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,
Whipped them all soundly, and sent them to bed.
A shoe? A shoe? Who lives in a shoe, right? Let’s look at a starter house, something older, good neighborhood, I said. But my ex-husband, the god damned dreamer! “Would you look at that, a shoe! How fantastic is that!?!” he says. “Let’s just look at it”, he says. And God help me, I love the guy, so we go look at it. He’s so friggin’ happy, I get all caught up and before you know it, we’re signing mortgage papers and moving in.
Right from the beginning, I know this is gonna go wrong. The eyelets leak every time it rains. Just try getting “shoe-owner’s” insurance. And the whole place smells like god damned foot. Then I find out I’m knocked up. Dreamer boy has to go out and get a real job. The kids just keep coming; turns out we’re more fertile than an Egyptian delta, for Christ’s sakes. Then he comes to me one day, out of the blue, and says things are a little too “real” for him. That it gets awfully real when you come home every day from a job that feels like a strait jacket to 8 screaming kids, a wife who does nothing but shriek at you, and another night’s sleep in a used boot. And then one day the little bastard just doesn’t come home.
Long story short, I end up on welfare, just trying to get to the end of every month before the money runs out. There’s been times I’ve had to make one pot of chicken noodle soup and a loaf of bread last for 4 days. By day 2, the bread was gone. By Day 4, there were no more noodles, and I had to just hope the kids didn’t notice.
It’s not like I can afford to put them in activities. Soccer, swimming, hockey? Yeah right, maybe for rich little buggers. My kids have to amuse themselves. The older ones invented this game where they swing off the boot laces. Just about stops my heart every time. But it keeps ’em out of my hair for a little while, and I sure as hell need them out of my hair once in a while. If I had known how it was going to end, I swear I would have stopped it. Jake is only 3, but bless his heart he thinks he’s a teenager like his big brothers. I hear a scream, I look out, and he’s coming at me with a face full of blood. That’s how it happened. Just like I said. And now I’ve got the God damned social workers on my case, wanting to know if I beat my kids. Of course I don’t. They’re all I’ve got. Besides this piece of crap shoe.