An Old Woman

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.

      
       All right, maybe she wasn't technically old, but 33 was starting to feel like an eternity of life. The gray hairs were starting a full on take over, battle front has been established. Some days, she felt her 33 years, some glimpse slices of time she felt 20 again, but on the average she felt older, her life compartment filled to capacity.

       Although she loved shoes, she actually lived in the average house with a large yard that she staged her own terrorist war daily during the summer. She's an army of one, armed with bug killer, weed killer, grass mower, tree trimmers, fertilizers and well padded gloves for those unfortunate moments when the most hideous of invaders, worms, get the surprise on her.
      
       Inside her shoe, she's armed with bottles of 409 cleaner, Windex, Pledge, Cascade dish soap, and her choice weapon for mass destruction clean up, a vacuum. 

She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.

       Actually, she had the average American amount of kids. 2.2 Carefully looking around, she's deduced the .2 child is the one who forgets to put away the milk, the one who forgot to do her chores and the .2 child is the one who gets blamed for anything and everything child 1 and 2 don't want to claim responsibility for.

       The old woman never wanted to be average, but defying statistics wasn't meant to be. She didn't feel like seeking out a random sperm donor and she couldn't stomach seducing the X for one night of procreation. So dreams of 3, went away with the concept of time.

She gave them all broth, without any bread.

       This concept has it's merits, anything to stay out of a kitchen. Looks aren't the only thing genetically inherited. Domestic Cooking Goddess skipped the divine generation of Rebecca. She's at least kind enough to toss some chicken in with the broth! Hell, she'll even give them bread, she adore's her bread maker..............

Then whipped them all soundly, and sent them to bed.

       That Mother Goose has a wicked sense of humor. Actually, she believed thats what her daughters thought last night when instead of whipping them soundly, she pulled her first back to school card out last night.

"It's a school night, love ya, sweet dreams and WOOHOO!"
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       My 13 year old denied me for the first time ever, walking her into school this morning. Going into the 8th grade seems to have elevated her past the level of parental support. I understood. It's still fresh enough in my mind to remember the horrors of my parents actually attempting to play the parental role around my friends, school, and just about anything else I was involved in.

       I respected her request. Ouch.

       My 10 year old was up 2 hours early and ready to head to school 1 1/2 hours before school actually started. She is my little sponge and she was hoping her teacher would give her homework. I was allowed to walk her into school, help her pick her desk, and hang out for a bit.

       The other parents and I, we exchanged looks, that only a parent dropping a child off at school after a long summer could understand. Harried Mothers, with above average statistics safely tossed their numerous children into their perspective classrooms. Mothers like me glanced at the clock on the wall, waiting until it was official. When the alarm went off, you could hear the collective sigh of relief as us parents made our way out of the school. I think the only groans I heard were from the teachers.

       I never appreciated school, this much, when I was a child.

There is an old woman, who must dye her hair
She lives in a nice home and adores good shoes
She has her average 2.2 and continues to appreciate
She bought many cookbooks, and invited Chef Ramsey over
She kissed them good-bye, and gave condolences to the teachers
She ran right home, for a private happy dance
Today it's all good.