Of Mice and Little-Rebel Men

The Pollard household is in chaos.



I blame the heat. The dog refuses to eat until late afternoon, the boys refuse to listen. There is the constant echo of name calling (Bobby, you a doodle-brain! Shane-y, you a poop!) And so my days roll out in endless heated waves behind me.



The boys thrash the house faster than I can pick up. I've confiscated full Lego sets and hot wheel racetracks, television time and superhero costumes. All because they refuse to put them where they belong. And of course, they don't even care! See the smoke blowing out of my overheated ears.



The climax of my all-time summer low came a couple days ago. After hours of playing referee and clean up, I finally jumped on much needed chores. Wiping down bathrooms and stripping beds, clearing out toys so I could run the vacumn. As I reached under the kitchen cabinet to combine the bathroom garbage with the kitchen's, a lethal mouse the size of a small dill pickle leaped onto my foot and scrambled in terror around in circles.



Of course, I didn't see where he disappeared to. You see, I was to busy screaming at the top of my lungs, knocking over the garbage can, running toward the back door, and losing my balance, slamming my knee and twisting my foot on the unforgiving cement floor.



The boys were amused.



I was crying and shaking. Who knew how terrified I was of a tiny little mouse. I did play Cinderella in a middle school play after all. I sang the Dream song to fake mice on stage, for goodness sake! Yet, we've had mouse issues before here in Pollardville. One noted example was after I put the boys to bed. Robbie was gone at a hockey game (do the mice plan on freaking me out by waiting for the man of the house to be gone????) As I walked down the hall with a load of laundry, our black cat came bounding in with a baby mouse in his vice grip teeth.



Luckily, I was close to the bathroom and did the only smart thing: I locked myself in there, hyperventilating and resting my forehead on the cool walls. I ventured a look out the door and the cat sat in the middle of the hall with a satisfied smirk, no remnants of the mouse remaining.



The rest of my night was spent dodging the cat, terrified of his mouse breath. Do I overreact a bit? Perhaps.



An old friend I message every once in awhile on facebook commiserated with me then sent me this link, saying at least this didn't happen:


http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,378142,00.html


I couldn't agree more.



Now, I make Robbie deal with the garbage if at all possible. And if he doesn't, the kitchen cabinet gets a firm kick every time I go to toss something in the garbage, to give the little mouse time to escape into the wall before I open the door.



P.S. Don't suggest mouse traps. Yes, Robbie does set them and we even catch mice occasionally. Yet the sheer terror of hearing the tell-tale snap of a trap pushes me over the edge as well. I'd rather the mice family just stay hidden in the walls, but that's just me.