I flipped out.
I told Jimmy what I saw. In a very loud and screechy voice. While clutching things.
I did not know what it was. So Jimmy grabbed a laundry basket and prepared to lift the chair and attempt to catch whatever it was.
We'll as you've probably guessed, it was a mouse. And as we lifted the chair it evaded the laundry basket and hid under my bed.
And then my life was all of a sudden a sit com from the 80's.
I am hysterical. I am now standing on my bed in my pajamas continuing to screech at my husband, my eyes darting frantically around the perimeter of my bed so that I will see if he escapes. (Insert laugh track.) We formulate a plan. I block two edges of the bed with pillows and blankets (still standing...never getting any closer than necessary) while continuing to scan the perimeter as Jimmy goes to get something to capture it in.
(I can see Cliff and Claire Huxtable trying to catch a snake in a pillow case.)
He brings back a broom and waste basket. The plan is for me to scare him out and force him in the one direction that isn't blocked.
After encouragement from Jimmy I do get off the bed and do my job with the broom from one side while he waits on the other. The mouse runs out and hides again under the chair. Now it feels like an episode of I Love Lucy. We block every possible exit and prepare to tip the lazy boy chair forward and trap him under the waste basket. I look Jimmy in the eyes. I tell him this is it. He needs to be the one. He can do this.
The mouse is fast but Jimmy traps him, right next to the bathroom door, which we had closed so he couldn't get out of the bedroom. I am doubtful. I am pessimistic. I don't think Jimmy has done it. He is sure he has. We talk for a moment, adrenaline slowing to a normal level. We discuss what to do with it. I am still asking if he is sure he got it.
Sliding a book underneath ("How to draw baby animals" just happened to be on the floor in my room) we flip the waste basket over. I heard the mouse slide to the bottom. Jimmy moves the book and peeks. I can't bear to look. He doesn't see him. He peeks again. There is nothing in the waste basket.
He had crawled under the door.
Now we have no idea where it is. In the amount of time we stood there and discussed it the mouse could have gone anywhere in the house.
I used blankets or towels or pillows to block the spaces under every bedroom door in the house. The kids rooms from the outside in the hall, and ours from the inside. I don't want the mouse bothering my babies! I was aware I could have been trapping it in there with them, but sometimes as a mother you have to feel like you're doing something.
This morning Jimmy discovered that part of the peanut butter jar lid had been chewed on. (This would be our mega Peter Pan jar from Sams with the thin plastic lid and foil covered cylinder which I keep in a low cabinet.)
Tonight I am setting mouse traps. I don't care if it's cruel. I don't care if he is just a tiny animal. He violated my quiet calm bedroom and he will die.
Jimmy has decided to balance out my inhumanity. He said he looked into his eyes. That he's probably got a whole mouse family and that he's just out gathering supplies. Maybe they're getting ready for Christmas. They probably have a thimble. He rides a motorcycle. Blah blah blah.
So anyway I am putting peanut butter on four traps and placing them strategically in our house. I will go to bed wishing that it has all been a dream in the form of an episode of The Dick van Dyke show and that Rob Petry would make funny faces, do a little slapstick, and make my mouse problem go away while Mary Tyler Moore stands distraught on a chair in her capri pants and apron.
But though it often feels like it, my life is not a sit com and problems don't go away in 24 minutes with a few commercial breaks. But I can dream.