My granny is terrified of mice. She always has been. I can’t tell you how many memories I have from when we were up at the cottage, of her screaming “Jerry! A mouse!” and standing on some various surface, fist clenched to her chest in terror.
I’d seen a few cartoons that depicted this very scenario, so I’d always giggle, amused that Granny was acting like those cartoon women, terrified of a tiny mouse no bigger than their hand. I know, it’s not funny to laugh at people’s fears, and I suppose having a mouse eat some poison and keel over dead and land in your hair is scream worthy. Plus I’m totally terrified of spiders and most of them are smaller than mice. Pot, kettle, black.
One of my favourite books when I was a kid was Beverly Cleary’s The Mouse on the Motorcycle. I liked mice, actually. I wanted pet mice, pet mice that could ride little motorcycles. I was never really afraid of them, at least…I never used to be.
Then, low and behold, last night happened. I was sitting on the couch cuddling with Archer, Nolan and Matt were on the love seat, and Bane was on the floor to my left, out cold.
Suddenly, he jumped up and started sniffing up a storm under the couch. Now, I’d witness him doing this the other day, under the stove. I assumed he smelt food. But catching him doing it again, after waking up from a dead sleep…well. Something wasn’t right.
“Could you lift up the couch Matt?” I asked, picking up Archer and moving us away from the affronted couch in question.
“I think we have mice.”
“We do not have mice Jess,” Matt said, rolling his eyes and lifting the couch quickly. I peered under it, and two tiny dark creatures skittered away toward the back wall. I instantly started screaming and jumped up on the other couch, fist clenching my chest in terror, just like my granny so long ago.
“I told you! Deal with them!” I demanded shrilly, ushering the kids upstairs. Nolan was distraught from my freak out, Archer was completely oblivious and stoked to be going upstairs.
We hid in the bathroom while Matt handled the catching of the mice. While simultaneously brushing Nolan’s teeth for bed and preventing Archer from flushing everything within reach down the toilet, I called my landlord to inform them of the situation and they will be coming by to see if they can track down where the mice are getting in and set traps.
Nolan was deeply upset by the mice.
“But why are they in our house? I don’t like mice!” he said as he selected a book about mice for his bedtime story. Irony at its finest.
“Where did they come from? Is daddy sweeping them?”
“Yes, daddy’s sweeping them into a bowl to…take them back to their own house. They got lost.”
“But I don’t like mice!”
“Can you read the book about mice again?”
He also woke up two hours after I put him to bed to ask about the mice.
I get it Granny; I do. I’m sorry for giggling at you. Mice are kind of scary. At least, they’re scary when they are running around in your house, uninvited and not on cute little motorcycles…although one did attempt to hop on the back of a discarded hot wheels car…
P.S. I’m now even more excited to move. Once row houses get mice, it’s incredibly hard to get rid of them, since they travel though walls and what not.
P.S.S. You’d never know that I was born and raised in the country.
P.S.S.S. Now I’m convinced that I keep hearing mice.