Since Darby was young, we’ve listened to audiobooks by Jim Weiss. He tells stories from all over the world in his own words, and one of our longtime favorites is what Weiss titles, “Things Could Always be Worse, a Jewish Folktale.”
It will be familiar. An unhappy man goes to see his rabbi.
“Rabbi!” he says, “My house is so small, my kids are so loud, my wife is so kvetchy! The dog is always under foot, yada, yada, yada…”
The rabbi responds, “Ah! I have just the thing,” and he tells the man to go home and bring the cow inside.
The man shrugs and does as the rabbi suggests. The house is louder (and probably smellier) than ever, so of course the man goes back to the rabbi.
Ringing any bells? Again and again, the rabbi orders more animals into the house, and every time the house gets louder. Finally, when not one more chicken, goat or duck could possibly fit, the rabbi says, “NOW KICK THEM ALL OUT!”
Out with the duck who laid eggs in the soup pot! Out with the goat who ate the candlesticks! Out with the chicken, out with the cow and out with the dog for good measure!
Well, never had the man known such peace. His children weren’t loud – they were joyful; his house a veritable palace; and his wife? Why, his wife just demanded to be treated with dignity and respect and equal justice under the law and that women’s rights are human rights!
In any case, we know the moral: it takes a little madness to appreciate the ordinary.
Enter: teenage houseguests.
Flashback to five years ago. That’s when we moved into our home – a lovely house on a leafy street where our then-first-grader could ride his bike to school.
There were three of us when we moved into this house, and there are five of us today; seven, if you count the dogs underfoot.
Flash forward to summer of 2026, when this full house found itself in the toughest time of the year. It’s the dog days of summer, camps have ended, the novelty of the pool has worn off, and childcare has just about dried up (with the exception of family to whom we are eternally grateful).
Everything was crazy. It’s as if we ran to our rabbi and said, “Rabbi, our house is so small, and the windows are original! Our kids are so loud with their punk rock and lack of voice modulation! The dogs are on a hunger strike until we switch their all-natural dog food from salmon to bison!”
It’s as if the good rabbi then replied, “Ah! I have just the thing!” and handed over a JCC Maccabi Games leaflet. “Go home and sign up to host two teenagers.”
And then, as if we’d shrugged and dutifully agreed, we found ourselves with two tall and hungry young men in our house.
Let me be clear: these young men were polite, patient and engaging – a true credit to their parents. Still, we’re unsure that they knew our names, as they only ever called us “bro.”
The additional food, laundry, transportation, luggage and noise – on top of baby shrieks, dirty diapers, pirate impersonations, band practices and dogs on hunger strike rendered our three-bedroom ranch louder, fuller, and quite possibly smellier than ever before.
Then it was as if someone said, “How can you make this louder?” Invite a friend to spend the night! (Nothing personal, Wes, we’re always happy to have you!)
“Don’t forget about the Maccabi Opening Ceremony.”
I’ll start the car!
“Don’t forget about Welcome Night at the middle school!”
Class schedule ready for walk-through.
“NOW STOP!”
And it did. In time for Shabbat, the boys went back to their own homes. The towels were finally picked up off the floor, and the teenager-scented bedroom was aired out. Everyone was home, and there were no extras. The recently-departed teenagers made our 12-year-old seem suddenly young and sweet. The dogs started eating again (we switched to bison).
Soon, the ordinary will start to feel a bit mad again. But after this summer, we know from experience: things could always be worse crazier.
