“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!”
“What Sloan?!”
“We caught another one!”
With a slight medium insane amount of trepidation, I walked slowly down the stairs where my kids knealt in front of a near decapitated mouse hanging off the trap. Flecks of peanut butter clung to its whiskers, a fact that did not excape Sloan and Tia.
“Look mom, look at the peanut butter on his mouth,” Sloan said. Is that delight I hear in his voice?
“Eeeeewwwww,” Tia said, giggling. Well, at least she has common sense enough to think it’s gross. “I touch it,” she cried, her little finger edging toward the mouse.
“NO,” I yelled calmy said. “Don’t touch it – I’ll get a bag to throw it away.”
As I lifted the trap off the floor, the mouse’s feet swung off the end of the trap and it’s tail hit my wrist. With a yelp, I threw it back down and leapt to my feet. My kids screamed and jumped too. Yes, I am passing on my neurosis to my offspring. Yay me!
I stared at the mouse for a moment, visions of his little eyes popping open and and his little mouth issuing out a war cry to his little friends, who would then swarm my house and take me captive.
“Mom?” Sloan’s voice broke me out of my horror. “I’ll pick it up for you if you want.”
I hesitated for only a moment, then decided, yes, this is good. Kids need responsibility, they need to feel like they are helping around the house.
And so my five year old disposed of the mouse for me. And I felt a mixture of relief and shame that I let him do it. But you know he did feel really good about the fact that he had done a “daddy job” and I for one am glad to have given him that boost in self esteem. I’m a good mommy.
In case you’re wondering, that’s the ninth mouse we’ve caught in or around our house. Maybe tenth. It’s hard to remember. Apparently there’s a colony all trying to infiltrate. We’ve sealed up the dog food tight in the garage, but I’m still finding dog food in my laundry, which leads me to believe that they have a surplus somewhere, which naturally leads to the idea that they are gathering arms to lay siege upon us and take over our house one and all.
And, if it comes down to that, they can have it. I surrender. I’m a pansy…
Anyway – we’ve got glue traps, mouse traps and poison and we’ve caught several mice with each of those contraptions. Even the dog caught one, delightedly dropping it’s mangled, bloodied body at my feet as if looking for a reward. Yeah, I handled that great – I think I clamped my jaw down so hard that I chipped a tooth in my attempt not to spew chunks all over the place.
I hate mice. I don’t think they’re cute or cuddly. I think they’re scary and ugly and if one scurries across my foot while I’m gathering laundry there’s a good chance I’ll break my neck trying to get away. And I am pretty sure these mice aren’t going away. I wonder if I should charge them rent…
You think I’m kidding, but I’m pretty sure I heard the mournful strains of Somewhere Out There last night as I fell asleep.
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