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Well, I've done it. I've officially caught my first mouse.
[shudder]
Due to the high Munchkin content of my living situation, I opted for glue traps over those spring loaded suckers because, honestly, you just never know where those pudgy little fingers are going to go.
And... after four days of nudging glue traps around to new locations with my foot, convinced I had the one mouse with a high enough intelligence quotient to avoid glue traps, I woke up around 2am this morning to a scrabbling. That's right, a scrabbling. I laid there, eyes wide and unseeing, pulling the sheets up to my chin in unholy terror...until I remembered it was 2 degrees hotter than the sun on the third floor of my house, and immediately kicked the covers off. I still didn't go downstairs though. I wasn't ready to face Mickey if he was still in his death throes.
Little did I know, death throes actually last a looooong-ass time.
Midnight-Montage on forward a few hours, and I'm stumbling downstairs in my all-together...because I refused to make the final trip to the basement to retrieve clothes and underthings from the dryer last night before bed. scrabble::scrabble. I sweartogod I jumped three feet. There's Mickey, stuck from the back hips down and front paws forward to the glue trap. He's wriggling and writhing to the point that the glue trap is actually catching air time. His little mousey back bowing so hard in the air the trap is jumping. I race back upstairs, ordering the kids to stay in their rooms, and grab an empty shoe box. (actually...it was one of my favorites, a dark purple shoebox from the last pair of Chinese Laundry I bought. cute shoes. anyway...) I toss the box over Mickey. At this point Baz is attempting to creep down the stairs...bouncing around a little on the balls of his feet trying to catch a peek. Great.
I herd The Chitlins back upstairs to finish brushing teeth and getting dressed... and make them all promise to stay upstairs and color or something for a few minutes.
I scoot back down the stairs, slide a piece of sturdy carboard under the twitching shoe box and carry it into the kitchen. I slide the mouse & trap into a plastic bag and knot the top. And now I face a dilemma. Having gotten a good look at it's cute little self...and it's sad little cow-eyes...I can't quite bring myself to just toss it into the garbage to starve to death... It seems cruel, as if the glue trap isn't? I know..I know.. Baz yells down asking if I've killed it yet.
oh god, I'm going to have to kill it.
I can hear the kids sneaking back down the stairs, so I sweep the bag out to the back yard and lay it on the ground. I heft Baz's wiffle ball bat...but I don't think I can actually whack the little guy. Especially knowing that with a plastic bat I'll have to use several whacks,which I assume I'll be incapable of completing. So, I improvise. My backyard is essentially a bricked in courtyard, and often the bricks come loose. I usually keep the loose bricks in a pile in the corner until I can replace/repair them. So I give plastic baggie Mickey a toss on the ground and heft a brick.
Those of you with weak stomachs should probably stop reading here:
AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER...
But not really.
Really I hefted a brick and dropped it on Mickey. He stopped moving. But, afraid I'd only increased its suffering instead of ending it, I quickly dropped another brick on it. This one might have been more tossed or even thrown, than dropped really... I nearly threw up. Then I grabbed a corner of the bag with my thumb and first finger, the way a baby picks up cheerios, exactly and with as little surface contact as possible, and carried it at arms length to the trash can.
I went back in, washed my hands, twice, used some hand sanitizer and re-showered. Then shuffled everyone off to their respective stops and daycares that day, unsure of how I'm going to explain Mommy's new status as a murder-death-killer to my kids. (did you get the random movie reference? huh? didja?)
How do you tell your kids you killed something?
I know how I told the people at the office: With a full cup of coffee and lots of hand gestures and jumping about... And I know that in a day or so this is going to be funny...really it is. But other than the random bug or snail, this is the first thing I've actually killed. And, I suppose I should be please about the fact that it upsets me, even if only to prove I'm not completely desensitized... right?
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I've come to several very important conclusions over my past weekend excursion to Sleepy Bear Campgrounds in Noblesville, IN.
1) I am officially too old to camp without an air mattress any more
2) I am verging on too old to dance until 4:30am - as my knees still ache a bit a full two days later.
3) You CAN take your front porch with you wherever you go, even if it's just a tarp.
4) I have MISSED camping, and the fully liquored up debauchery that so often attends it.
5) Kicking around random inanimate objects at 4 in the morning can be the BEST. FUCKING. GAME. EVER. INVENTED.
6) I'm a LOT better at Edward 40-hands than I thought I would be. And by that I mean I can pretty much belch on command to release the pressure, and..um...I didn't lose. I mean I didn't win by ANY stretch of the imagination, but I didn't cheat, and I didn't lose. It's a big fat win in my book!
7) Matrix Dancing is the best way to move in an EDM tent when you don't know what in the heck you're supposed to be doing.
8) Everyone may THINK they look good while dancing, but they're wrong. I fully accept that this probably applies to me and I've come to terms with that.
9) Everyone may THINK they look good in glowstick jewelry, and they'd be RIGHT. That stuff is awesome.
10) Ladder golf is reallllly difficult if the complexity and volume of the cursing that accompanies it is any indication.
11) I need to step up my camping fare. I expected hot dogs and s'mores... Some of my friends brought steak, chicken, kabobs, etc. I was wondering where the linen tablecloths and silverware was at one point.
12) They make DISPOSABLE Grills! I'm not kidding!! Why didn't anyone ever tell me this before??? Genius! Just one more thing I wish I'd thought of first...
13) NEVER be the first one to fall asleep/pass out. You'd think this li'l rule would die off after bra-freezing incidents in junior high, but no. Definitely no.
14) Pacing is very VERY important when one intends to drink for a 24 hour period in 90 degree heat.
15) Kiddie pools DO, in fact, increase the value of your temporary residence. They make good leg soaks and gain you insta-friends. Often those insta-friends also bring popsicles. Sweet.
16) The grapes-thrown to grapes-caught ration is, and forever will be, horribly disproportionate. This is not Wade's fault. This is not Caralyn's fault. They are both champions at this game.
17) Breaking both one's wrists does not necessitate sitting at home by oneself. One can, upon gathering a couple of sharpie pens together with a couple handfuls of Vicodin, attend a full campout/music festival.
18) It's still cool to get your face painted even at our age.
19) You should always keep tabs on your camp chair. Because woe to the person who gets up to go dance for a few hours and returns to find that their camp chair has become the puke seat. ew.
20) Camping is a lot like going to war. Shared experiences create instant friends and strengthen bonds between already-friends. And, you can always claim that you survived Knollfest '08...I mean Mojostock 2010...
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Being a mom in the twenty-first century can be a mixed bag of ugly. There are so many opinions about the job you're doing, offered freely and yet at great cost. There are books and blogs and radio programs and mom groups and lactation consultants and magazines and on and on. Never has there been so much accessible and contradictory information floating in the ether of parenting, and never has the concept of "my way or the highway" been so brutally administered. We have collectively micromanaged our pregnancies and written our superfluous Birth Plans and succumbed to the pressure of feeding our kids 100 percent organic hand-milled baby food using a reduced carbon footprint. These unrealistic goals have created a population of neurotic mothers whose neurotic kids inevitably end up at my house on a playdate.
I have chosen a more retro approach to parenting. For one thing, I have six children, a very old-fashioned number. And by having so many I have discovered one of the great secrets to being a perfect mother: there is no such thing. |
Holy Shit! This woman's a genius! The sage advice above is an excerpt from Laissez-Faire mother Laura Bennett. Some of you might remember her from her stint on Project Runway (one of my guilty pleasures, I'll admit).
But, it clearly and succinctly points out that creedo by which I've accidentally adhered for the past six-ish years. There's NO SUCH THING as a perfect parent. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts...
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In a family of runners, I am a runner by default.
I've been an off-and-on runner for about 15 years. I ran track & cross country in high school and loved it.
I continued distance running in college and beyond because it offered me a bit of an escape, a chance to turn my brain off and just go.
The past few years have provided little time for training or luxury runs, so I squeeze them in where I can.
Let me start by saying: I LOVE the Mini Marathon.
I love that my entire family comes hurtling into town to run this race together.
I love knowing we'll have a huge dinner and endless growlers of beer and bottles of wine both before and after the race.
I love the 40,000 people that come crushing into my city to run the largest half-marathon in the country.
I love the thousands of beach balls that are launched into the corrals a half an hour before the race begins.
I love the wave of adrenaline that comes crashing across you, speeding up your pulse, when the gun goes of.
I love cresting the top of a hill, and running backwards for a few steps to see the thousands of people behind me.
I love the thousands of people I will beat to the finish line.
I love crossing the finish line and the sense of completion it brings.
I love the Chocolate Chip Cookies that St. Francis Volunteers pass out in handfuls after the race.
I love the salt of the potato chips as I scarf an entire bag post-race.
The running part?
eh.
I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with running.
It pretty much alternates. With each step.
My training this year has been...lackluster at best.
My long runs were averaging 8-ish miles.
And by 8-ish I really mean that's what I told everyone when really they averaged more like 5-ish. On a good day.
So, for your amusement, here's my [abridged] thought process through Saturday's 13.1:
Mile One: I feel good. The wind is making my eyes tear up as we jog by the Eiteljorg, the NCAA Hall of Fame, The Zoo. Not as many people sprint for the tree line as usual. On a hot day you can see a solid line of guys dropping trow in the first 1000 feet.
Mile Two: It's SO EFFING COLD OUT! My muscles never warm up until the second or third mile, but this year I think it might take a little bit longer... I stop at the first water station and take a few sips, but don't stop. Not yet. So glad I wore the arm warmers and a technical on top. Oh! Looking! Elvis is running. Isn't that nice?
Mile Three: Picking out my favorite shirts helps to pass the time. The runners back in my coral enjoy chit-chatting. We're not pros. we're here for the experience. I meet a nice girl who's done this the past few years and we joke that we're both ready for a beer. There's a couple running together with read shirts that read "First Timer" in iron on letter across the back. The girl's T is crooked.
Mile Four: I feel great. I stop at the water stop and take my time sipping my way to the bottom of the dixie up and keeping up a good clip on my 'race walk' (how I justify stopping here & there. As in: "It's okay...it's a race walk!"). Pick the pace back up. Wave as friendly-beer girl trucks on by. Catch up with Crooked-T First timer. Flash a smile at the Elvi (There's two of them now). These are my people. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I get to do this. I think about my stride and about how I only have nine miles to go. Wait. Nine miles? Shit. I falter a step. Oops. Wrong thing to think.
Mile Five: I'm still feeling good, so i take it all in stride. I'm impressed with the changes to Main Street. I don't drive out to Speedway often, but the roads are newly refinished and there's cute little benches and shrubbery lining the street. WTF? When did this happen? I've got to get out more. We round the corner onto 16th street and the Track looms above us. Giant Chik-Fil-a cows line the streets. I high fived a couple, chuckling. I asked one if he had any free samples and I can hear the people behind me laugh. I feel good.
Mile Six: I'm still running. What the hell is going on here? I should take a break but I make myself run to the turn. I see hoardes of people exiting the track out of the corner of my eye and secretly hate them all. They're two and a half miles ahead of me. I cut little deals with myself. If you run to the corner, you can walk for 20 steps... if you run through the straightaway you can stop and stretch your calves on pit wall. If you run past these annoying cheerleaders you don't have run hear that Flintstone song EVER again...
Mile Seven: I start to slow near the Pagoda but see all the cameras flashing ahead of me. Pride's a funny thing. I pick up the pace. I specifically do NOT smile at the cameras. But I might stop grimacing and fix my posture so that little bit of stomach I've been developing the past few months disappears.
Mile Eight: Good God. Are we STILL on the track?
Mile Nine: We exit the track. I grab a gatorade from the cutest volunteer I've seen all day and wish, for a heartbeat that I was one of those girls that didn't turn red and splotchy when she ran. I wish I didn't have beads of sweat on my top lip, matting down those wispy hairs on my temples and running down into my sports bra. I'm not warm mind you. I'm just sweating. In the cold. It is NOT pleasant.
Mile Ten: I get passed by a 10-year-old. FML. T
Mile Eleven: I have to pee. again. And against my better judgement I hop into an unsteady-looking port-a-potty alongside the road. I squat and the damn thing sways like a drunken sailor. I pray. LIke I've never prayed before. "Dear God, please, please, please don't let this port-a-potty tip over. I don't think I could ever live that down. And I certainly couldn't finish the race. Please Please Please. Amen." I dash out of that thing as if the fires of hell were in there. Which, I mean, honestly? That's kind of what it smelled like.
Mile Twelve: This is cruel. I used to be able to see the finish line from here. But someone decided NOT to erect the giant black-and-white-checkered finish line banner this year. People are dropping like flies. My knees and my quads are on fire. I hate my life. I remember a documentary I saw about the U.S.S. Indianapolis, and how the sailors that had been floating in the water for days said that the scariest part of the entire ordeal was when they saw the helicopters finally approach to save them.The fact that they were so close to being rescued and that something could still go wrong terrified these men like no other. Suddenly, I understand. Where is the damn finish line?
Mile Thirteen: Where in the HELL is the finish line? Next year. I'm training. Really. I mean I know I said it last year, but this year I really mean it.
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caralyn
