I’ll Pay Your First Therapy Session, Son

I might have witnessed Hawkeye’s first discussion in his future therapy session.

I should have known.

I was warned at the bedroom door by the first sentry.

Mosely, with arms flailing the air.

“You don’t want to go in there!”

As I approached “there” (a.k.a. the closet) I heard scuffling and I felt a hand trying to keep the door closed.

However,

I am stronger,

for the time being,

than my five-year-old son.

So I pushed through and opened the door.

Perhaps I should have heeded all warnings.

There was my boy,

just minutes ago attired in orange shorts and a camo shirt like some sort of mixed signal for hunters and deer alike,

currently draped in a shiny red dress.

Mosely was right.

I didn’t want to go in there.

Once the girly evening wear was taken off the crying boy and his appropriate fellow clothes were properly replaced, the real story came out.

Mostly.

It had been a serious case of Girls Club vs. Brother.

Hawkeye had been denied entrance into this exclusive club based on his decision to make an unauthorized and unapproved request for our family’s nightly entertainment.

The girls had offered to reconsider his banishment if he would at least dress like a girl.

Hawkeye refused.

Then suffered teasing

and

eventually

caved

to the intense peer pressure.

My apologies, son.

I promise to be more diligent in the future about rogue organizations such as the likes of the Girls Club.