The Joy of Hebrew

Today, the middle son of my cousin will wear a yarmulke and a nice tallis, purchased at the temple gift shop.  He will say various things in Hebrew, none of which the SJG will understand, because no one ever forced me to learn it.  That doesn't mean I haven't forced my own sons to learn Hebrew.  I spent years and years schlepping the boys I birthed back and forth to Hebrew school against their will.  My chant: "You'll do it because I say so."  Do I miss those bonding moments, those years of schlepping and threatening and finding excuses for them to miss a day or a week of Hebrew School because they had (insert sport) practice and would be dumped from the team if they didn't show up?  Let me think about it.  Hang on.  I'd like to take a few minutes to reflect on this and get back to you.  Alrighty, I'm ready to answer.  No, I don't miss it, not for a second.  What I do miss is watching them get Bar Mitzvahed. A high point of my life.  It was all worth it, all the crying, the schlepping, the threatening.  Of course, I can re-watch it on video, assuming I can find it.  

And so, on the way over the hill and through morning traffic to reach the synagogue today,  the SJG will once again force the former Bar Mitzvah boys to practice Hebrew in the car.  They will moan and groan and say they don't remember anything.  But, as God is my witness, they will practice the aliyah, the blessing read before and after the current Bar Mitzvah boy reads from the torah, along with hubby and the SJG. We will sound good, we will sound prepared.  We're all in this together.