by Tziri Frank

Rules, Rules, and More Rules

Proper writing rules (regulations) dictate that I should have a suitable introduction to inform my readers what my subject will be. But, when you are limited to a word count, as I am, you have to make your own rules (policies).

So I’m doing without.

Many moons ago, my husband and I were young and energetic, full of grandiose plans, daring schemes, and the innocent ignorance to pull them off. And so it came to pass that on one very early Succos morning, we decided to make the biannual pilgrimage known as the Chol Hamoed Trip. We loaded up our jumbo-sized blue jalopy with all the food we could pillage from my in-laws’ refrigerator. Then we set off.

“It’s nice to have some quiet, after the hectic first days at your house,” I commented as we waited for a double-parked garbage truck to allow us to pass through a narrow street in Boro Park.

“Almost too quiet,” agreed my husband. “Why isn’t Yossi making any noise?”

At this, we both glanced into the back seat only to discover that, apparently, our severely mentally and physically handicapped 2-year old son had been left behind at Bubby and Zaidy’s house to fend for himself.

We made a quick U-turn and headed straight back to the old homestead. After a tearful reunion (and maybe some funny looks from my mother-in-law), we lovingly put Yossi and all his myriad medical equipment into the car.

“Are you sure you can manage Yossi all by yourselves?” asked Bubby Frank apprehensively.

“We would love to come and help you take care of our favorite nephew,” offered all six of my sisters-in-law.

“Er, um…,” murmured the husbands of the two who were married.

I looked at my husband and he looked at me, and in the universally unspoken language of matrimony we came to a quick conclusion. It is an understood rule (tenet) that extra pairs of hands are usually helpful pairs of hands, and some extra pairs of helpful hands sounded pretty handy right about now. And so, after some minor maneuverings, we loaded two sisters-in-law (sorry, Devorah and Chani!) and their very small overnight bag into the back seat of our rattletrap automobile.

Once more, we started off. This time, we were able to actually traverse one whole avenue block before we were again stuck behind what seemed to be the same garbage truck. Something about the glares we got from the hard-working city employees manning the vehicle made me stop and think.

“You know…,” I mentioned somewhat hesitantly.

Four pairs of questioning eyes turned in my direction. Yossi seemed more concerned with eating his fists.

“It is, like, an unwritten rule (decree), that if you take your sisters on a Chol Hamoed trip,” and here I gestured to the two hovering in the back seat, “than you also must take at least two of my sisters. Family rules (you better or else!), you know.”

“OK,” agreed the two young ladies in the back seat, “as long as you don’t want us to get out!”

“OK,” agreed my husband, happy to have an excuse to break a majority of driving rules (laws).

In no time at all, he backed up onto the sidewalk, made an illegal U-turn, and headed back down the narrow one-way street in the wrong direction. Mere moments later, we screeched to a halt outside my mother’s house.

“OK!” chortled the two of my three sisters who were chosen to come. (Sorry, Shani!)

Somehow, we were able to squeeze in two of my skinny sisters and their oversized carry-on bag. And there we were, two adults, one special-needs youngster, and four babysitters. Once more, we set off.

When we first got on the highway, we had no idea where we were going.

“I just want to head south towards the sunshine,” I commented, still shivering at the memories of eating in the Succah over Yom Tov.

“We just want to stay away as long as possible,” offered one set of sisters.

“Roller coasters and rides would be fun,” volunteered the second set of sisters.

“Colonial Williamsburg it is,” ruled (decreed) my husband.

And we were on our way.

A mere five hours later, we pulled into the parking lot at a large amusement park in Virginia. To our delight, the parking lot was empty--save for a motley assortment of dirty pickup trucks and farm vehicles. In no time at all, Yossi was put into his special stroller, and with all four loving aunts flanking him, my husband and I led the way inside the park.

The first ride we came to was aptly named, “The Wild Ride.” Since there was no line for the medium-sized roller coaster, we naturally made a beeline for it.

“I probably can’t take Yossi on a ride like this,” I commented, as I enviously watched the rest of the group jump on the waiting tram.

“Probably not,” they all agreed, without even a backward glance. (So much for help!)

“I’m sure it’s against some park rule (statute) to take a handicapped child on a ride,” added my husband helpfully.

“No, it’s not,” said the sweet 17-year-old in charge.

“Do you mean to tell me that I can take Yossi, who cannot sit by himself, on this roller coaster?” I questioned in confusion.

“The rules (directives) of the park say that we cannot discriminate against developmentally challenged individuals,” explained the age-challenged teenager who now controlled my immediate future. “If you can hold your child securely in a seat, then he can go on the ride.”

And we did.

All throughout that day, Yossi was bounced around on one ride after another as we all enjoyed a perfect Chol Hamoed trip. Surprisingly enough, the fact that he was completely immobile and had very poor head control did not in any way mean that he was unable to ride the various attractions. And so, we laughed our way through all the rides in the park, starting with the most adventurous and winding down to the calmer coasters. Eventually, the only ride that was left was the carousel.

“Hurry, hurry. I’m sure Yossi will love riding a horse,” I pronounced as I carried him toward the gate.

“Uh… just a minute,” interrupted a strange voice.

I looked up in surprise to find a matronly figure dressed in the park uniform blocking my way.

“Is there a problem?” I asked politely.

“I should say so,” declared the woman, looking pointedly at Yossi.

I looked at Yossi, I looked at all the people with me, and then I looked back at the lady.

“I really don’t see the problem,” I commented, a tad less politely.

With this the park attendant harrumphed rather huffily. Once more, she glared at Yossi. Then, she glared at me.

“Rules (imperatives) are rules (control)!” she proclaimed.

“Oh, that,” I said, not very politely at all. “Don’t worry, I will hold Yossi very securely on the horse for the duration of the ride. I’ve had a lot of experience with it today!”

Once more, Yossi and I were subjected to a glower. This time, my husband was included as well.

“Rules (canons) are rules (power)!” repeated the park employee adamantly.

“How about if I hold Yossi on one of the stationary chariots on the carousel?” offered one of the sisters helpfully.

At this, the woman threw her hands up in disgust. She heaved a great sigh of exasperation and placed her fists on her ample hips.

“I really don’t care where you plan to hold ‘Yossi’ on the ride,” she said vehemently. “He is not getting on this ride because the park rules (management) will not allow it!”

After a day spent enjoying all the attractions, this was hard to understand.

“What rule (dictate) is that?” we all questioned in unison.

Once more, the large-boned woman eyed Yossi from his head to his toes. Then she pointed to his feet.

“That,” and here the attendant pointed at Yossi’s white sweat socks, “is why this child will not be riding the carousel.”

Six sets of eyes gazed from the tips of Yossi’s perfectly clean socks to the stern look on the ride-ruler’s (boss’) face.

“Huh?” we all said in unison.

With a deep sigh of resignation at all the trouble we were causing, the harassed woman elucidated. “Park rules (bylaws) state that no individual may ride an attraction without proper attire. This child,” and here, once again, Yossi’s toes were carefully scrutinized, “does not have shoes on.”

“Well, yes,” I interrupted, “but the outfit was bought at one of the better Boro Park boutiques, and I can assure you it is very expensive!”

“I can assure you of that, too,” piped in my husband.

By the look of consternation on her face, we clearly had not impressed the park attendant. Once more, she gave a deep sigh and pointed to a rather large sign hanging prominently over the entrance to the carousel.

“Park signs clearly explain that shoes are a necessary form of attire. Your son is only wearing socks, so clearly he cannot get on the ride,” she said with finality.

And he didn’t. No amount of explaining, begging, or bribing could convince the adamant rule-abiding (stubborn) worker that a child who had ridden various roller-coasters and other fast moving attractions probably would not find riding a stationary horse all that difficult, even without shoes.

To this day, Yossi, who has never even come close to taking any steps, always has shoes on his feet, because I have learned that you never know when you will need them.

Besides, fashion dictates (rules) that shoes are the necessary accessory to complete an outfit!

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Tziri Frank is a proud mother of five beautiful children. She uses her experience with her own special child to inspire others in a thought provoking and often entertaining way.