A few months ago, before a trip to Thailand we had a similar dilemma, we chose to go with a stroller. But to avoid an unnecessary waste of money, we decided on the cheapest looking stroller in the store. The store attendant was shocked. The stroller was apparently on display for years, only to show young parents what stroller not to buy.

To make a long story short, on the first day in Bangkok, at the Old Palace, the stroller caved in. Guy disappeared in the wreckage and we had to get him out. We looked around, and when we thought nobody was looking, we left the collection of fabric and scrap metal near a relatively remote garbage can. The stroller survived the trip, but didn’t make the first day in Bangkok. R.I.P.

This time, for our trip to Hong Kong, we had the same dilemma. The stroller strategy won again, but this time, we went to the same store, and asked for the absolute best stroller. The attendant was contemplating whether or not to call Child Services, but the prospect of making a big sale convinced him not to. We took a brand new, Ferrari red, ship shape, spic n’ span stroller. A Rolls Royce. The mother of all strollers. We were happy. Sudden relaxation went through my shoulders.

Of course it didn’t fit in the trunk, and of course we had to check it in at the oversized luggage counter. But throughout all these small problems, we knew: Guy will not spend the day on his father’s tired and old shoulders. Or so we wished.

We picked up the stroller at the Hong Kong International Airport. Guy jumped in, and promptly disappeared within. A few minutes later, we realized, the Master Stroller caved in exactly like the old one. The thing never made it out of the arrival hall at the airport, we dumped it near carousel number 2.

If you are a world traveler, and you happen by an abandoned stroller, orphaned, standing alone in some corner, wondering why, you would know: the Hayardenys were here…

We are now considering artificial shoulders as an alternative.

Guy, by the way, was not unhappy with the results. He mentioned though, that when we get back to Beijing, he would want a new stroller. “No comment” was my answer.

Originally in Hebrew, here’s my own translation, the best I could come up with.  It didn’t have credits. I looked it up, and found none on the web either. If it’s yours, just say so and I’d be happy to add the credits. Thank you for touching…

Here it is:

I’ve been stuttering since I was four. When I was a child I stuttered a lot, to the point of losing the ability to speak at times. Besides this impediment, I was a very active kid, I had many friends, I was an excellent athlete, and a good student too. In short, I was quite a happy child. Yet, in every fight, every time someone wanted to hurt me bad, they always used the obvious: stuttering was always there for everyone to see. It always worked. Every single time.

One day, when I was six, I came home crying. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just kept crying. In the evening, my Dad came from work, my mother told him that I wouldn’t talk to anyone, and that I was crying hard since I came back from school. My father came into my room and asked me what happened. I didn’t answer. He asked again. I didn’t answer again. Finally I told him that I hated God. I think he took it pretty hard…

In the morning, my father woke me up with a story:

Up in the sky, he said, there’s a huge baby factory. All the angels work around the clock, manufacturing babies for the entire world. The pressure is enormous to meet the deadlines. They receive orders from China, Japan, America, Europe and Africa. even Australia.

There’s a lot of work, and little time, and everything must be precise. The angels have special recipes for the creation of all kinds of children. There’s brain material, beauty material, height material. There are raw materials for good traits, and raw materials for bad traits. Everything is precise. There are huge machines, the size of an entire room…

The angels work hard every day. Dawn to dusk. No breaks almost. Taking turns sleeping, and eating while standing up. All week long.

And then, on Friday, just before noon, a gentle bell rings. The angels turn the machines off, they turn off the lights at the factory, and they start getting ready for the Sabbath.

Every angel takes a hot shower, and then they all take a a nap. Just before the Friday night meal, the angels put on special wings, a glowing halo, and white robes. God prepares the meal, it is filling and tasty as it is beautiful. The angels tell stories, God does too. Everybody is busy singing and dancing. Then everyone clams down and they all go to sleep. After all, they are tired from a full week of hard work. In the morning, they sleep in…

God, though, isn’t sleeping. God doesn’t work on the Sabbath. He doesn’t make rain or shine, peace or war. He doesn’t make decisions or calls meetings. Everything is automatic. He’s bored…

So God sneaks out, when nobody looks, to the baby factory. He collects leftover raw materials from the angels’ workbenches, walks over to a corner, and prepares a child. On his own. And when God does something, he does it the best possible way. No recipe, no plan, but wholeheartedly. So he puts in more brains, more beauty, more personality. He only puts in good traits. But then, God realizes, that he has created a child too perfect. And he realizes that he can’t send a too perfect child into the world. Everyone would know right away that he’s been made by God.

So he creates a small imperfection. Unimportant, negligible… One of the children is a little short, the other is has a slight limp. One is cross eyed, and the other, well is stuttering.

Those kids are called the Children of the Sabbath. And you Michael, my father said, you are one of them…

Every time you see a child with a slight limp, a little cross eyed, a little short, or fat, or stuttering – don’t laugh, he may be a Child of the Sabbath. He may have been created by God Himself…