Much to my chagrin, I discovered that boys also whine! Who knew? In addition to whining, they also climb on tables, inflict physical harm on one another, invite constant danger, and endure multiple injuries. One of my sons got stitches so many times on the same spot on his chin that we lost count (was it five? Six?), and the last time my husband just closed it up with some good ol’ crazy glue.

When my oldest son became bar mitzvah, it was quite a thrill. Besides seeing him in that cute little hat and suit, and hearing him recite his leining like a pro, all of a sudden there were two “men” at our Shabbos table. This meant that all we needed was one male guest and we had a full-fledged mezuman.

Life was good.

We waited with bated breath for my second son to become bar mitzvah. After so many years, we would finally be blessed with our very own, in-house, constant mezuman each and every week. What could be holier than that? Yes, one would think….

The first week went swimmingly. And the week after that as well. But by the third week, things started getting sticky. Were they actually arguing over who was going to lead the bentshing? Yelling and throwing things across the Shabbos table in an effort to secure the zechus of leading a mezuman? Hmmm, this wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured it.

Week four had Son #1 wanting to leave early to meet his friends, so we were forced to make an early mezuman for him and then continue the meal.

Week five, as bentshing time rolled around, Son #2 was MIA. He was finally located conked out in his bed, so there went that mezuman.

Week six, Son #2 bellowed “Rabbosai nevarech” multiple times, each time putting the emphasis on a different syllable, (Rabbosai nevarech…Rabbosai nevarech… Rabbosai nevarech…) before anyone was prepared to answer.

Week seven, Son #1 wanted to leave early again, so he washed mayim acharonim, sat down in his seat while my husband was in the middle of giving a devar Torah, and repeatedly “nu-nu”-ed until everyone chapped that he wanted to bentsh and leave.

Week eight, Son-Who-Shall-Remain-Numberless was in a less than chipper mood and barely answered, mumbling some sort of response under his breath.

And on it goes. These days I’m used to the madness, and I’m more surprised when the mezuman goes smoothly than when issues crop up.

Now, Son #3 is well on his way to becoming mezuman-worthy, but I’m keeping my expectations low. I’m thankful for my house full of “men” and wonder if the day will come when the question of who leads the mezuman will arise, and I’ll have five boys asserting: “You start the mezuman.”

“Oh no! It’s your turn. I did it last week. Please… you first….”

“Don’t be silly, you’re older. It wouldn’t be fair….”

Until then, when things get hairy, I have an urge to pick up a bentsher and just call out, “Rabbosai nevarech!”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 926)