I’m in the kitchen, preparing to put a pot on the stove, when I see it.
A little brown mouse pokes its head right out of the stove – in the crack between the surface with the burners and the back part that sticks up and displays the time.
I immediately scream, race out of the room to my mom’s room and explain the situation to her in a broken, spastic, whimpery voice, like I’ve just witnessed a horrible crime.
I don’t do mice, which is weird because I love the movie “Ratatouille.”
But the real thing just ain’t that cute.
My mom sets a trap, and a few days go by. And a couple days later, when I head to the kitchen for a snack, I see it – a little brown mouse caught in a trap.
I immediately scream, grab the dog and race out of the room to my bedroom. And then barricade us both in my room. You know, to protect us both from the dead mouse.
My mom is not home, but I plan to stay in here until she gets home and deals with that situation. It’s pathetic that I just can’t deal with it myself. But I’m comfortable being dramatic if it means I don’t have to clean up mouse remains.
When I first moved home, after living on campus for three years, I had all kinds of dramatic notions about the loss of my freedom and such. But it hasn’t been bad at all.
Actually, my mom and I get along a lot better than we did when I was in high school. For one thing, all six of my siblings have moved out, so there are no third parties to create tension and pick sides. And it helps that I’m no longer an obnoxious teenager.
Every morning she leaves me a note. Things like: “Have a nice day at school, Tessy. Love you.”
It may be the kind of thing parents do for their kindergartner, but that’s part of why I love it. By this time next year, I plan to be out of the house, and probably out of Erie. It’s nice to be a kid and soak up all that love while I can.
And next year, when there’s a mouse in the house, I’ll have to take care of it. And I will.
But at the moment, I’m going to continue to hide in my bedroom. Because I know my mom will still love me even when I’m being stupid or kind of a pain.
It’s important that I remember not to take that unconditional love for granted.
So thanks, mouse, for reminding me of that.
If you weren’t dead, I’d give you a cookie.
