Thursday, November 11, 2010

When You Come Home, There is a Dead Mouse in a Diaper

So, I am the first person to admit it:  I am over the top about everything.  It is not fake enthusiasm, it is genuine and deep.  Part of it stems from the fact that I am crazy-optimistic and part of it is simply that I was born under a happy star (so was my son which is one of my favorite parts of his little character).  Besides, if you have to go through life as either Tigger or Eeyore, why not choose a little striped bounce?

Here is the downside of happiness and enthusiasm when you are parenting... the little dudes get used to it and want more, more, more kudos, random hugs and high fives for. every. single. thing. they. do.

Normally, I don't find this to be an atrocious behavior or expectation.  The fact that he loads me and my pockets up with rocks, leaves, used gum, golf balls and handfuls of dirt is simply expected and accepted.  I wanted a boy and I got all boy.  Quit your bitching and be grateful.

This morning was an entirely different story.

My preggo self had settled onto the sofa for an exciting round of diaper folding [yes, I am THAT mom who cloth diapers and grows organic food.  I don't judge you (well, only a little) for your Pampers and McDonalds, stop harping at me about "it's good enough for everyone else, why do you have to be so picky?"].

I hear bebe boy squeal with delight in the utility room so I assume he has found the half eaten sponge football that I keep trying to hide from him.  {Don't judge me, this thing is nasty -- it has been through three dogs but when "faball" goes missing a full-on clearly-the-house-is-on-fire-and-the-dog-and-the-cherry-tomatoes-are-still-inside meltdown ensues so faball will remain a fixture in our house until bebe boy grows attached to something else.  There are only so many hills upon which I am willing to die, Marine, and a half-eaten Nerf ball does not even come close to the list}.

Little Sweetness (Daddy is the original Sweetness) comes toddling toward me clearly THRILLED with his find.  I don't see faball so I assume that he has found the mini-Stonehenge I am erecting from all the rocks that I find in our washing machine.

Then he presents to me... with all the elegance of royalty...  A. DEAD. MOUSE.

Mother of God, THIS is where I draw the line of motherhood.  I accept avocado in my hair.  I accept Elizabeth Mitchell on my stereo.  I {grimly} accept never again having a quickie on the living room floor mid-afternoon.  I accept rubber ducks and wind-up lobsters in my Jacuzzi tub.  Hell, I even accept having my pockets loaded down with stones a la Virginia Woolf.

But I draw the line at handling dead rodents.

So, I start screaming (over and over and over because clearly the problem will be solved at great volume and with maniacal repetition) "drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it."  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I, essentially, in my panic, have given myself an oh-so-pleasant combination of Tourette Syndrome, bi-polar syndrome (the manic side) and I-have-hearing-loss-but-I-am-the-only-person-on-the-planet-who-does-not-realize-it.  Yep, I was quite the femme fatale this morning.  Envy Sweetness.

Bebe boy is clearly perplexed.  I clap, thank him and give him high fives for dead dandelions, wads of dog hair and used gum but, for the best gift EVER, he gets nothing other than a screaming mimi jumping on the sofa?

So, he keeps yelling louder and louder:  "Mamama {Yes, I think it is cool that I am called an over-the-top moniker like Mamama with the slightest hint of a French accent.  And, yes, Bitter Berthas, he came up with it on his own} so yummy.  Look, yummy, Mamama."

{Don't get too disgusted at this point.  He has yet to grasp a full range of compliments so EVERYTHING that he likes is called "yummy" from dead mice to smoked gouda to dogs to the recycling truck.  Though, I must admit is is both adorable and ego-boosting to be called "yummy" first thing in the morning by such a sincere and enamored audience.  When he claps for me to boot... well, I am on the floor in a puddle}.  But back to this morning which was anything but yummy.

Eventually, he tires of my top-volume soliloquy and drops the dead beast.  Happily, it lands on a diaper.

This is the part where I look like a bad mom.  Prepare yourself.

I am afraid that he is going to pick it up again and, egads, throw it at me or the dog.  So, I quickly scoop him up and stick him outside.  It is cold.  Really cold.  And he is in the midst of naked time.  I know, I know.  I did warn you that this is where Mamama goes bad.

But I figure 1) it is only for a minute 2) you don't actually get sick from being cold and 3) the 150 pound hairy dog is out there too so they can cuddle if he gets cold while I deal with the mouse.  And, yes, I accept the fact that I am HOPING the dog will offer my sweet child comfort and warmth while he is outside a la Tiny Tim (and a naked Tiny Tim at that) and I am inside a la Ebenezer ensures that I will never be Mother-of-the-Year (but I have Mamama-of-the-Year wrapped up, not to brag).

I grab my Williams Sonoma tongs (best tongs ever -- which is not the point of this blog but good to know anyway) and grab both the mouse and the diaper it serendipitously landed upon.  The carcass package goes on the kitchen counter and I herd bebe and the dog back in the house.  {See, I am a good mom, I did not take the time to draw a bubble bath or polish my nails}.

For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about dealing with Mr Bubonic myself but then realized that I got married so I would never have to deal with tires, furnace filters or dead rodents.  This one gets outsourced to Daddy-O. I was in labor for 40 hours, you can deal with dead nasties.

I am 32 weeks pregnant so he is more than willing to answer his phone even if he is in the middle of a business meeting.  And, yes, I could have waited -- it is not like Mr Bubonic with Rigor Mortis was going anywhere -- but we all handle emergencies differently.  And please don't say that this was not an emergency ... crises are in the eye of the beholder.  And I beholded this as a full-on-eMERgency!

But I will {begrudgingly} concede the fact that, just perhaps, my response to his "hello" was just a leeee-tle on the dramatic side.

me (in a very high-pitched squeal):  "Mayday!  Mayday!  Huge catastrophe narrowly averted.  Baby, dog and the threatened area have been cordoned off and decontaminated.  Their debrief will begin once you have been fully appraised of the situation."

completely baffled hubby:  "WTF are you talking about?"

me:  "When you come home, there is a dead mouse in a diaper on the counter."

2 comments:

  1. Joy, You are hilarious! I share your disdain of rodents. Snakes, spiders, charging horses, people with guns are all fine. Mice? No way. I think you were very brave.
    Hugs, Mary

    ReplyDelete
  2. Omigod, omigod, omigod! While I think live mice are kind of cute (unless they have little "hantavirus" signs on their necks) I don't think I could have been collected enough to form actual words in my shrieks when confronted with a dead one. In. My. House. I hope Ken rescued you extremely expediently!

    ReplyDelete