The Birds

A couple of weeks ago whenever she happened to notice a bird, Malia started holding out her hand, palm up, and telling me she wanted the bird to land in her hand. I was a bit perplexed by this seemingly random desire until I started thinking about her fascination with all things princess. As I began to recall some of the movies we’ve watched recently, I began to notice a theme. Cinderella: birds singing, washing, sewing, etc. Beauty and the Beast: a handful of birdseed=bird in the hand. Mirror, Mirror: a bird hops in the window and eats a seed right out of Snow White’s hand. Enchanted: yup, birds all over this one. So it seems that Malia’s innate desire to be a princess has led to an intense desire to hold a bird. However, I’m pretty sure that if the seagull or crow that she thinks she wants to land on her hand actually did so, the result would be more Hitchcock than Disney.

In other news, Malia is terrified of spiders and I swear I did not teach it to her in spite of the fact that spiders rank right up there with mice on my loathing scale. She does the whole girly shrieking with terror thing. If I didn’t find spiders so off putting myself, it would be kind of funny.

One Of The Unfortunate Side Effects Of Having Had A Huge Monster Fire On The Mountain Behind My House Six Weeks Ago

It got cold.  And there was a mouse.  In my house.  Kev made a mouse corral out of boards and chased it out the front door.  But still.  Eauwwch.  And now I'm lying awake at night worrying about how it got in and how to keep the rest out.  And when I do sleep I have nightmares about mice and rats.  Not conducive to restful sleep.

(For those of you who are blissfully unaware of why I hate mice so much, check out the whole sordid tale here.)

My Least Favorite Indication That Winter Is Coming

Rachael and I just spent half an hour chasing a mouse through four rooms of my house before finally trapping it under a bowl. As I speak (or type), it is sitting across the room from me giving me the heebie jeebies from beneath its mixing-bowl-sized jail cell. For any of you who may not be aware of how I feel about mice, feel free to get inside my head here. I think our biggest weakness during this escapade was our tendency to flinch or give off a girly shriek every time we caught sight of the nasty little thing. My toes are still curled under and if you don't think it hurts to walk when one's toes are curled under, check in with any poor Chinese girl who has had her feet bound. But seriously, YUCK!!!!!

But I must admit that anyone walking in on us during our little adventure probably would have laughed their heads off. We were both crouched down like football players preparing for the hike, too afraid to get on the floor, holding mixing bowls with a death grip. Furniture was moved and items were thrown all over to get them out of the path of the rodent. At one point we had books, boxes, a folding table, the ironing board and the pack and play barricading off three sides of my bed in an attempt to trap it on the other side.

(an hour and a half goes by . . .)

Okay, once was bad enough, but TWICE is completely unacceptable! Even as I blogged, I caught sight of another mouse. This one was eventually trapped inside a tube of brown paper, one end pressed against the wall, the other end pressed against the bottom of a mixing bowl. Unfortunately for me, I was kneeling there with the bowl pressed up against the tube with enough tension to keep the other end flush against the wall and no way to keep it there. And then I started to hear the mouse scrabbling around in there. Augh! Bless Rachael for holding the bowl while I got the fire safe to prop the whole contraption into place.

This is why God invented exterminators.

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!