The kids wanted me to write them ‘good deeds’ notes to bring to gan. I scribbled one for Koala – he had cut the vegetables for dinner last night by himself. Then I asked Bebe what I can write for her.
“I shared my spoon with Koala!”
I started writing it and then looked up at my 5-year-old.
“How… how would I say share here?” It’s a verb I just can’t get right because it doesn’t translate the way you’d think it does.
They both answered immediately: “L’vatair!”
“L’vatair… right. So if I want to say ‘she shared,’ I’d say ‘hee vetra?'”
Koala looked over at Bebe, a smile slowly spreading across his face. I caught her mouth responding in a similar smile.
“Yeah… ‘hee vetRa’,” he responded, rolling the ‘resh’ correctly. This resh, or Ima’s lack thereof, has been a a cute source of contention lately.
As we’d say in Hebrew, nafal ha’asimon. I looked from one sabra to the other. It wasn’t the first time either had noticed my linguistic lacking (or pathetic pronunciation), but it was the first time they were in on it together.
In that moment, I could see the future. I could see that immigrant life as I’d known it till now is over. That look between my two children said everything; that look was the last stamp in my teudat oleh. My aliyah may now officially be declared successful.
“Hey. Both of you. Stop that smiling! I know what you’re thinking!”
My two Israeli children giggled and I tossed Bebe her note.
Native children ahad, Immigrant mother, efes.
But also probably a lot more than efes.
Living in Israel (and probably many other countries as an American expat) is an exercise in being happy with what you have, and I feel lucky to have even scratched the surface of that sentiment.