Ironed Sunday Shirts

My second kid is officially a teenager.  Yikes. Rob has always been my tender-hearted, kind, sensitive kid.  He still is.  It's just that I sometimes have to squint my eyes, lean in close, and look really, really carefully to see that kid.

Rob is the one who:

• Suggested we put a pizza on the outdoor conveyor belt book return at the Draper library.
• Noticed that I had gotten some nasty blisters as a result of walking to church; when we were walking home, he offered to let me wear his shoes.  Insisted, even.  And walked home in socks, carrying my high-heeled shoes.
• Can't keep his clothes picked up or find his Sunday socks to save his life.
• Quietly lends a helping hand to a brother or sister who needs help, says a kind word, or sits down and reads a book with them, without being asked.
• Dropped a fence post on his hand while helping with an Eagle Scout project. It really hurt. Didn't tell a soul.  Stayed for the rest of the project.  Came home, didn't say anything.  I was observant enough to notice that one of his hands was swollen to twice its size.  X-rays showed a broken finger.  He hadn't said a word.
• Hates piano, but still practices, still prepares for recitals, only stomps a tiny bit in protest.
• After trying a Harry Potter book a few years ago, decided it wasn't a good fit, & vowed to never read the series.  This summer, bored of the books he had read multiple times, still vowed not to read Harry Potter.  I offered him a deal:  read book one, & I'd buy him a pair of shorts (he'd been asking).  He agreed.  He read the book, I bought the shorts.  The floor of his room is now scattered with the Harry Potter books.  He's currently on book five.
• Despite his insistence that his Sunday shirt isn't very wrinkled, he irons it.  Yes, I have to ask, but he does it.  When he's passing the sacrament, it is clear by the ironed-in creases that he has ironed his own shirt.  And I couldn't be prouder. 

Yep, my kind, tender-hearted kid is still inside that 13-year-old body.   I love you, Rob!  And I promise not to hug you in public anymore as long as you let me hug you at home.  Once a week would be nice.