Mexican Hat dance

I bimble around the garden muttering to myself as my youngest son sits in the shade in his underpants and a Mario baseball cap. He is busily occupied pushing playdough through the mesh table top, to form piles of neon spaghetti on the ground beneath. It's a tough work out for feeble little fingers, but the texture is no longer torture.

He is a study in concentration, oblivious to my presence. It is a rare sight indeed to see him sitting. I suspect that the same mesh pattern may be imprinted elsewhere upon his person, testament to his increasing powers of endurance. “It is so hot! We really shouldn’t be out in the sun you know.”
“I am not…..in dah sun,” he remarks, checking the dappled light through the foliage of the pergola.
“Hmm. I think I need a hat or something?”
“Big hat. Little cloves.”
It’s a valid point but I am way beyond the age where a bikini can be a realistic option.
“I swear it must be 100 degree out here!”
“No swear! Bad to be swear.”
“Oh that’s not swearing as such.”
“It is be dah figure of speech?”

I rip off the sweaty gardening gloves and step over to him. His minimalist approach to language and conversation is so often peppered with huge lumps of sophistication, if I were only paying attention.