I take great pleasure in watching my sons pitch in with the barbecuing, some simultaneously playing the role of daddy, all playing the role of uncle.

Laden with bags from the butcher, the grocery store, and the farm lady’s produce truck, my husband, Stewie, elbowed his way through the door. “Hi! I’m back!” he called. “I bought a really big watermelon for the barbecue, we have plenty of hamburgers and hot dogs; let’s invite some neighbors.”

“The more the merrier!” I said, matching my husband’s enthusiasm over our standard May to November Sunday fare.

As Stewie started fussing in the kitchen, three-year-old Zevi stood tippy-toe on a chair, close to his side. Eager to help, he stirred, while Stewie shucked the corn. Our eldest, ten-year-old Shimon, was in the living room taking inventory of his stock of novelty toys for an upcoming yard sale, while his six-year-old brother, Yehuda, played baseball on the front lawn with potential customers. I had the easier job — entertaining one-year-old Dovid, while Stewie did his chef thing.

After dinner, as I cleared the table, I heard my sons’ raised voices. The argument was escalating. “Boys,” I gently reminded them, “you’re not getting along now, but you’ll see — when you grow up, you’ll be best friends!”

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