We’re sitting around the Shabbos table, my husband and I, the grandparents, our married couple and the grandkids. Three-year-old Mimi sits on her knees, sampling tomatoes from her plate. Behind her is a crinkled bag with prizes she harvested from my mauve-covered container. She has lots of prizes. A million more than her siblings who followed the rules and took one big one, one small one, and two erasers.
There’s banter around the table as the salad gets passed and served from bowl to plate to palate.
A soft crinkle, a moment of pause, and Mimi erupts. “Waaaa! Malka took my balloon!”
A shadow flits by with a rubbery thing, grey and deflated.
I move right in. “Malka, that’s Mimi’s; give it back.” As if she doesn’t know the obvious. The kid scrunches up her face, emits a tight, sly giggle, and conducts a tiptoe dance around the table. All adults glance up.
My husband is out of his seat. His tone is soft and direct. “What’s making it hard to give back the balloon, Malka?”
The entire table stops, Malka included, mid-poise. “Mimi has a lot of prizes already.”
Oh!
Right!
My good Samaritan act to let Mimi keep the million prizes she took, because the poor little kid doesn’t understand numbers, busted. And in the debris of my goodwill is a young sister who also doesn’t understand that her poor little sister doesn’t understand.
And she, like all kids her age, doesn’t have the words to tell the complicated story of injustice and anger and feelings of bubby loves Mimi more than me. So, she did what all smart kids do. Take action.
I hand her those elusive words she seeks. "You also want to have a lot of prizes.”
Her lips purse together.
“And it’s so not fair that Mimi has more than anyone else.”
Eyes rise, followed by brows that hit her hairline.
I pause. Let it sink in. “I love all of you so much.”
Shlomo sits up from his perch. “She can’t have more prizes.” He’s the justice warrior like boys his age are. Malka elaborates on his point, and all eyes turn towards me.
