Dear Diary,

So here’s the big surprise: my parents told me that we’re moving to Israel.

I can’t believe I didn’t think of this. They’ve talked a lot about the possibility of moving to Israel, but I never believed it was really going to happen. But today my parents said that we’re actually moving and I can officially tell all my friends. They said they’ve started to tell my family — my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and all my cousins.

I’m not sure how I feel about all this. When it was all just talk, it sounded fun and exciting. But now that I really have to leave my school and friends and house, I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, I know Israel is great and everything, but they speak Hebrew there — like, all the time. I know a little Hebrew, but I bet I’ll need to know how to say more than just kelev (dog), shulchan (table), and glidah (ice cream). I need to learn important words, like foul ball and touchdown. When I asked my father how to say different sports words in Hebrew, he told me that I might not need those words, because kids in Israel play different sports, like soccer. I guess I can learn to like soccer, but I already know that I LOVE baseball and football and that’s what I want to play!

My mother says I shouldn’t be worried because we’re moving to an “Anglo” neighborhood, where tons of kids speak English and they probably know how to play American sports, too. My little brother Gavi asked what Anglo means. My mother said it means people who speak English because they come from places like America, England, South Africa, and Australia. I think calling myself “Anglo” sounds like I’m a different species.

My mother could tell that I was getting a little nervous, so she suggested that when I tell my class the news, I should make the announcement fun and exciting. “Remember when that boy in your class moved to Ireland for a year and brought in cupcakes with green frosting for his goodbye party?”

“Yeah, that was awesome! Can we do that? Just not with the color green, obviously,” I said.

“I’m one step ahead of you, Binyamin,” my mother said. “I ordered special cupcakes for you and your brothers to hand out tomorrow.”

My two younger brothers and I raced into the kitchen to see what she was talking about. (Did I mention that I have an eight-year-old brother named Gavi and a six-year-old brother named Yehuda? We have a baby sister named Chani, but I guess she didn’t need any cupcakes for when she tells her friends about the move, because a) she can’t talk and b) she doesn’t really have any friends.)

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 776)