There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In a Shoe



old-woman-shoe-vintage-image-graphicsfairy004c (1)There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.*

–Mother Goose

*(I’m stating the obvious here but the aforementioned old woman not only seems to have made a bad real estate choice but she sounds like a real bitch, not to mention a child abuser.)


I have one child. Easy to count.  One.  She is my ONLY child.  She lives in my house.

At work, I have 30 “children.”  THIRTY.  They live in the sober living program where I work, 5 days a week.  They are men, average age of 30.  When they all start coming “home” at the end of the day, it is utter chaos.  It’s not bad chaos exactly.  In a bizarre way, it’s somewhat amusing.

When my daughter, my own flesh and blood comes home, I never know quite what I’m going to get.  She’s 14.  She either grunts at me or comes over, gives me a hug, and says “I love you mom.”  The men can’t really hug me and say that (although I certainly know the ones who would) and if they grunt they get called on it.

Other than this disparity, I’m living both lives in some bizarro parallel universe.  Here are the things I say in both places:

“Your room likes like a bomb exploded.”

“Are you REALLY going to leave your plate on the couch?”

“Put your phone away.”

“Get your wet towel off the floor.”

“Make your bed.”

At home, I usually get ignored and threaten some sort of consequence.  At work the guys can get written up and and if they keep doing it, we have a version of being grounded for a weekend day where they have to do pretty much what we tell them to do.  If it really gets out of hand they can be discharged from the program.  (This did happen with one of the guys when it became a big “fuck you” to staff.)  I can’t “discharge” my child from my house, as much as I’d like to sometimes.

The guys are great negotiators.  One night I was literally in the middle of a circle of 6 guys slowly crowding in on me with them begging to let one of them move into another’s room.  “Please Gayle…pretty please?”  At home, it’s “Please Mom, can you buy me Fruity Pebbles, just once?  Pretty please.”

Sometimes, when one of the guys misses some sort of deadline or another, usually to slip in a request for a late night or overnight, they might say “Gayle, can you just pretend I got it in on time?”  When my daughter does something like gets a bad grade, she might say, “Mom, can you please not tell Dad?”  Generally, unless it’s some major infraction, I cave in both places.  I am a total sucker.

The guys exhaust me but they make me laugh.  My daughter exhausts me and has been known to make me cry in utter frustration.

I recently discovered that there was a Christian version of the same rhyme,  a much softer version indeed:

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children,
And loved them all, too.
She said, “Thank you Lord Jesus,
For sending them bread.”
Then kissed them all gladly
and sent them to bed.

Well, Jesus isn’t actually “sending” my daughter bread.  I drag my ass to the supermarket, fling a loaf in my cart, and wait in long lines to pay for it.  One of my coworkers shops for the guys, so Jesus has nothing to do with that either.  However, no matter how angry, I do kiss my daughter “gladly” while she’s already in bed sulking.  And when I leave work at the end of the day, I do a walk through the house and gladly say goodnight, to my other “children.”

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