Mouse in the House

There’s a mouse in the house, as my son’s book goes. But in this fiction, the mouse is eventually welcome. The one taken up residence in my abode, is not.
 

I first became aware of my new ‘roomie’ a couple of weeks ago when, one night, I heard what sounded like something crawling over a piece of furniture in my bedroom, followed by the gentle thud as it landed on the floor - I no longer have cats.
 

However, out of sight, out of mind and it was easier to feign ignorance… until a week later at 4am when I came face-to-face with my miniscule dweller in the ensuite. I actually had to give way while it skidded out from behind the washing basket and into my room. Needless to say, I didn’t go back to sleep that morning.
 

It probably sounds utterly ridiculous to some that a person can be afraid of something so tiny. After-all they are supposedly more scared of us than we are of them right? I beg to differ.
 

It’s hard to describe the type of fear a rodent can invoke. It’s obviously not the ‘fear for your life’ terror, it’s just a creepy-crawlie angst. I will not set a trap because, heck, then I’ve got to deal with it – they are just as repulsive dead as they are alive. 
 

Discovering a tail hanging out of my slipper last winter didn’t help. They were promptly turfed in the rubbish (after the rodent had vacated of course). As a result, I cannot don a pair of slippers without checking them first.Last winter it was rodent-central, courtesy of our two cats. I had thought they were bringing them in the house when they delivered them to me in bed – both dead and alive and some more intact than others. But, in light of the latest inhabitant, I wonder if my cats were actually just doing their job.
 

This all sounds very peaceful the way I’m re-telling it but, believe me, it wasn’t: More like, screaming murder and cursing the innocent-looking moggies and simultaneously dry-retching into my pajama top while holding a bucket at arm’s length to try and catch it. All this in the dead of the night. Often the mouse, if it were alive, would run straight into the bucket, relieved to get away from the cat, after which I’d carry it, still at arm’s length and at great speed, downstairs and fling the whole bucket out the garage door. I’d need a sleeping pill after that.
 

I came home to a smashed window some weeks ago from an attempted burglary and, despite amping up my security, spent many nights thereafter on high-alert. So it is, therefore, amazing, that this little creature can have the same effect on one’s quality of life.

Reading last week of the Auckland boy whose ear was bitten by a rat as he slept didn’t help either.

 

Unfortunately the kids have picked up on my fear. It would probably never have occurred to them to be scared but, after the latest sighting, Master Nine screamed like a banshee as it scuttled under the fridge. We promptly went about barricading it in with logs of wood. But what next?
 

“Perhaps we could keep passing bits of cheese under the fridge until it gets so fat it can’t fit out,” he suggested.
 

The jury’s still out on that one. Anyway, I think I heard a thud later that night as it hit the kitchen floor and made a run for it after climbing over the wood.
 

Meanwhile, our fridge is still boarded up, just in case.

Mother Nature Wins

As the recent Facebook post went: ‘Kids don’t remember their best day of television’.

I was reminded of this when the skies opened up this week and promptly pelted the region with mini balls of ice.

It was 2.55pm and I was about to leave my roaring fire behind and set out on foot to pick up my three when this happened. All around me it sounded like a mini war zone. Staring out the window, I considered staying home – where’s the sense in four of us getting wet? – but decided I’d best be a good mum and deliver their umbrellas.

Setting out I wondered if my umbrella would soon be riddled in bullet holes, but it sustained the assault and we skidded into the school in one piece while ice pellets ricocheted in all directions.

In the school grounds there was high-excitement coming from within the class rooms. How cruel for this to happen with five minutes before bell time. I suspect those last five minutes was more tedious than usual for the teachers.

At 3pm the kids came tearing out, full volume, to frolic in the remains of the fast-melting ice and study it in their hands. They were in no hurry to get home in front of screens.

The first time my lot experienced hail they were not so enthused. Several years ago, while living on the farm, we decided to go for a walk and pick kiwifruit down the orchard. Just as we got our gumboots on, it started raining, turning into a full-blown thunder storm. At that point the kids began playing up so I told them it was the sky growling at them.

“Sorry,” called out Miss Three, chin upturned to the sky. It responded with another growl, followed by a torrent of hail and she recoiled in terror.

Delighted at the rear occurrence of ice falling from the sky, I decided to run back inside and grab their raincoats to allow them to play in it. After a lot of effort, I managed to get them bundled up and ready but the looks on their faces had changed from enthusiasm to fear as they edged closer towards the door. I eventually allowed a whimpering Miss Three back inside while the other two, seeing my displeasure, lingered, too afraid to admit it was game over for them too. Throwing up my hands in defeat, I stripped their dry, wet-weather gear off and, realising it my was my own fault for putting the fear of god in them, closed the door on the situation. Back to Play House Disney it was.

While Mother Nature seemingly lost out that time, I know which one they remembered: for a long time afterwards when it thundered they would turn on their best behaviour.

Trip Down Memory Lane

It struck me the other day that I have now been writing Kiddy Kaos for over four years.

Back then, as a stay-at-home mum with three pre-schoolers and prime witness to all their antics, I did what most mums do these days: why post it on Facebook of course!

 

“Had never experienced a toddler dipping their hands in their dirty nappy and spreading the contents all thru their bed and up the walls ... until now!
Ew, ew, ew ... man my life rocks!”  (2010)

While these little snippets from our pre-schoolers’ lives might conjure up a smile from the reader, along with the press of the ‘like’ button (well, maybe not this example), they would all get lost in cyber and, eventually forgotten.

As many parents know, the first years go by in a haze. I’ve always thought it important to record precious memories so I decided to expand on these ongoing extracts and combine my two passions: my kids and writing stories.

My aim of sharing it was to give other struggling parents a glimpse into another household’s chaos so they could see that we’re all in the same boat. I also hoped it would give grandparents something to reminisce about as, technology and pc standards aside, kids themselves have not really changed. 

At the end of it all I will have several volumes-worth for my own children, the main characters, to peruse if they wish, once they too are in the same situation with their own offspring.

All my stories are recorded on my blog and it was for the sake of researching for this story, I decided to pay it a visit. Trawling through the archives, I was amazed at some of the situations I used to find myself in.

 There was the time we took our two-month-old twins and toddler camping on our bare land (how did we do it?!), the

poo-painting saga (including all up the family tent wall!), the endless and inevitable birds and the bees questions, missing teeth, swearing, toilet humour and public meltdowns.

There were the holiday disasters, including the time everyone but me caught the vomiting bug and I drove home from Auckland with the three children stripped of their clothes in their cars seats, stripped back to the bare buckets, the car reeking of spew.

There was the story about the whole family catching head lice and then another – “The Return of the Kutus” and the time my three walked in while I was watching Embarrassing Bodies and caught a glimpse of the ‘fannies and willies and big black boobies’ as they took great delight in regaling to their kindy teachers that week.

Then there were the terrifying ambulance rides and multiple

hospital trips – Miss Three lodging a bead up her nose and Master One’s febrile seizure, vomiting dehydration and choking-induced CPR – the latter being the only I couldn’t cast a humorous retrospective slant on.

Looking back I see, during one lot of school holidays I even considered taking out a ‘Wanted’ ad for a home for my three children. I’m sure if they read the full story, they would see my reasoning.  

Admittedly, I mostly glossed over the headings – the names evoking the memory of the story but there was one - ‘It’s Not All Bad’ - which got my attention and I read it in full: It started like this:

Last week my nana gave me a wee lecture.

“Jodi,” she said, waving the newspaper in her hand. “You know, one of these days I’m really hoping to read something positive from you. After all, it can’t be all bad,” she said, giving me a meaningful look.

 

It was a good reality check and, looking back, I can see I changed my attitude.  

My trip down memory lane revisited our journey of the triumphs and tribulations through parenthood to date and when I emerged, it was, not only with a tear in my eye, but with the reinforced message to live in the moment and cherish every one of them.