April 28th, 2011

Well, I seem to have acquired a pair of mice.

See, Waxor and I have a mouse problem in our house. I mean, the place was uninhabited for over a year before we moved in, it's surrounded by some fairly lush vegetation, and it's old, so having a mouse problem really was forseeable. We love the fact that our house's "situation" makes our property the most popular one in the area for birds, we don't mind the groundhog that lives in our side shrubbery, and we've done a decent job of beating back most of the insects that thought they belonged in here. But the mice... the mice are persistent. And they leave little footprints in the butter.

So we set traps. We were gonna catch them alive and release them into a field, but we discovered two important things. (1) is that house mice and field mice are totally different breeds, and if you let a house mouse go in a field you might as well have killed the poor thing to begin with, because you're only condemning it to a life of starvation anyway. (2) is that it is actually illegal in MA to transport a rodent that you caught in your house or on your property OFF your property alive. Apparently all exterminators in MA carry teeny tiny gas chambers in the back of their vans. How gruesome is that? Anyway, having been given those two important facts we decided that we could be adults and just set traps for them and try to kill them as humanely as possible.

All last summer we caught mice, and when winter came their numbers tapered off, although I wasn't convinced that they weren't just hibernating. Sure enough, once the weather started to warm again we found more little footprints, and set our traps back out. We've only caught one or two so far, so it seems like maybe we wiped most of them out last year. Either that or the rest are still asleep.

So with that little introduction... the other night I was getting ready for bed, and I hear Waxor on the stairs.

"Jessica... Jessica, come here."

I go out and behold a truly remarkable sight - Waxor is standing on the landing of our stairs, facing off against a itsy bitsy teeny tiny mouse.

"Go get something for me to catch it."

So, I go to attempt to get something, but before I get back Waxor has captured the little bugger in our frog vase.

"What do we do with it?"

Both of us stare at one another. We realize that the smart thing to do would be to kill it. We've been killing mice for a while now, and we know we can't just let it go. On the other hand...

"I don't think I can kill it in cold blood."

"Yeah, me either."

So we put it in a large plastic box, give it some cheerios, put in an egg crate it can hide under, and plan on figuring out what to do in the morning. It is at this point that I make a serious mistake.

"Let's call him Tibbers."

Never, ever, ever, ever name an animal if you don't want to keep it. That's all I'm saying.

So, the next day the kids and I go get an aquarium and soft wood chips and a water bottle and set Tibbers up in his cage. But wait, you say, I thought you said "pair" of mice.

Oh I did.

That night I am going upstairs to get ready for bed. Same time, same place, and low and behold, there is ANOTHER MOUSE. Having worked so well as a mouse catcher before I once again utilize our handy frog vase to catch this one, and then I take it over and put it in the cage with Tibbers.

We're calling mouse #2 Nibbler.

So now we have two mice. They like each other, so they aren't both boys. We're hoping they're both girls. Otherwise, we will shortly have MORE than two mice, and I don't know what we'll do with them all. They really are adorable, though. I know, I know, some of your really hate rodents. Fine and dandy, but these guys are cute.

Speaking of cute... yesterday Charlotte was playing with one of Elliot's rain boots. She had her pacifier in her mouth, and the boot in both hands, and it seemed like she was trying to stick her hands down the boot, but that requires a bit more coordination than you might originally anticipate if you are sitting on the floor and shorter than the boot, and therefore cannot just stick your hand straight down in. Anyway, she was working at if for a while, and I couldn't figure out why the boot was holding her attention so well, when all of a sudden she succeeded and pulled two MORE pacifiers out of the boot! It was like a baby magic trick, and she was soooooo proud of herself.

Recently I sent a short email to just a few people which I began and ended with the announcement that my husband is a douche. Now, this was a joke, as he had done something monumentally silly, but it drew my attention to the fact that I am frequently derogatory of him in jest, and I wish to make sort of a public apology. The truth is that Waxor is a wonderfully patient and loving person. It cannot be easy to live with someone like me, "someone like me" being an individual whose hormones drive her moods to rival the inconstancy of the moon (no, not incontinency, inconstancy. Go read Shakespeare, you goob.) It isn't even easy living with me when you ARE me, and let's face it, I am pretty understanding of myself when I'm being an ass. So, to sum up, my husband is NOT a douche, he is, in fact, a lovely man, and I appreciate his vast capacity to deal with my BS.

On another topic, Charlotte is currently painting my toes with the cream cheese off her matzah.

I've been in a state of internal upheaval these past few months. For those of you that don't know, I had post partum thyroiditis, which is a fancy way of saying that my thyroid went through a hyperactive stage and then a suppressed stage after I had Charlotte. The hyperactive stage was great, I felt awesome; but the suppressed stage kinda sucked. I had low energy and felt like the world was ending. The thyroiditis is cleared up now, but my hormones have been in some kinda hideous wacky flux - I went to my midwives and they were like "yeah, if you start bleeding cups an hour then go to the hospital, otherwise, it'll clear up." The physical symptoms of that aren't that bad to deal with, but the mood swings - yikes. Anyway, like I said, internal upheaval. This has all coincided with my least favorite part of the year, aka, spring that is still really winter, cause it's so damn cold, and with Elliot deciding perhaps it's time he got into the "mommy I love you so much that I must be with you every second of every day and oh by the way if you don't do exactly what I want when I want it I will scream at you for hours on end" game. It's not a fun game. It's more like a game that makes you want to run into the road and get hit by a car.
So a few days ago I was ruminating on PPD (that's post partum depression, for those of you who don't already know that) because Kay was down here last week and observed that I was sort of hiding from my children, and mentioned that she thought I might have it. PPD, that is. So I was thinking about that. One of the things they always tell you to look for is the urge to hurt yourself or your children. I was watching Elliot working his way towards a full blown tantrum and thought "Show me a mother of a three year old who hasn't wanted to slap the shit out of the little fucker at least once, and I'll show you a friggin saint." It's true, no? So how do you TELL if you've got PPD or are just a normal person with a limit to your patience? Maybe it's all in the level of intent. As long as you're just thinking about it randomly, sort of in a "wouldn't it be nice if I could" kind of way you're fine? As for the hurting yourself - I don't think about hurting myself, that would HURT. I do daydream about winding up in the hospital for something temporarily serious, though, so that I can have a few days to myself. I keep trying to come up with something that would require hospitalization but wouldn't require me to have a lengthy convalescence at home. I mean, yeah, a broken leg might put me in the hospital for day or so, but then I'd be home with the kids AND a broken leg. No, I need something serious but immediately reversible. I'm thinking appendicitis. Quick surgery, a few days of peace, and then home again with a new scar and a well rested psyche.

What does that say about a person that they think emergency surgery sounds restful?

On the upside, the weather here is improving. This might sound like a minor thing, but it isn't. It means the kids spend time outside everyday - making them both happier and more content, not to mention allowing them to sleep better at night. I get to open my windows, which makes me feel less trapped in the house, even on days when I don't go anywhere. And I get to wear my sundresses. I love my sundresses. A day in a sundress is always just a little better than a day in pants, even if the exact same things occur. Sundresses MAKE it better. If I just had a friggen bonnet I could be cheerful all the time.

Yesterday we spent a couple hours outside. Elliot repeatedly buried and then excavated his green rubber duck. Charlotte discovered a specialized mix of peat moss and fertilizer and moisture holding pellets, formulated as prime seed starting mix, and left outside in our last rainfall. So... dirt. And then she ate it. I let her. She was so happy. And dirty. Then she clapped her little hands and held them out in the imperious manner she has which indicates she is ready to be held. I laughed at her naivete and carried her at arms length to the tub, where I immersed her completely in warm water until most of the dirt parted ways with her body. She loved it.

I'm'a go ahead and send this now. Surely I've forgotten something I was going to say, but then, that gives you something to await with baited breath,doesn't it?