Mouse In the House

I will admit to losing my cool just a bit.  Ok, well maybe more than a bit.  But the furry little creature was the last thing I expected to see when I went into my garage last night.  True, it was somewhere around a sweltering 5 degrees outside, so the little rodent was probably looking for a safe haven.  Guess what, little buddy?  Didn’t find it here, did ya?  Nope.

As soon as the fuzzy gray blur darted out of the box I was moving and across the floor, my body took on a mind of its own.  No longer was I the strong, multi-tasking, ‘I can spread peanut butter while I change a diaper’ mommy.  Nope.  I wilted into a quivering mass of jello—except it was an extremely loud mass of jello.

My screams reverberated through the house, and I began jumping up and down and flapping my hands like the backseat driver of the short bus.  I’m surprised my eyes didn’t roll back in my head and that my mouth didn’t begin frothing—I was that close to an actual possession by the devil.  (The devil, in this story, is a little furry creature that has the uncanny ability to move at the speed of light.)

Now, this little fit is all fine and dandy…unless you are a mommy who has been given the supreme responsibility of convincing her kids that there are no monsters in the closet, no spiders lurking in the basement, and no chainsaw-wielding men in the garage.  Last night, if asked, my children would most certainly say they thought mommy was being hacked into pieces in the garage, so piercing were my screams.

They gathered at the door to the garage, eyes wide in either fear or fascination as they witnessed the spectacle of me being attacked—by nothing they could see.  By the time they saw me, I was fighting off my unseen attacker with every free-moving portion of my body, and I’m pretty sure that, had they been older, they might have considered having me committed.

No big deal.  We all have our demons.  One of mine happens to be mice.  I’ve shrugged it off, and today I’ve only had to take a few hits off of my inhaler to preemptively strike against any anxiety-induced asthma attacks.  Evidently though, it’s my fault that Marissa has a newly discovered fear of retrieving her shoes from the garage.  Watch out for the garage monster, kids…it’s lurking in the shadows.  Good mommy…wonder what I can traumatize them with next???

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