The Yucky Mouse Club

I just read about a friend's recent mouse trouble and it reminded me of the fact that I have mouse trauma. We're talking serious fear of the mouse. Trauma of the full-body-shudder type. Want to hear about it?

When I was growing up, we had rodent trouble. In spite of my Dad's zealous efforts, the little vermin just kept on getting in. And since my bedroom was in the basement, I learned at an early age what it sounds like when there are mice in the walls. I used to lie awake at night, cringing at the little skritching sounds. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I'd bang on the wall and it would immediately go silent. But more often than not, only a few minutes would pass until the scratching sounds started again. Are you cringing yet? Just wait! It gets better!

My first serious mouse related trauma occurred when I was seven or eight. It was Sunday morning and, as usual, my parents were vainly attempting to get all of their children to move faster so we wouldn't be late for church. I don't remember what I was doing, but I was not headed in the direction of church and my mom was starting to get steamed. Everyone else was heading out the door and I was still standing around with no shoes on. So I ran down to my bedroom, grabbed some socks without taking time to actually put them on my feet (These were the very cool, ribbed, white knee highs! Very trendy in the early eighties!), sprinted to the closet, and shoved by bare feet into my shoes. Only to find that one of them was already occupied. At which point I shrieked. Loudly. I mean, how would you react if you stuck your naked toes into a shoe that was housing a completely hair-free baby mouse? I don't remember what happened next; who got rid of the mouse, whether or not we actually made it to church on time, etc. But I do remember thinking that the worst part of this whole adventure was that due to the fact that I'd been busy outgrowing all my clothes, I only had one pair of shoes that fit. SO I HAD TO WEAR THEM!!! I would have gladly risked eternal damnation and gone to church barefoot, but the wrath of Mother was a worse fear in those days.

So my ability to live peacefully with our unwelcome visitors decreased significantly that day. Little did I know that there was more to come.

My second, and equally enormous, mouse trauma happened when I was thirteen and in the seventh grade. I was not a morning person in my youth (imagine my surprise several weeks ago when I realized that in my old age I actually feel better when I don't sleep too late!) and as such, was usually pretty darn groggy when my alarm went off every school morning. On this particular morning, I was as out of it as ever. I slid out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. Only to step on a stair about a third of the way up and have it move under my bare foot! Yuck! Yuck!! Yuckity, yuck, yuck!!! But in all fairness, experience #2 was just one iota less yucky than experience #1 because 1) the mouse actually had fur and 2) and at least I didn't have to wear that particular stair for days until I could get new ones.

After that, slippers and socks became my constant companions downstairs. To this day I cannot go barefoot in my parents' basement. And every time I even think about mice, my toes curl up. Literally. And I have to pull my feet up off the floor.

Isn't it funny that we love sharing our most horrifying experiences with all those we know and love? There's just something about knowing that I've made bloggers near and far shudder in revulsion that makes me smile. Of course, I'm sitting here with my feet on the chair and my toes curled up, so apparently sharing has its downside as well!