Memorial Day Supper. Company coming in 45 minutes. In the kitchen frying up barbecued meatballs, whipping up cream cheese mashed potatoes, buttering french bread. Where is the beater to my mixer? Oops, sloshed some ketchup onto the floor. Ack! Typical last minute frantic-ness.
Oldest Son appears in the kitchen. "Mom, I'll cut the watermelon up for you." Excuse me? Have I heard correctly? Oldest Son? I haven't seen you in the kitchen since you were asking me to fill your sippy cup.
Then it dawns. Cutting watermelon. Sharp knives. 14 year-old boy. But hey, he is offering to help me. Please come in, Oldest Son. Welcome to the kitchen. Thank you, thank you for offering to help me.
Oldest Son does a splendid job of cutting up the watermelon. Actually cuts up 1 and a half and fills the large white bowl. He sets it on the table, and he's gone.
But wait, he's back. And his hands are filled with . . . what's this? He has picked flowers from the yard and wants to make the bowl of cut watermelon look beautiful. My 6'2" adorable, basketball dunking Oldest Son is standing in my dining room with hands full of flowers tucking them in along the watermelon chunks to make them look beautiful.
I'm not a crier, but if I was, there would be adoring mother tears in my eyes.
The Man of the House is not too worried about Oldest Son showing his soft side. He says it's fine as long as he's banging bodies on the basketball court this weekend. Men!!