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mousetrapLast night while Zoe was having a sleepover with her grandparents, I was hoping Randy and I could do some grown-up thing like watch an R-rated movie or play Bananagrams. Or if Randy had to do work, I would, say, read a book. Instead I had to guiltily dispose of one dead and two distressed mice.

After my last post about the mouse I saw in the bathroom in the middle of the night, several friends offered to loan me humane mousetraps. Those people perhaps are better people than I am. In fact after reading this you may think less of me, but I am what I am at this point. I’m not going to change. Anyway, I had already called Phil, our exterminator, with whom we have an annual contract because we have had many unwelcome small creatures in our house over the past decade. He comes whenever we call because I don’t like the thought of tiny things attacking us or our children as we sleep, or infiltrating our food, or pooping on our stuff. So Phil had come earlier this week and discovered a mouse hole behind my desk and set several traps around the house. He said he thought there was only one mouse, and he didn’t see any signs of the mouse in the kitchen, although in past months and years the mice have definitely been in the kitchen. We thought maybe they wanted to check out the upstairs just for fun.

Then last night while Zeke and I were hanging out making block towers and kind of watching Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, while Randy went to pick up Vietnamese food from Four Sisters Grill for our dinner, I heard a squeak. You know when you read a book about a mouse or sing “Old MacDonald” and you say “squeak! squeak!” but that’s actually what I heard. It’s much more literal than when you say, “oink” for what a pig says, because if you listen to pigs they don’t really say, “oink.”

Anyway, I sneaked away and checked one of the traps and saw a very dead mouse. It was not squeaking. I did not want to attract Zeke’s attention to the dead mouse, so I moved an easel in front of it. But I still heard squeaking. Clearly it was not coming from the dead mouse. I couldn’t see any other traps. I texted Phil to ask where the other traps were, but he did not answer.

I resumed building and knocking down towers with Zeke. Actually he was doing the knocking down, but we were both building, and I was really impressed by his fine motor skills when he would carefully add blocks to the top of my already tall tower.

Eventually Randy got home and we ate dinner and he put Zeke to bed. While they were upstairs, I gingerly picked up the trap with the dead mouse and put it inside a large plastic cup from a restaurant, and put the cup inside a gift bag decorated with poinsettias left over from last Christmas which was inexplicably in the kitchen in that little space between a cabinet and a kitchen cart where we keep grocery bags. I threw it in the trash and tied up the trash bag and took it outside even though we’re not supposed to put trash outside until the morning when the garbagemen come, because I didn’t want the dead mouse in my house anymore.

I continued to hear intermittent squeaks, which seemed to be coming from the stove. I armed myself with a large metal steamer pot and a plastic plate in case the mice came darting out from under the stove and I was quick enough to catch them. I pulled out the drawer underneath the stove, where we keep pyrex dishes, and saw several glue traps that Phil had left, which are usually for ants or roaches. But stuck in one of the glue traps were not one but two mice, squeaking and immobilized. Great. They’re not dead, but they’re stuck.

I used a paper towel to pick up the trap and put it in the steamer pot and covered it with the plate, just in case they could escape. I went outside and crossed the street and tried to shake the mice out of the trap into the snowy grass by the sidewalk. They would not come out. I did not want to touch the mice. Then I did something I now regret, but I honestly didn’t know what else to do. I just threw the whole thing down in the grass and hoped that the mice would either miraculously escape or mercifully die quickly. I just didn’t know what else to do.

I went back inside feeling terrible about the mice, but also relieved that they were out of my house and at least three fewer mice would be threatening my family with their toxic poop.

Then, since I had found two mice in the kitchen where we didn’t think there were any, I did some investigating. I pulled out the kitchen cart and discovered a great deal of the aforementioned toxic poop. I started to cry, but I stopped because the vent in the kitchen is connected directly to the vent in the kids’ room and the last thing I needed was to wake Zeke up.

So Randy and I spent a good deal of the rest of the evening cleaning up toxic mouse poop and sanitizing the surfaces of the kitchen.

Then today I was moving things around in our minivan so I could give one of Zoe’s friends a ride home from Brownies. I had to clean out all the junk in the back to put up the third row of seats. In so doing, I found a bag containing two gourds leftover from Halloween which I had intended to bring to my sister’s house to compost. Then I found a third gourd decomposing underneath Zoe’s seat. It may or may not have eaten a hole in the rug. I was able to remove much, but not all, of the gourd. I’m not even sure what tool I need to remove the rest. And I had to go in to the Brownie meeting, where we made art, so that was lovely and it took my mind off the rotting vegetation in my car. I don’t know how it didn’t smell, but it didn’t. Maybe because it’s been so cold.

One highlight of the past week has been that we were lucky enough to win tickets to the White House Easter Egg Roll for the first time. I am excited and I know the kids will have a great time even though they don’t really know what it is. Zeke doesn’t even know what Easter is. But Zeke has consistently said Daddy in reference to Randy, and he can breathe like Darth Vader (on purpose) and he said POP when we were making popcorn. And he said “I love you” to my mom.

But I could do without the rodent defecation or vegetation decomposition. And also it would be nice if Zeke would go to sleep. It’s 11:19 and he’s still awake. We saw comedian Maz Jobrani perform on Friday night and he described the tribulations of getting his daughter to bed. he said by the end of it he would be saying, “‘Lord Jesus please make her go to sleep!’ And I’m not even Christian! Moses! Mohammed! Buddha! Bahai! The first God who gets her to go to sleep, I’ll convert!” It’s a good thing we’re already Unitarians.

My husband is surprisingly adept at quickly maneuvering his body so that his shirt bears the brunt of the voluminous spit-up that occasionally emerges from our baby boy’s little mouth. I am impressed both with Randy’s agility and with his sensitivity to the little noise that Zeke makes right before he gushes forth. Time for a bath for Zeke and a shower for Dad!

As a parent you become surprisingly stoic when it comes to your children’s bodily fluids. Not that a poopy diaper isn’t still gross, or that you relish extracting a booger from your baby’s nose, but somehow the act of removing something unpleasant or offensive from within or surrounding your child’s body, and therefore making your child cleaner and happier, vastly outweighs your own distaste for whatever substance you’re encountering.

When Zeke was only two weeks old, I boldly ventured to the salon for a haircut so I could look presentable at my sister’s graduation. Zoe wasn’t feeling well that morning so we let her stay home from school in the hope that she could rest up and be better for the ceremony. So she accompanied me and Zeke to the salon. Normally I do not take any children to such places, but I had no choice on this particular day. While I got my hair cut Zeke was fussing, and the stylist asked one of his employees to come over to rock Zeke’s carseat and soothe him. Meanwhile, Zoe, in the next chair over, looked miserable and teary. As we were preparing to leave and I was paying, Zoe threw up. I attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch it. She threw up on herself, her feet and sandals, my feet and sandals, and the diaper bag. Fortunately, she did not throw up on her brother. So when we got home and I was trying to clean up us and our stuff, I was not at all bothered because I was so relieved that Zeke was unscathed.

And for the rest of the afternoon I had this classic song by Barry Louis Polisar stuck in my head. Not exactly the same scenario, but how many songs about throwing up on your brother are there?

After many months, perhaps even years, of wanting to hire someone to clean our house (because, despite good intentions, we are either too busy, too lazy, or too sensitive to dust to be very effective at it ourselves) we hired Amelia (and her husband, it would appear) to help us out. She and her husband came for the first time yesterday and our house has never, in the five years we’ve lived here, been so clean. They worked extremely hard and with excellent results.

Are people who clean houses constantly judging their customers, wondering why they aren’t better at cleaning up after themselves? Do they resent what they’re doing, or are they glad for the opportunity to earn money, or just indifferent to the societal ramifications and just doing their job?

Do they inspect all your belongings and learn things about you that you wouldn’t want them to know? Do they see things you didn’t realize you left out that are inappropriately personal? Do they make inferences about your personality, your morality, your family life based on your stuff?

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