Trials of a Census Worker

From the second story window, I can see everyone who approaches my home. That doesn’t happen very often as of late, but it doesn’t stop me from looking.

Today is special, though. The census worker has come to call. I see him from the street, and I rush downstairs to meet him.

“Mrs. Wilhelm?” he says. He’s about thirty or so. Nice looking.

“Just ‘Miss,’” I say, “Never married.”

“Ms. Wilhelm,” he pauses a moment, “Does anyone else live at this residence?”

“My children.”

“Oh? And how many children?”

“Twenty-seven. Oh, here’s one of them now!” I pick up Mr. Snuggles.