Our house is old. Cute, but old. Its a 1950's farmhouse, and what usually comes with 1950s farmhouses? Gleaming wood floors? Yes. Mold in the bathroom? Yes. Very small bedrooms making it impossible to ever have a King size bed even if we wanted one? Yes. Mice running rampant? Absolutely!
I've been waging war on the mice in this house ever since we lived here. Three and a half years, to be exact. And I can't win. It doesn't matter how many we trap, there are always more. One night I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom and a mouse just wandered in. We looked at each other for a minute, then he wandered back out. Seriously. I often see them leaving the kitchen when I get up to pack Ben's lunch and make his breakfast in the morning. A few months ago I made sugar cookies and left them on a platter covered in saran wrap on the kitchen counter. The next morning I was appalled to see that one of the cookies had been neatly removed from the platter, set on the counter, and the edges all shaved off. And one morning a wasted a half a dozen eggs because when I poured them into my black iron skillet that had been neatly set on the stove the night before dozens of mouse droppings floated to the surface. GROSS ME OUT. I hate mice with a passion. They make my house feel unclean no matter how much I scrub, and they are ruining my life.
But the other night was the last straw. We came home from church on a Sunday night and Ben got on the Internet while I put Patience to bed. He's researching paintball right now. Its his new thing. And we're both having fun with the Internet because we haven't had the luxury until just a few weeks ago. Anyway, Ben was still up obsessing over paintball when I was ready to go to bed, so I snuggled in, expecting him to come to bed any minute. Two hours later I woke up, saw that it was past midnight, and stumbled into the bathroom. I didn't turn on the light because it shines right across the hall into Patience's room. Then I stumbled into the living room to find my husband still obsessing over paintball. Squinting at the light, I mumbled something about stop-obsessing-over-paintball-and-come-to-bed-its-after-midnight-you-have-to-go-to-work-in-the-morning-you're-being-ridiculous. I might have been a little grumpy. I went back to bed.
A few minutes later I heard Ben go in the bathroom and turn on the light. I suppose he needs to see to aim. I'm glad I'm a girl. Then he crept into the bedroom, leaned over the bed, laid a hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Babe?"
I turned over. "What?" I snapped. I might have still been a little grumpy.
"Um," he whispered, "there's a mouse drowned in the toilet."
I sat up in bed. "So you came in here to tell me that I just peed on a dead mouse and didn't know it? That's disgusting! Why do you even want to tell me that?"
"Well," he said, "I wonder if it was on the toilet seat when you went in and you scared it into the toilet."
I began to feel that he was enjoying this too much.
"So now you're telling me that I peed on a mouse that was possibly still alive and in the process of drowning? That's even better! Thanks! I'll never be able to pee in the dark again!"
I flopped back into bed and tried very hard not to think about what had just transpired while I heard Ben fishing the dead mouse out of the toilet. I do think he enjoyed that whole scenario more than he should have.
Since then, I have determined to get a cat. And I always turn on the light when I go to the bathroom at night. I don't even care if I wake Patience up.
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Later, after I complained to my family about the army of mice taking over my house, my little brother Isaac told me he had seen an interesting way to trap mice on TV. He said to mix some cornmeal in some water in a bucket and set it on the floor. I said that sounded way too easy, but what the heck, cornmeal is cheap. I tried it that very night, and lo and behold, the next morning there was a mouse drowned in the bucket. Easiest way to trap mice ever. I was ecstatic that it worked. Actually, I felt a little afraid of myself when I experienced such glee at seeing the dead mouse in the bucket on the kitchen floor. I might have looked a little crazy as I stood there in my bathrobe, shaking my fist and shouting, "BRING IT ON, MICE! I HAVE A NEW WEAPON!!!"
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