House Mouse

I spend a lot of time on here talking about the fun and glamorous parts of city life...the daily museum tours, the impromptu open-air concerts, the famous politicians in our building.  And I guess the less glamorous parts get a little airtime, too...the tiny quarters, the sky-high parking rates, the daily hassle.  But nevah have I evah experienced so unglamorous an aspect of city life as I did on Thursday.

Little Guy was playing next to my chair in the den, having abandoned the idea of napping that afternoon, and Buddy Boy was just beginning to stir in his crib.  Little Guy, being the doting big brother that he is, was thrilled to hear the baby's noises and ran to go welcome him up from his nap.  I leaned forward in my chair to get up, and at that moment--forever burned into my memory--saw a MOUSE in our HOUSE.  Eek!  Egads!  Ick!  Yuck!  Nasty!  Gross!  I screamed bloody murder and House Mouse turned right back around and ran away.

I ran to my room, grabbed Buddy Boy and a phone, and threw Little Guy onto my bed, telling him {a bit too dramatically, in retrospect} to stay on that bed until I told him to get down, so that the mouse wouldn't bite his toes.  Um, off.  Yes, I might have said so that the mouse wouldn't bite his toes off.

Then, Buddy Boy and I, perched on a toddler stool in the middle of the den, on the lookout for House Mouse, called:

First, my knight in shining armor, who, as always, willingly raced home from work to save the day.

Second, the front desk, to request a visit from our building's wonderful all-around problem-solver.

Third, my Mama, who is a great person to call when I am in hysterics, because she takes my hysterics, bumps them up a notch with her own, and totally validates our joint hysterics with extremely grim predictions of the misery that could befall us all, given the circumstances.

The Mister and the Problem-Solver arrived within minutes of each other, and began shining flashlights in dark corners and upending furniture.  All while Buddy Boy and I remained perched on the toddler stool, and Little Guy called from the bedroom, "Mommy, dey find de widdle mouse?" "Mommy, de widdle mouse going to bite my toesies?"  "Mommy, de widdle mouse still hiding?" I pestered the Problem-Solver with questions about how in the world we could have a MOUSE in our HOUSE, when--tops!-- we'd only ever seen two or three bugs in four years of residence.  And how in the world a mouse could even get in.  I received very few answers, my friends.

A fruitless search for House Mouse led to the Mister and Little Guy walking the two + miles to and from the hardware store {rush hour...quicker to walk...nowhere to park...city life issues, again} and purchasing thirteen mouse traps.

By this time I'd spoken again with Mama, who had convinced me that House Mouse may very well eat Buddy Boy as we all slept, and so had made call #4 to the leasing office, to request a guest suite for the night.  They very kindly and quickly obliged.  The Mister, upon his return from the trap expedition, may have rolled his eyes a bit when I told him we were moving out.  But it was a very sweet and loving rolling of the eyes.  And Little Guy all but refused to enter the apartment, trembling on the stairs, fearful for his toes.

So, the boys and I spent an extremely unrestful {but safe!} night in the guest suite, while the Mister manned the traps in our apartment.  Poor Little Guy, who slept with me, ran a fever and ground his teeth and called out in his sleep about mice and alligators, and woke several times to ask if there was a mouse in this house and told me he was "sick for de mouse" (translation: sick because of the mouse).  By morning, I'd decided that my poor child was in psychological distress {I'd like to blame House Mouse, but really, I think the fault lies with me and my lack of restraint}, and upon hearing that the traps were all empty, convinced the Mister to tell Little Guy that he had caught House Mouse and taken him back to his family.  Neither of us liked telling Little Guy something untrue, but after seeing how upset he'd been all night, I told the Mister we had to do it to protect his psyche.  So, protect his psyche we did, and Little Guy immediately felt better.  His home was secure.  And that's just about the most important thing to a child, isn't it?  

After one more night in the guest suite, with the thirteen traps set again for House Mouse, and still no results, I've decided that the Mister must be right.  My bloody murder scream must have scared that mouse right back to from whence he came.  But every time a tiny blue Ked rolls across the floor or I spot  the end of a remote poking out from under the sofa, I do pause and wonder if the Mister is just protecting my psyche.