Fat Girls and Field Mice

Let’s pretend you’re a fly on the wall and I’m going to tell you a story of Fat Girls and Field Mice.

It’s around midnight, and I’m heading to bed when I have a sweet little thought. I say to myself, “Self, you should grab a note from your love notebook and sneak it into Big Daddy’s lunchbox. Give the man a thrill in the middle of his workday.” Cute, right?

So, after I’ve already been upstairs and snuggled under the covers, I decide to get up and do just that.

Trying to Be Sneaky

I grab a love note and quietly tiptoe downstairs. Now, I’m convinced Big Daddy can hear a pin drop from across the house—even with three fans on and the bedroom door shut. So I’m being extra sneaky.

I get to the kitchen and realize his lunchbox is in the pantry. No big deal. I open the pantry door, and out of nowhere, a mouse runs over my foot.

Yep. A. Mouse.

She didn’t even flinch. That thing was already wearing an apron and making herself at home. I tried to negotiate, but she was settled in.

Things I Do Not Do

Now listen, I’m a woman of many talents, but there are three things I do not do:

Boats
Touch raw chicken
Mice

So, what does this grown woman do? I grab my boobs and start jumping up and down like a middle schooler at a boy band concert. Then I freeze, completely still, and ask myself, “Is this warm feeling from the fireplace, or did I just pee?” Thankfully, it was the fireplace.

I tiptoe into the dining room, grab the giant dog bed, and wedge it in front of the pantry door to trap the mouse. Mission “contain the rodent” activated.

Sound the Alarm

I rush back upstairs, no longer quiet. I’m practically levitating in front of Big Daddy, squealing about the Montana-sized mouse in our pantry—right next to my Coke stash, mind you. I tell him he must do something. My nerves are shot, I’m sweating in all the wrong places, and I’m about one anxious toot away from a sonic boom.

Big Daddy finally rolls out of bed (think John Wayne meets grumpy bear), grabs glue traps, and prepares for battle.

Supportive Wife Mode: Activated

Meanwhile, I’m standing on a dining room chair, shouting encouraging statements like:

“I love you!”
“You’re amazing!”
“Focus!”
“It’ll eat your feet!”
“I’ll go get a cat!”

He was thrilled. Couldn’t you just feel the love?

Get a Cat

Glue traps weren’t working. So Big Daddy says, “Get a cat.” Music to my ears.

I run outside—barefoot, in my drawers—and yell for our cats. Martha comes first. I scoop her up and toss her to Big Daddy like a furry grenade. He throws her into the pantry and shuts the door.

Funniest Scene Ever

Every time he cracked the pantry door to check progress, Martha bolted out like she was screaming, “SANCTUARY!” She wanted no part of this rodent rodeo. After several failed attempts, I let her go.

Next up: Starr. She’s not the friendliest feline, but I figured her attitude might be the secret weapon. Same process, same result. Open door, toss cat, close door, pity crack the door open, and whoosh—Starr escapes with a hiss.

The Final Attempt

While I’m still perched like a sweaty gargoyle on the chair, Big Daddy makes one last attempt. He tosses the cat in, shuts the door, and then—bam—the mouse darts out. Big Daddy does a jig, I scream like I’m being chased by a clown, and Starr wants nothing to do with us.

The mouse heads straight under the cabinet. Starr exits stage left with her tail puffed and pride bruised. Big Daddy glares at me and blames me for scaring the mouse. Seriously?

So Much for Romance

I told him, “My plan was to be sweet and seductive and sneak a love note into your lunchbox. Now you’ll just have to deal with granny panties and leg hair long enough to braid. I’m done.”

As I finally calmed down and got back into bed, he mutters, “You know, mice can climb stairs and squeeze under doors. She might end up in bed with us.”

Sweet dreams, right?

The mouse is still out there. Probably redecorating behind my cabinets. First the pig, now the mouse—we’ve been outsmarted twice in a week. Is this just me, or do normal people go through this?

Also—where are my nephews and their homemade blow-darts when you need them?

Sigh.

Mental Health for Challenging Kids and Their Parents