But I'll just blog about it instead.
Every year when it gets a bit chilly we have the same problem. I imagine lots of people have this issue, but because we live in an "historic home" (which is just code for really old and really porous and I wish I had known that seven and a half years ago when we bought this thing) we might have a bigger issue than most.
We have mice.
The guy that lives in our rental unit (the back 1/4 of our house) left us a note the other day asking if we had any extra mouse traps. Apparently, he has had some visitors. Which only means one thing, we do too.
Blah. I HATE mice. H.A.T.E. And I know this is not the first time I've mentioned that here. Some of you have even left tips on how to rid ourselves of the issue. We even called pest control last year. Apparently, it did a lot of good.
So, Steve set out some traps yesterday evening. We caught 3 before we even went to bed.
I just got home from the Y this morning with the boys. We were taking off shoes and jackets and Quinn had to go to the bathroom. (The downstairs bathroom is part of our mud room and is also part of an addition that was put on in the 70's.) It is also the place in the house where we catch the most mice. Two traps are hidden right behind the toilet. Which makes for some nice surprises from time to time. But hey, a dead mouse is better than a live one any day.
I've been bribing Quinn to go potty- start to finish- all by himself. Which usually results in him being naked from the waist down. But part of the bribe includes him re-dressing himself when he's finished.
After he was done he was calling for help because his underwear were inside out. He needed my help. I opened the door and he was sitting on the floor, bear buns and all with the MOUSE sitting right next to him. How Quinn didn't see him, I'll never know.
What comes next is where the shame should come in. And I assure you, deep in my bones, there is shame.
I took one look at that mouse all hunched up and I screamed like a little girl and slammed the door shut. So that I was safely on the other side. Then I realized I had just trapped my 3 year old son... half naked... in there with the mouse. So I threw open the door and yelled for Quinn to get out. (The whole time Quinn's giving me the 3rd degree... "Why you screamin' mama?") Then I realized that his pants were still in there.
Figuring that the mouse was long gone after my blood curdling scream, I made a dash for it. I tried to grab the pants but I hit the mouse with them as he was cowering in the corner. I screamed louder and longer this time and ran WITH OUT the pants. So I did the first thing I knew to do... call Steve at work and ask him to come home, because CLEARLY I was being held hostage.
As I was on the phone I went to take a look and standing there LIKE HE OWNED THE JOINT was the mouse in the middle of the back hallway. Dang it. If the first two screams didn't do it, I guess the 3rd one did. Because my husband is just that amazing (and because he was doing work at the coffee shop down the street this morning) he came home. And he just announced from the back hall that he got him. STILL ALIVE. Injured, but still alive.
My hero scooped him up and got rid of him. Apparently, the trap went off and injured him and that's why he didn't scurry off like they normally do.
Oh my word, it's going to be a long winter.