Put on some big rubber boots and go fight some fires

I literally just sent this email to a friend.


My main issue right now that is causing me anxiety is these effing mice that keep finding their way into our pantry.  We caught 2 this weekend and I thought it was over, but saw another scurrying across our family room to get to the pantry. And of course Sloan is out of town. So I had to set the trap, knowing if it gets caught I'll have to deal with it tomorrow on my own.  I know that's lame, but I'm kinda freaking out.  Setting that trap, while I could totally see the tiny mouse jumping from shelf to shelf like effing Mary Lou Retton was the single bravest thing I've ever done.  I'm sure you can appreciate, if not quite understand, my hysteria.  It's embarrassing too!  Our house isn't a shack or something and I feel like I'm just two steps away from that Indiana Jones scene with all the rats.  Just to set the trap I had to put on my rain boots, pray out loud saying things like "I'm made in God's image and Jesus will protect me!  He has commanded me to be strong and courageous.  He put me over you.  I will exercise my dominion on you.  I literally weigh more than 100 times what you do!  Be afraid mousy, Jesus is for me, not you.". And this was just to extract the Cinnamon Toast Crunch (thankfully in one of those Cereal Tupperware things) and retrieve the box of sticky traps.  I had to slide the trap across the floor with my broom like I was an Olympic curler.  And then I had to take a shot of Firefly Vodka, followed by a Valium.  This entire trap/cereal retrieval ordeal took 20 minutes.  Mainly just me yelling at a mouse by myself.  And, of course, this was after I ranted and raved and cried on the phone to Sloan about the mouse.  I may have accused his work of planting the mouse.  I can't be sure.  I did threaten to move to a hotel.

I know it's funny, but it wasn't at the time.  I was quite literally shaking in my boots.  And I sent a dramatic email to my Terminex guy that my Thursday afternoon appointment may be too late.
     
Also, as a fellow blogger, you'll appreciate that I may just copy and paste this email as a post.  I promise to be rodent free when I see you at the Writer's Conference.        

Rest in My Trash Can

David Schwimmer and his gal pal, Rachel, were finally apprehended. They chose to be buried together in a size 12.5 child's Duck boot shoe box. A small, but tasteful, service was held by my trashcan this morning. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the "Send the Phillips family to see Mickey Mouse" fund.

An additional trap will be placed tonight for any rodents wishing to attend the funeral and the professional exterminators have been called.

 

Death to David Schwimmer*

At our house we have a rule about bugs.  If the bugs are outside, we are in their home and so we leave them alone.  But if they come into our house, we kill them.  (Sloan would also like to apply this rule to our neighbors roaming cats, but that’s for another post.)  Well, we also apply this rule to other pests.

About six months ago, we had an unwelcome visitor in our pantry.  I saw him scurry from the base of the refrigerator back into our pantry and I just about jumped up my own fanny.  

Yes.  Of course.  I screamed like a little girl.  

Then I did what any other sane person would do.  Jumped up on the couch, hopped from foot to foot shouting, “Oh my gosh!  Oh my gosh!  Mouse! Mouse!  Sloan!  Kill it!  Get it!  Mouse!  I just saw a mouse!”  

And Sloan handled it.  I will not go into the details, but let me just say it involved some sticky traps, a shoe box, and us throwing away what was once a perfectly good broom and dust pan.  I requested that we also gut the kitchen and remodel.  Having done this just six months prior, Sloan stopped his heroics at tossing the offending mouse (whom I named Jerry) in the trashcan.  And since we’d been warned that these rodents usually came in pairs, we baited and tossed again.  (Jerry’s “friend” I named Remy.  And to answer your next question, no.  I don’t think they were a couple.  Just roommates.  Rodent Bert and Ernies if you will.  Because if they were a couple and we killed them, then that’s a hate crime.  And while I’m cool with killing rodents, I’m not cool with hate crimes.) We then patched the Jerry-sized hole in the wall.  And doused our pantry in Lysol.

Well…

A couple of days ago I spotted a few, um, tirdlets.  If you’ve never seen mouse poo, imagine if you broke off some of your mechanical pencil lead.  (Did I just date myself?)  It’s super tiny.  Smaller than grains of rice.  I simply thought that maybe I had missed some in the great rodentcide of 2011. So I swept it up, scanned the baseboards of the pantry for holes, and affixed some Clorox wipes to the end of my new broom to clean it up.  Having seen no new holes, I called it a day.

Then, on Tuesday, I saw it.  Scurrying to the fridge.  And worst of all, Sloan was out of town.  And not just out of town, but in freaking Seattle.  So while I’m freaking out about the mouse I had now come to call David Schwimmer (because he played the voice of Remy’s brother in Ratatouille**), Sloan could not help me at all.  He texted me to put out a trap.  But that was a problem too.  What the heck was I supposed to do with David Schwimmer in the morning?  Did he expect me to put him in the shoe box and then in the trash can? I can not bear to even look at David Schwimmer, much less carry him out to the trash can.

I texted him back—Umm, I’m a girl.  That is below my paygrade.

(And feminists be damned, rodent disposal is one of the reason we ladies get married.  OK, maybe that’s not the main reason.  But it is up there with getting rid of bad middle names and fetching the mail in the rain.  If you don’t believe me, go read about LawMomma’s hero of a brother.  As I've delt with David Schwimmer all week, I've prayed for Law Momma who has just gone through a divorce and her son J is about a decade shy of being able to kill David Schwimmer.)  

So, again, I did what any sane person would do.  Nothing.  Actually, nothing + googling the question “can a mouse climb stairs?” Do not google this.  Particularly if you are on your Ipad and already in bed.  There will be many pages to answer this question.  Some with pictures.  If you do this and you also happen to be sleeping alone, it will take approximately 4 Benedryl and  half of a Valium to go to sleep.

I also read that mice have horrible eyesight but great hearing.  So I began, a la Parent Trap, to stomp around and beat spatulas together at night (the theory being they come out at night when houses quiet down).  I blasted Pandora.  In the morning, to fetch the cereal, I’d knock on the pantry doors and yell, “Hey, David Schwimmer.  There are no friends here!”  Henry thought this was hilarious and asked why.  I answered honestly, “Because your mother may be crazy.”  

Today, upon further inspection I saw more poo.  According to the websites, mice like to return to where they poo to eat or find water.  (Because nothing makes me hungry like a whiff of my own poo…)  But I couldn’t figure out how David Schwimmer was getting into my pantry.  I began to pull things out.  And then I saw this…

And  then this…

FYI...that's a half eaten Dum Dum.

 

And to be clear, the wall socket is not on the same shelf as the Dum Dums.  In fact, the Dum Dums are on the top shelf of the pantry.  Nor is the Dum Dum on the same shelf as the Oreos or Rice or Homemade granola that got eaten.  So David Schwimmer is apparently some type of Ninja mouse.  Hopping from one wire pantry shelf to another.  

So I’ve cleaned out the pantry, taped up the holes until I can get to Home Depot and buy a switch plate (read: tomorrow morning), every wire rack has been Lysoled.  Outsides of boxes have been wiped down or sprayed.  Food has been tossed.  Poo has been swept.  I’ve mopped.  Twice.  And then sprayed more Lysol.  

And then I found the last sticky trap, because Sloan’s flight from Seattle gets in tonight around midnight.  

*Please know that I in no way mean no harm or disrespect to the actual David Schwimmer.  I’m sure he’s a really great guy. 

**Actually, this is a lie.  David Schwimmer did voices in the Madagascar movies but some guy named Peter Sohn played the part of Emile, Remy's brother.  But nonetheless, I named the mouse David Schwimmer.  It's not like there is some device I can hold in my hand and look things up on some type of world wide information encyclopedia, people!  I'm not a witch.  Props to Allie Weippert for catching this when it was first posted.  You win a prize.  I will put David Schwimmer in your mailbox tomorrow.  You're welcome.   

Don't You Forget About G

I can now dress vicariously through my daughter.  She literally looks good in everything.  Everything.  And her hair, dear Lord.  I love it.  I wish more folks would embrace the versatility that is the kinky-curly hair.  Sure, eventually she could iron it straight.  We can scrunch it up into a short round afro.  We can do pigtails and ponytails, braids, twists and knots.  But my fave is the big Afro.  I love it.  Love it, love it, LOVE IT.  And paired with the right outfit, it makes my day.

I mean come on, haven't all Moms of daughters, when putting together a particularly cute outfit thought, "Oh my gosh, I must be a good mom because my daughter is so friggin' cute.  Her cuteness may actually be dangerous."

I wish I'd taken a picture with my Nikon instead of just my phone.  This was church on Sunday.  She was strutting around a missionary send off party like she was da bomb.  Because she was.  Her 'fro was rocking.  Her kicks were pumped up.  Her sweater vest had a faux fur collar.  She was FIERCE!

So...for the first day of church school this morning, I decided to up the fierce ante.  With the FRO-HAWK.

Don't be hating on the style and ask if she is wearing a banana clip.  That's hairbows and clippies holding up her rocking hair.  (Bonus that this style does not require detangling or more than 5 minutes!)

Is it me, or does she look like she is about to star in a John Hughes film?  Seriously, she could be Molly Ringwald in either Pretty in Pink or The Breakfast Club with that stare and hair do. 

And when she walks, the fro-hawk bobbles.  It is killer.  

So raise your fist and cue up Simple Minds.

Da Beach

Sooo....we went to the beach last week.  For the first time ever, we didn't take a billion pictures.  We simply relaxed.  And played games.  And had mad dance parties.  And read books. And dug holes.  And ate popsicles.  And went fishing.  And held butterflies on our fingers.  And even ate some crab legs.  

Fishing with Daddy with his new fishing rod.  

Henry's excitement about fishing even meant he ordered fish at every restaurant.  

In the butterfly house at Brookgreen Gardens.  Be thankful I'm not posting the pic I took of the four inch long mating grasshoppers.  They were very Egyptian.

While Gracie loves the beach and sand, she is not a fan of the ocean.  Or how it kept coming towards her when all she was trying to do was get Bruddah.

Oh how my boy loves his Daddy.  And believe me, the feeling is mutual.

Naptime on the beach. 

Oh, how I love to feel the sand between my toes.  How long is it until Spring Break?

Obligatory First Day of School Post

 Where I predict Henry will spend large amounts of time...at the computer.

 And of of course little Miss Grace had to come along for meet the teacher day last week!

 Be still my heart.  Henry and his bestie, A.  I love that girl so much.  It is genuinely easier to watch the two of them together than just Henry on his own.  And the best part?  Her mom loves my boy as well so we get to trade off! 

This is what happens when you tell him to smile pretty for the camera. 

(But dang, are his legs really that long?)

 This is the smile that happens when Mommy makes silly faces and farting noises. 

 Stoked to be carpooling with A this year! 

And just a quick kiss before we head off to school for the day.  

A kiss to make it okay that they aren't in the same class...

As you can clearly see, Henry was excited to be back in school.  His teachers are awesome and remembered him (and his love for A) from the playground last year. 

 His first year of school with the broken arm.

Last year.  Broken attitude.  Or just 3.  I think it was the same thing for him.

Hair Dye and Tattoos

A friend of mine recently had a babysitter say to her, “Just so you know, I’m no longer a member of the faith.”   

Perplexed as to a) why the heck the teen was sharing this information, and b) what is the standard protocol for when someone confesses their denial of Christ, she simply nodded and said, “Oh?”

The teen then added, “Yes.  I’ve discussed it with my therapist and we both agree that my mother is controlling and so this is a simple way for me to reject her authority.”

Again, my friend was at a loss.  On the one hand, she wanted to say “Well so long as you aren’t performing Satanic rituals around my kid, I really don’t care so long as she is safe when I get home,” and on the other hand, she was deeply saddened.  So she simply added, “Hmm, well I will be praying for you.”

I think all parties involved are thankful that she wasn’t sitting for me as I would’ve probably responded accordingly, “For the love of Pete, why don’t you just smoke or get your nose pierced?  Rejecting God seems a bit overkill in the rebelling against your Mom department.  For reals.”  

Of course, that’s rejecting God to get at my parents is  what I did.  And I didn’t even have to have a therapist help me see that rejecting God would be the quickest and deepest way for me to hurt my parents.  And as a parent now, I understand that of all the immature pranks I pulled as a teen and young adult—the boys snuck into my room, the beer bought with my stellar fake ID (seriously, it was REALLY good—until the girl met my parents at a neighborhood BBQ and told them she gave me her ID so I could drink), the cigarettes smoked, the curfews missed—nothing compared to the sting they must have felt when I flaunted my mocking of Christ in their face.

So I have begun to pray for my children’s adolescent years.  

That they would dye their hair, get their noses/belly buttons pierced, get a tattoo (but please dear God not one on their neck!), wear black nail polish, listen to horrible music, cuss like sailors, miss curfew, fail tests, heck—even smoke, but please, oh Lord, please let them always know You are for them.  That try as they might, they cannot escape Your love.  May Your name always be sweet to their ears. 

I’m praying that my fervent desire for them to see His grace in all things won’t send them to the deep end of rebellion. For my part in this, I promise to never play cheesy Sandi Patti Jesus music while driving the 9th grade carpool including Mark Meeker and David Anderson (just as an example, not that that really happened or anything, or that I'm still scarred by it).  I would like for my kids' rebellion to be in things that can be grown out, removed, covered up, or laughed about when they go to cocktail parties in their thirties.  

As I type this, it makes me think it would be a good thing for all mothers of toddlers to befriend mothers of teens.  It would give us some perspective.  I mean really, who cares if your daughter still uses her passie and your son refuses to eat his veggies?  They will grow out of that.  In a decade, she could be the one trying to dress like a whore and he could be calling you an effing bitch.  I’m fairly certain that mothers (and fathers) of teenagers need our prayers.  They need compassion and stamina.  

And maybe a box of Lady Clairol.  Something from the burgundy collection…

The Summer of my Discontent

This is the summer where I learned the above sentiment.  And let me be clear:  it was not a fun lesson to learn.

If you are a close friend, or you've been paying close attention, you've probably noted that this has been a difficult summer for me.  There are a thousand reasons why this is so. It was my first summer with a non-napping four year old. I have an almost two year old and I'd clearly repressed what that age was like out of self-preservation.  My husband travels (a lot).  The stupid IRS is auditing everyone who applied for the adoption tax credit and so considerable monies we thought would be arriving in May have yet to show up.  And probably won't until November.  I've had some health issues and so has Grace, what with the temperature feeling as though we were living three inches from the sun.  I'm editing the Bethany newsletter which is great, however, the articles I get from people, no matter how many times I ask for them ahead of time, always seem to show up in my inbox at 11 pm the night before I'd hoped to have the newsletter done and since I'm getting volunteers to write the articles, I can't really complain or yell at them.  I had (and sort of still have) a job with another writer where I got to work from home, which I thought was awesome until I realized home is where my needy kids are and they didn't get the Mommy needs some quiet time memo so I ended up working at night which meant that I never got any time to myself.  Or with my husband. 
The first time I really noticed it was a problem was when I found myself looking forward to my annual gynecological visit for some "time alone".  I prayed and prayed I'd have to wait a long time in the waiting room, but alas, Dr. M was right on time.
I've felt guilty because my dreams of taking the kids to all these fantastical field trips got sidetracked because Mommy had work to do.  And when I was working, all I was thinking about what else needed to get done around the house.  And so then I'd try to get something done around the house and I'd start to feel guilty about not working enough for my writer boss.  And then I'd feel bad because I couldn't remember the last time I had spoken kindly to my husband.  Stressed, I spent a large portion of the summer believing the lie that life was actually easier when Sloan was out of town because then I didn't even have to try to be with him and I could just be the master of my own ship.  When he came home and attempted to help or parent, I basically told him he was a third wheel or an extra child. 
Lather. Rinse.  Repeat.
I finally broke down on the way home from a weekend away with Sloan (which was MUCH, MUCH needed!).  I cried for about two hours while we were going up I95.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of mom I wanted to be.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of wife I wanted to be.  Crying because I was in physical pain.  Crying because I wasn't the employee I wanted to be.  Crying because I didn't even know if I wanted to be a stay at home mom, but conversely, the thought of doing something else made me want to puke.  Crying because the art projects I had hoped to complete over the summer weren't even begun.  Crying because I missed blogging and writing for myself so, so much. Crying because I was such a raging bitch to my husband and over and over again he forgave me.
It was at this point of self-loathing Sloan blurted in, "Stop.  Just stop.  I get it.  You need help.  You need Jesus.  Who doesn't?  Why is this such a shock to you?"

And there was the mother-freakin' rub.

Basically I was pissed that I could not, nor will I ever be able, to be all things for all people.  That my attempts to do everything at all times perfectly have done nothing but make me and the folks around me miserable.   
And so I've spent a lot of time repenting.  For the same things.  Over and over.  Like I'm a toddler or something. 
I'm sorry I yelled at you.  I'm sorry I called you a tool.  I'm sorry I played poker all night and ignored you.  I'm sorry I blamed my bad mood on you when it is really me I'm disappointed in.  I'm sorry I talked about you behind your back to my friend.  I'm sorry that I'm too tired to discuss this with you and so I'm just going to give in and ignore you because I just don't care.  I'm sorry you have no clean underwear.  I'm sorry I don't let you make any parenting decisions because I really am a control freak. Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.
I'm sorry that I let you watch too much TV yesterday and now it is all you want to do and if it will just shut you up, then yes, you can watch another episode of Blue's Clues.  I'm sorry I threw away your sword because I was too impatient for you to walk backwards with it to the toy bin.  I'm sorry I yelled at you so much the day you wanted to walk backwards everywhere.  I'm sorry we've eaten cereal for dinner three nights in a row.  I'm sorry for yelling at you for pooping in your nighttime pull-up.  I'm sorry that I'm putting you down for your nap early because if I have to listen to your whining and screaming for one more minute I am going to lock myself in the bathroom with the Real Simple magazine and not come out until tomorrow.  I'm sorry that I told you we would go to the zoo today but Mommy just has a few more pages she has to look over.  I'm sorry I broke all of my promises.   Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.

It has been, needless to say, a summer which I never want to repeat. 

So I am reminding myself that there are seasons to life.  That Henry's sweet and tender disposition at 4 is proof that Gracie won't always hit her brother and scream for cookies and donuts as I put her down for her nap.  (Though you got a love a women who wants to eat cookies and donuts while reading her book in bed.)  That soon school will start back up and I can run errands with only one child in tow and that maybe I oughtta look for a Mom's morning out program for Grace to begin this fall.  That while I desperately want to be getting my own literary agent and editing my own manuscript and not someone else's,  just because I'm waiting until the kids are in school to do that doesn't mean it won't ever happen.  Because the book can wait.  Playing legos and dress up cannot. 
I'm also thanking God for my amazing husband, who upon seeing my head barely above water, has adjusted his travel schedule so that every 6th week or so, he doesn't travel at all.  And when he is home, he has taken to cooking all the meals or at the very least, being my helpmate in the kitchen.  He also got me tickets to the James River Writer's Conference in October and has promised me a Saturday a quarter to go be away by myself for the day so I can write.  All day long.