A couple of days ago my fifteen-year-old son was analyzing poetry for his English class. I think he was supposed to choose a poem, explain its meaning, and describe how he related to it on a personal level. So I have decided to do the same. Being a mom to seven children who have all kinds of special needs and talents, I’ve chosen a poem that I deeply relate to.
There was an old woman…
Now wait just a minute. Even though I relate to this nursery rhyme, I take issue with the word “old.” Why are women with lots of kids automatically ancient? Hey, I’m younger than Demi Moore and Madonna. What “old woman” in her right mind would be raising so many children? This is no task for the elderly. Just because I have a few gray hairs and I’m nearly four decades old doesn’t mean I’m geriatric.
who lived in a shoe…
I think that any house with seven children would start to feel like a shoe after a while– cramped, banged-up, and full of mysterious odors. Remember that well-worn shoes are also very comfortable, as long as guests aren’t expected. “Welcome to my shoe.”
who had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.
Alright, I’ll admit this feels true at times. When you have to drive a twelve-passenger van around town (wearing sunglasses for anonymity), you’ve got a whole lot of kids. And there’s typically three or four kids from the neighborhood tagging along, but I don’t often notice.
I’d be a millionaire, outright, if I had a quarter every time I heard the word “Mom” in a day. (My children believe, despite my insistence to the contrary, that I can hear and participate in multiple conversations at once.) I’d also love to get five bucks for every gasp I hear from strangers as my children follow me around town like ducks in a row. On Hollywood boulevard, we were like the circus. “Holy cow…Lady, are those all your kids?” “What the—?” Even funnier were the looks I got the other night at a restaurant when I was asked the ages of my children. My response almost sounded like a countdown:
“Fifteen.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Ten.
Seven.
Three.”
she gave them some broth, without any bread…
My kids understand broth without bread. It’s impossible to keep bread around at our house. Don’t laugh… do you know how much bread we go through in a week? About six loaves. I kid you not. And once we’re out, the situation becomes desperate. “MOOOOoooom! We’re out of bread!” That’s when things get ugly.
and whipped them all soundly…
Okay, it’s clear this nursery rhyme was written in the stone age. Did kids used to be whipped? Nobody did the “time out” thing or the “naughty stool” thing? Were whippings just as standard as brushing your teeth? “Come on, kids, it’s bedtime…now line up for your whipping.” Maybe it’s just a meter issue. “Put them in time-out all soundly,” or “Put them on the naughty stool all soundly,” doesn’t fit, rhythm-wise. Or maybe it’s a typo. It should say, “Wiped them all soundly.” I certainly could relate better to that line.
and put them to bed.
A lovely end to this poem. The sound of seven children snoring is music to my ears. And now, this old woman is checking out, too.
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here. Some links on this blog may have been generated by outside sources are not necessarily endorsed by Kristyn Crow.
Why don’t you check out some of my “OLD” blogs:
Ten Signs that Your Spouse May be Cheating
Mom, It’s Time For Your Homework
You Know You and Your Hubby Have Lost Touch When…