I will begin by saying that my mother has a sweet, beautiful soul. It will become apparent as you read this.
The other day a baby white-footed deer mouse (I researched – thank you Google) made its way into our kitchen via the garage. It is a field mouse. Not as gross as you think, but still… it’s a mouse. Blech! (We have never ever had a mouse in the house… EVER!)
I run to the store, buy some traps and put them under the sink cabinet because that’s where it ended up. Nothing for days, not even mouse poop. I was disappointed. I mean… cheese… crackers… crackers with cheese… nothing attracted this thing.
Last night I get home about 7:30. I’m downstairs getting some dinner while my mother is putting the children to bed upstairs. All of a sudden, I hear a blood-curdling scream coming from her bathroom.
Because I am a very caring individual, I start laughing hysterically, because I know the mouse is in her upstairs bathroom.
I run up the stairs only to hear my mother scream, “Go get the broom!”
I run back down the stairs to get the broom, run back upstairs.
My mother screams, “Did you bring both?”
“What the fuck! NO! You said bring THE broom. So I brought one.”
“Go get the other one,” she screams.
I’m still laughing.
I run downstairs, get the other broom and wait by her bathroom door. I am NOT going in there. I know… very… brave of me.
From the bathroom, my mother says, “Where the hell did it go?”
“Where was it?” I ask.
“The linen closet,” she responds.
“Fuck ME!” is my classy response. “Go through all the linens and find it,” the caring part of me says.
“Oh my God, I don’t want to,” whines my mother.
There is no way in hell I am going in that bathroom.
She starts to go through all the linens… then… a struggle accompanied by another blood-curdling scream.
As soon as I hear her scream, I jump on the chair outside her bathroom. I am still holding the broom
Again, I already know I’m brave. Thank you very much.
“What? What? What?” I start screaming.
“It’s under my broom and I can’t get it. It’s crying and I feel so bad,” she responds.
This is where my mother’s sweet soul comes in. She wants to capture it alive, without injury, and let it go – even though apparently you’re supposed to take it about two miles away.
Then she says, “Stop struggling stupid, I’m trying to get you out of here.”
YES! She is talking to the mouse.
Somehow, she looses track of it and I see a shadow run under the bathroom door toward our laundry room.
Again, the very courageous person in me jumps on the chair and starts SCREAMING.
I have never screamed so loud. I would have been amazing in a slasher movie.
When I feel it’s at a safe distance, I get off the chair and we start to look for it but can’t find it. We are sure it made its way back into the bathroom.
All of a sudden, my mother screams and I literally jump up on the commercial paper shredder we have.
I have NEVER moved so fast. At this time, I am also praying to God that the shredder is not on because my ass is literally on it.
We place about six sticky traps in our tiny laundry room, barred the door (hopefully really fucking well) and now we’re waiting.
Ahh! The waiting game.
My mother refused to use the sticky traps before. In fact, she asked me if the mouse gets stuck to them, how we unstick it. Please tell me you’re kidding mother.
Now, before everyone went to bed last night my mother asks, “What do I do if it sticks to the pads?”
“I don’t know mother, unstick it or get rid of it.”
“But why do I have to do it?”
This is where my genius comes in.
“Because you are my mother and I’m a girl. You still have to take care of me. If you had had boys, you would’ve asked them to do it.”
Ignore the fact that I am 40, yes FORTY, years old. Shut up!
My mother laughs, “Thanks a lot.”
“I have it pretty good,” I say, “I have boys, in my later years, if I see a mouse, I’ll just call one of the boys to take care of it. You had girls. Sorry!”
I was being sarcastic. Almost. I told you I was caring.
This morning, I take Michael to school and I’m about 20 minutes out when I get a call from my mother.
Shit! It’s about the mouse.
I reluctantly answer, “Hello?”
Pause… “It’s stuck and it’s crying,” she whines, “what do I do?”
The good person in me responds, “Throw it away, or unstick it if you want.”
“I can’t throw it away! He’ll die. How do I unstick it?”
“Mother, I don’t know, put gloves on and try to unstick him if you want in a field somewhere. Please don’t do it in the house or the back yard.”
About an hour later, I get back home, “What happened?”
My mother’s sad face says, “There was glue all over him, I unstuck him, but I don’t think he’ll live.”
Thank GOD! This I thought not said. My mother’s a softie.
I tell this story to my husband who said, “I am ashamed of both of you. I thought you were big and tough and strong,” he says to me.
“I’m big and tough and strong with fucking people, not mice,” is my truthful yet pathetic reply.
I’m glad the thing’s out of my house, even though it was cute. Michael, my seven-year-old, of course, wanted to keep it.
My mother is now bleaching our house.