Sometimes when J-man and I are out and about, I find myself etching the teenagers around us, acutely aware that at some point, I will have one living in my house. This usually terrifies me, although not as much as having a teenage girl in the house. No, wait, I take that back. I was a teenage girl, so at least that takes away some of the element of surprise. Teenage boys are a much bigger mystery.
It being summer, we've been seeing these young adults more frequently, and I find myself shooting quick prayers off as we run our errands. Dear Lord, please don't let Jude be like the boys outside QFC with the weird animal hats and emo hair, leaving their empty Jones Soda bottles on the sidewalk and smoking cigarettes. Please do let him be like the boy - may, the young man - who appears to be assisting his elderly, handicapped grandmother do her shopping. Or the one who helped me out to my car with my bags. Sure, it's his job, but the fact that he has one puts him miles ahead of the other punks.
Also, it keeps him out of his mother's hair, which can't be a bad thing.
