Mother goose custody case
Created | Updated Jul 12, 2023
The Mother Goose Custody Case
The goose walked hesitantly into the social worker's office. She sat down and arranged her shawl. The social worker rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Goose," he began.
"Oh, please call me Mother Goose," she insisted.
"All right, then, Mother Goose," he continued. "My supervisor and I have been pondering your case for some months now, and we're running out of options as we try to turn your chaotic family around. If we can't bring order to your family, your children will be sent to foster homes."
"I see," Mother Goose murmured, her head bowed with sorrow or fatigue (The social worker couldn't tell which). "Well, tell me this: do I not give them three square meals a day?"
The social worker knit his brows and leafed through his files. "I sent agent #613 to your house last May 27: you fed the entire family on broth without bread. Then you spanked them and sent them to bed. Inadequate nutrition, exacerbated by corporal punishment."
"Well, Father Goose had just absconded with every penny that was in my piggy bank," Mother Goose explained, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. "We weren't just living on a shoestring, we were living in the shoe itself."
"Mrs. Goose, you have *always* lived in a shoe," the social worker said, his face beginning to flush. "And even when you had enough money, your cuisine was hardly adequate. Last Christmas you let Jack Horner have a whole pie, which would have been loaded with saturated fat and white sugar, with no protein and few vitamins."
"I picked the plums myself," Mother Goose snapped. "They're loaded with antioxidants. And what do you *expect* to find in pies, especially at Christmas? Don't tell me you never have sweet treats during the holidays!"
"Well, yes, I do, but in moderation," the social worker conceded.
Mother Goose was not finished with her defense. "If your agent had come in the Spring, when the birds have returned from the tropics, I could have offered him a slice of my special pie that contains four and twenty blackbirds. You can't ask for better protein than that. Dessert was strawberry tarts baked by the Queen of Hearts herself."
"Agent 614 watched the meal from the street," the social worker said. "She was tipped off by a neighbor, who says that you don't cook your blackbird pies enough. Agent 614 observed that as soon as the crust was removed, the birds began singing. The SPCA was very indignant about that, but we were able to talk them into not filing charges, given that food was in such short supply in your family -- there are loopholes allowing indigent families to live off the land. Besides, blackbirds are not endangered. The tarts turned out to be stolen by a knave, whom we have not yet identified, though our sources tell us he is a cousin of yours."
The social worker paused to dig out another report. "Three months later, you served pease porridge in the pot nine days old. Nine days!" He could not help shuddering at the thought.
"Well, I see your point," Mother Goose said softly. "I am hoping that as my younger children reach working age they can get jobs and pitch in on the budget so we can eat better."
"This is another problem Im afraid," the social worker said. "Your eldest daughter, Bo Peep, has never held a job more than three days. 67 sheep ranchers have hired her. 67 is also the number of flocks that she has lost.
"That is not true!" Mother Goose snapped, her cheeks growing red. "Bo Peep has never lost even one sheep."
"Where do they go, then?"
"Why, they go with Mary, of course! They follow her to school, where the children fall asleep counting them."
"Mother Goose, Mary hasn't been to school in three years."
"Then they follow her wherever she *does* go. I keep telling Bo Peep to look for Mary, but she won't do it."
"And why is that?"
"They don't get along. Mary used to oversleep, so Bo Peep would sing 'lazy Mary, will you get up?' Then Mary started burying silver bells and cockle shells in her garden, so Bo Peep woud cut her feet on the sharp edges."
The social worker looked at his watch and sighed. "Mother Goose, your family has way more problems than that. Little boy blue keeps falling asleep while tending cows and sheep. Georgie Porgy has been canned from countless companies for sexual harassment. Then there's Billy Boy, alias Charming Billy, who's in jail for statutory rape and cherry pie theft. Little Miss Muffet won't work anywhere if there's a chance of encountering spiders -- as if there were any spider-free areas. Then there are Jack and his sister Jill, who fetched water from a hill for farmer Grundy. Not only wasn't there any water up there (it was a hill after all), but they fell down. They sued him for negligence, and he lost his shirt. The stress killed him last Sunday."
"Well, I have hopes for Litle Polly. She hopes to open a teahouse. And then there's my youngest, Humpty Dumpty, the smartest of the lot. The King asked him to reorganize his horses and men, and by jingo he did it perfectly."
"You are clutching at straws, sad to say," the social worker said, putting his papers into their folder. "Making tea is the *only* talent Polly has. We know, because we gave her a battery of aptitude tests. Humpty Dumpty is on lifetime disability after breaking his neck in that fall he took.
Mother Goose's phone rang. Whoever was on the other end had good news, judging by the smile that spread across her face. "That was my publisher," she explained after she hung up. "My new book has just gotten on the bestseller list, and Oprah is going to use it for her book club. The publisher thinks I may earn millions from it. Neither I nor my children will ever have to work again. In fact," she said, sending a malevolent glare at the social worker, "We're moving to another state as soon as possible, where bureaucrats like you can't can't take custody of children from nontraditional families like ours." She stormed out of the office.
As soon as she was gone, the social worker picked up his own phone. "Hello? Father Goose?" he said. "Good news. The state won't be prosecuting you for nonsupport after all. Mother Goose is riding high thanks to a publishing deal and Oprah's book club. You can sit on the beach and sing 'Pass me by' to your heart's content. You might even share some of the book money by writing your own version of what happened. I can give you the name of a publisher...."
THE END
The goose walked hesitantly into the social worker's office. She sat down and arranged her shawl. The social worker rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Goose," he began.
"Oh, please call me Mother Goose," she insisted.
"All right, then, Mother Goose," he continued. "My supervisor and I have been pondering your case for some months now, and we're running out of options as we try to turn your chaotic family around. If we can't bring order to your family, your children will be sent to foster homes."
"I see," Mother Goose murmured, her head bowed with sorrow or fatigue (The social worker couldn't tell which). "Well, tell me this: do I not give them three square meals a day?"
The social worker knit his brows and leafed through his files. "I sent agent #613 to your house last May 27: you fed the entire family on broth without bread. Then you spanked them and sent them to bed. Inadequate nutrition, exacerbated by corporal punishment."
"Well, Father Goose had just absconded with every penny that was in my piggy bank," Mother Goose explained, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. "We weren't just living on a shoestring, we were living in the shoe itself."
"Mrs. Goose, you have *always* lived in a shoe," the social worker said, his face beginning to flush. "And even when you had enough money, your cuisine was hardly adequate. Last Christmas you let Jack Horner have a whole pie, which would have been loaded with saturated fat and white sugar, with no protein and few vitamins."
"I picked the plums myself," Mother Goose snapped. "They're loaded with antioxidants. And what do you *expect* to find in pies, especially at Christmas? Don't tell me you never have sweet treats during the holidays!"
"Well, yes, I do, but in moderation," the social worker conceded.
Mother Goose was not finished with her defense. "If your agent had come in the Spring, when the birds have returned from the tropics, I could have offered him a slice of my special pie that contains four and twenty blackbirds. You can't ask for better protein than that. Dessert was strawberry tarts baked by the Queen of Hearts herself."
"Agent 614 watched the meal from the street," the social worker said. "She was tipped off by a neighbor, who says that you don't cook your blackbird pies enough. Agent 614 observed that as soon as the crust was removed, the birds began singing. The SPCA was very indignant about that, but we were able to talk them into not filing charges, given that food was in such short supply in your family -- there are loopholes allowing indigent families to live off the land. Besides, blackbirds are not endangered. The tarts turned out to be stolen by a knave, whom we have not yet identified, though our sources tell us he is a cousin of yours."
The social worker paused to dig out another report. "Three months later, you served pease porridge in the pot nine days old. Nine days!" He could not help shuddering at the thought.
"Well, I see your point," Mother Goose said softly. "I am hoping that as my younger children reach working age they can get jobs and pitch in on the budget so we can eat better."
"This is another problem Im afraid," the social worker said. "Your eldest daughter, Bo Peep, has never held a job more than three days. 67 sheep ranchers have hired her. 67 is also the number of flocks that she has lost.
"That is not true!" Mother Goose snapped, her cheeks growing red. "Bo Peep has never lost even one sheep."
"Where do they go, then?"
"Why, they go with Mary, of course! They follow her to school, where the children fall asleep counting them."
"Mother Goose, Mary hasn't been to school in three years."
"Then they follow her wherever she *does* go. I keep telling Bo Peep to look for Mary, but she won't do it."
"And why is that?"
"They don't get along. Mary used to oversleep, so Bo Peep would sing 'lazy Mary, will you get up?' Then Mary started burying silver bells and cockle shells in her garden, so Bo Peep woud cut her feet on the sharp edges."
The social worker looked at his watch and sighed. "Mother Goose, your family has way more problems than that. Little boy blue keeps falling asleep while tending cows and sheep. Georgie Porgy has been canned from countless companies for sexual harassment. Then there's Billy Boy, alias Charming Billy, who's in jail for statutory rape and cherry pie theft. Little Miss Muffet won't work anywhere if there's a chance of encountering spiders -- as if there were any spider-free areas. Then there are Jack and his sister Jill, who fetched water from a hill for farmer Grundy. Not only wasn't there any water up there (it was a hill after all), but they fell down. They sued him for negligence, and he lost his shirt. The stress killed him last Sunday."
"Well, I have hopes for Litle Polly. She hopes to open a teahouse. And then there's my youngest, Humpty Dumpty, the smartest of the lot. The King asked him to reorganize his horses and men, and by jingo he did it perfectly."
"You are clutching at straws, sad to say," the social worker said, putting his papers into their folder. "Making tea is the *only* talent Polly has. We know, because we gave her a battery of aptitude tests. Humpty Dumpty is on lifetime disability after breaking his neck in that fall he took.
Mother Goose's phone rang. Whoever was on the other end had good news, judging by the smile that spread across her face. "That was my publisher," she explained after she hung up. "My new book has just gotten on the bestseller list, and Oprah is going to use it for her book club. The publisher thinks I may earn millions from it. Neither I nor my children will ever have to work again. In fact," she said, sending a malevolent glare at the social worker, "We're moving to another state as soon as possible, where bureaucrats like you can't can't take custody of children from nontraditional families like ours." She stormed out of the office.
As soon as she was gone, the social worker picked up his own phone. "Hello? Father Goose?" he said. "Good news. The state won't be prosecuting you for nonsupport after all. Mother Goose is riding high thanks to a publishing deal and Oprah's book club. You can sit on the beach and sing 'Pass me by' to your heart's content. You might even share some of the book money by writing your own version of what happened. I can give you the name of a publisher...."
THE END
