Savta, Off Duty

I was wedged under a tilted ladder, catching grapes my son was dropping down from the top of our grapevines, when my two-year-old granddaughter, watching nearby, called out:

"Savta. Water." Oy.
"Savta. Water."

I was just about to figure out how to unmesh myself from the ladder situation when my five-year-old grandson called out, "I'll get it, Savta."

And he took off.

That didn't sound right to me. How was he going to get his sister a drink? He'd have to find a cup, reach the sink, fill it (well, at least an inch) and somehow get it to her without spilling. This was a two-part Savta job, minimum.

I got myself untangled and ran into the house. (Well, I was running in my imagination.)

And there he was. One leg on a stool, his knee on the sink, leaning over the water filter with a little black paper coffee cup. He had figured it out.

I was about to exclaim, "Amazing! What a boy!" when I felt my eyes getting misty instead. So I just said, "Thank you, darling. What a good brother."

SUDDEN INDEPENDENCE

We sat down to play one of the games I'd invented. A few minutes later, he disappeared. Then he returned, wiping his hands on his pants. He'd gone to the bathroom by himself. And washed his hands. Without a reminder. Without a single "Savta, come."

Had I been fired? Not exactly. Just quietly downsized.

Where had the "Savta, help" gone? The "Savta, read me a book"? I realized a whole slew of cherished little-kid jobs were disappearing off my desk - the potty songs, the swing pushes, the running into my arms at preschool pickup, the booster seat buckle, the hand held down the street. Those small, unglamorous tasks are part of what binds a grandchild to each of us. And in one splash of filtered water, I'd been quietly promoted to Consultant. Emeritus. On Retainer.

I felt sad. Also, oddly, proud.

A few minutes later, we went out to the porch where my son was helping us build our sukkah. My grandson watched for a minute and announced, "I can help." Of course he could. Every little kid wants to help.

Then he thought about it. "I left my tools at home," he said. "But I'll be able to figure it out."

I looked at him differently. I actually believed him.

Then a fly started dive-bombing my head. "Don't worry, Savta," he said. "That's my pet fly. I brought him from home."

B"H. The job may have changed. The boy hasn't.