tea and a nice buttered english muffin before starting the ironing. She truly hated to iron. Am I the only woman in America who still irons tee shirts, she wondered? Almost as if he heard her thoughts, he bounded down the stairs.
“Didja iron my shirt yet, ma?”
“I’m waitin’ for the steam. Have some tea and an english muffin with me in the meantime.”
Sitting silently together, they ate their meal. She cleared the table and started the ironing while he lost himself in a video game on his phone. She was working on the third shirt when he looked up to find out her progress.
“Didja finish my shirt yet, ma?”
“Three so far. Take your pick.”
“Don’t need any of those. I need my Dunkin’ shirt for work. Can ya hurry it up, ma? The T ain’t gonna wait for me.”
Muttering to herself, “should have taught the boy to iron his own shirts,” she quickly ran the iron over the orange and pink tee. Grabbing the shirt, he gave her a quick kiss. “Thanks, ma, you’re the best! Gotta run. See ya at supper.”