It was one of those wrinkled shirt days--she ironed it in the morning, while the boy was eating his cereal at the table, sloshing his milk out of the bowl with a spoon and rubbing it around the placemat. She was careful not to let his grubby hands touch her as she wiped them clean with a wet cloth, or after, as she carried him into his carseat (God knowsthe boy's hands are always dirty). Still, her shirt was wrinkled when she arrived at the office. She sighed.