“Bobby?!” She’s incredulous. “Really? It’s so…” She doesn’t finish the sentence

I’m babysitting my newborn grandson for the first time. He’s barely six weeks old, attempting to crank out his first wavering smile.

I pull up to our house, and I’m unbuckling his carrier from the back seat when Naomi, one of my neighbors, walks by.

“He’s so sweet!” she exclaims.

I couldn’t agree more.

I’m puffed up like a proud peacock showing off his fine feathers. I should be wearing a T-shirt that proclaims “New Grandma,” although the beaming smile on my face says precisely that.

I tell Naomi that I’m babysitting, that my daughter had a “night out” with the staff at the elementary school where she’s the first-grade teacher. I explain that she decided it would be good for her to go, even though she’s officially on maternity leave.

“Amazing, so baby gets a night out with Savta!” she says.

Most of our neighborhood is comprised of olim, native English-speakers. We all made aliyah about 15 years ago, more or less. In those days, these streets were crammed full of our noisy kids playing jump rope and basketball and Capture the Flag.

In recent years, a relative quiet has settled, as the kids grew up, got married, moved away. Quiet, that is, until the ranks of boisterous grandchildren began arriving, bli ayin hara. Naomi’s house often sounds closer to a zoo when her marrieds descend on her, grandchildren in tow.

Yet all these years in, we’re still primarily an English-speaking community, for better or for worse. Some of us shop on Amazon or have people bring in our favorite brands when they return from trips to America. Some of us still think in dollars or work online for American businesses. I only just recently became a full-blooded Israeli when my beloved and enormous Maytag washing machine finally gave its last breath. In its place now sits a tiny, compact eight-kilo European model that takes three hours and 20 minutes to wash four pairs of socks. (Oh, but those socks were never so clean!)

But I lose my train of thought. (I’m allowed to! I’m a grandmother!)

Ah, yes, Savta.

I think as much as we all love our little Anglo corner of Israel, we feel somewhat embarrassed of our failure to fully integrate. And for many of my friends, being called Savta is the go-to remedy for that stigma. “See, they call me Savta. I’m sooooo Israeli!”

My own daughter had actually gone ahead and married an Israeli boy who didn’t speak a word of English, something that sent shock waves through our community at the time. So it was natural for Naomi to assume I’d gone the Savta route.

“Oh, I’m not Savta,” I say.

She’s surprised.

“Grandma? Nanna?” she asks.

Nope.

“I’m Bobby!”

“Bobby?!” She’s incredulous. “Really? It’s so…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

I finish it for her. “I know. You don’t have to tell me. It’s so alte heim. But if you knew my two bobbies, if you could have seen them only once, you’d understand.”

And I tell her all about them.