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rowing up with four sisters, I didn’t have much to do with boys. Until I got married, that is.

A husband is a man — not quite a boy — and even if he does leave his socks and shoes around, he doesn’t love mud. So life was good. And then we had our first son and then another, and last month we celebrated our newest baby with a shalom zachar and bris. Oh, boy.

Mud? You bet! And smelly sneakers. And my boys share chewed gum when I’m not watching — just for kicks!

After the birth of our third son, an acquaintance texted me: “Mazal tov! You are so the type to have boys. You’re so calm!” I laughed. Me? Clearly, she doesn’t know me very well. If there was a “type” for me, it would be docile female bookworms curled up on the couch.

Instead, my home thrums with the energy of joyful music, wooden spatulas drumming on my garbage can, and the thumping of sneaker-clad feet. Jumping is like walking in our house. The rule is: You can jump, just don’t get hurt! My boys jump from couch to ottoman to recliner in the living room. They jump on beds, on their trampoline, on their oversized bean bag, and on each other.

Climbing, too, is a constant: on my counters, on the table, in the food pantry, over the freezer, on the windowsills and dressers. My boys are always testing me — I’m just not sure if they’re testing my patience or my reflexes, or both.

I’m learning on the job. And it’s been quite a learning curve!

Last week I took my sons out for a bike ride. My upsheren boy is just getting used to the pedals and I was helping him along as my oldest rode past us. Since we live on a corner, I watched him turn the bend and assumed he was waiting on our porch. When we got closer, a muted yelp escaped my lips when I saw him actually standing on the roof of my Honda Odyssey.

Inside our home, the walls are testimony to my children’s handiwork. There is always a small pile of plaster to be swept up somewhere in our house and our walls are pocked with holes just the size a fork or plastic screwdriver can create. When my husband and I house-hunt, we find ourselves talking about paint jobs, fixing up rooms, and doing construction; but sometimes we catch ourselves and laugh. Who are we kidding? We have our very own demolition crew, in-house!

My living room has become a baseball diamond; our broomsticks, hockey sticks or golf clubs (depending on the ball, of course); and the bookcase, a climbing wall. Yet you can still find some moments when my boys are cuddled close to me on the couch as I read them a story. We have a secret word that they whisper to me with their hands gently cupped around my ear that means “I love you” in Afghani. Sometimes they sprawl on the floor drawing pictures to hang on our fridge, and sometimes, we just sit and talk. My boys are curious and their questions are great. They want to know where trucks sleep when they aren’t working, how pipes connect, and why the recliner isn’t a good vault to jump off.

And then there are the heart-in-my-throat moments as my boys scooter past the kitchen. Full throttle straight ahead, and — boom — that’s just how they stop. Not slowly, not using the break; my sons just go straight into a wall, absorb the shock, and make an about-face for another round.

Mud? You bet! And ruined furniture. And ice cream snowball party/fights at 6 a.m.

I have shoe polish handprints on my bedroom linen from one incident, black pen inscriptions on our leather recliner, and many an item irreparably cut with scissors — from new sneakers, old comfy PJs, chairs, not to mention brothers’ hair. (At least that grows back!) I have found little boys and candle wax (!) on Yom Tov.

Apparently, sink water can reach just about anywhere in our kitchen once the faucet is pulled, pointed in any direction and turned on at full force. The floors have been flooded — not only with water, but also with orange juice, milk, and grape juice. We’ve had boys swinging at light bulbs and then shards of glass; but at least there’s always a new story to share with my coworkers.

And when April comes every year, I find myself throwing out pairs of pants almost nightly. Somehow, little knees peep though shredded holes on every pair we own. I did learn a tzitzis trick, though — by using clear nail polish on the knots and ends, the tzitzis stay knotted and the ends don’t unravel.

There are certainly some perks. Like when I make it to shul for Mussaf with my boys and they sit with their Tatty, and I daven — concentrating on the words rather than a little person’s tug at my skirt. And Minchah on Shabbos when my husband will take one boy along with him to shul as a special treat. My boys love going to shul with Tatty and kissing the Torah. They sit quietly through the davening, and I do too; sprawled on my couch at home, I read and relax and absorb the quiet.

And even amid the everyday hustle, I often see glimpses of gentle hearts and big people in little bodies.

Shlomo comes home from school saying, “Mommy, a fly swatter is tzaar baalei chayim.” I grit my teeth as a fly zooms in and out of the kitchen. Zevi brings his little cousin a stuffed animal and plants a kiss on her cheek when she comes to visit, while Shlomo lies down opposite her on the floor to get her attention, and my sister and I watch a smile burst through the baby’s pout.

I watch my boys tumble over each other, first laughing and then mad at each other. But when Zevi bumps his head and begins to cry, Shlomo is back with Zevi’s gray blanket, offering his own prized fidget spinner as consolation. Then, before I can even kiss the booboo away, Shlomo and Zevi are back on the floor tugging and rolling and laughing again.

Shlomo takes his role as big brother very seriously. Zevi is happy to play his role as little brother, and both bask in their positions as they look out for one another, offering protection and awe.

My three-year-old also professes his love to me: “I love you up to the moon and on top of the rainbows.” Some days he loves me “up to Hashem.”

One morning as I was driving Shlomo to school, he threw a question at me: “Mommy, did you want me to be a boy or a girl?” As I finished buckling his seatbelt, I kissed his forehead and replied, “Shlomo, my love, I wouldn’t have you any other way!”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 595)