A Mouse in the House
Full disclosure. I’m going to sound pretty helpless, but bear with me. I consider myself a self-sufficient, independent and competent woman. I’ve come a long way in my 37 years of marriage. I’m proficient with tools, I’ve been the lawn cutter, and I’m quite comfortable on a tall ladder painting the outside of a house. In the midst of those old stereotypes of man vs. woman “chores,” I feel like I have shed all expectations of gender assigned tasks of everyday life. However, there is one small thing that makes me coil and want to run to the further-most part of my home, stand on top of a dresser and remain frozen in a contracted fetal position until my husband can save the day. And that small thing would be when there’s a mouse in the house.
Have you ever had that moment when, out of the corner of your eye you notice a scanter of a movement across the periphery of your floor? At first your entire being wants to deny the fact that you just saw what you saw. “No,” you say softly to yourself, trying not to move or breathe. “No,” you repeat only to see the furry scurry again as if the little intruder is challenging you to a game of hide and seek. In those moments, I scream for my husband. He’s consistently been the go-to guy in navigating the removal of unwelcome mice. That is, until the other day.
Our lake house is situated in a wooded lot. Having a mouse take residence in the inside nooks is not unusual. Recently, I was moving a mini crib for one of our grandchildren, and out from under the mattress appeared a startled little dark grey mouse. I reacted like you would imagine. I screamed for my husband. I jumped up and down, and I panicked. Meanwhile, the mouse was trying to crawl up the netted siding of the portable crib to escape the crazy woman freaking over him. As he’s trying to flee I found myself engaging in conversation with him. Heaven forbid he succeed in gaining freedom to seek refuge somewhere else.
“CALM DOWN,” I said, trying to measure my breath. “It’s ok,” I said using my arms to communicate the universal sign-language of composure, mostly for myself. I screamed once more for my husband to no avail. Isn’t this why you get married? Where was he when I needed him.
I couldn’t spend too much time being helpless because the reality was there was a mouse in the crib, and the only person to save the day was me. So, my higher-level thinking took over. I tried to fit the assembled crib through the narrow bedroom doorway wishing to keep the mouse contained. I wanted to remove the entire problem from the house. Cursing my way through futility, no matter how I hurriedly angled the crib it wouldn’t fit. I tried and tried, now offering words of comfort to the mouse as if he was one of my own. “Hang on little guy,” I said. “I’m going to get you out of here,” I consoled. Suddenly I was vested. Eventually I was able to think clearly enough to collapse the crib just enough but not too much to hurt my new little friend. I succeeded in dragging it outside, turn it sideways and let the traumatized mouse run free into the outside world of bushes and brush. It was then my husband showed up. Seeing me dripping with sweat, hyperventilating and wishing some tiny mouse a good day left him more than perplexed. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at me.
There have been many times in the tenure of life when I’ve surprised myself with competence in problem-solving. It is a good feeling when the frontiers of fear have been traversed. I’m happy I was able to navigate the little mouse to freedom. Maybe next time I might not end up on the top of my dresser after all. Promise though, not to judge me if I do.