Ah, the Ironies of the Holidays

The holidays are filled with ironies, not the least of which is Christmas with its quantum physics-defying reindeer sleigh hauling none other than a sack full of presents and a fat man with a beard. This year, we've added to the list. You know the rhyme about Santa on Christmas Eve where "not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse"? This Christmas Eve, the mouse was indeed stirring.

Olivia and I were playing on the couch when I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. When I looked, however, nothing was there. Moments later, I saw motion again, but when I looked... nothing! Then, out of nowhere, a mouse darted from the kitchen through the living room. Eeek! Thank God we were playing on the couch or I may have actually swooped up Olivia and hung from the ceiling with one hand. Of course, the clever mouse dove for cover in an old heat vent, making it next to impossible for me to walk across the room without the fear of being attacked by an insane rodent.

Later on, I had Olivia in the kitchen with me as I rinsed some dishes. I was in the middle of thinking 'If you were a mouse, the kitchen sink would be an excellent place to snag a few bites of food...' when, all of a sudden, that damn mouse darted across the counter top, daring me to do something about it. Oh, I did something about it alright. I positioned myself between Olivia and the stove, and danced on my tippy toes, squealing like a stuck pig and clutching my chest as I screamed "IT'S IN THE SINK! REUBEN, THERE'S THE MOUSE! ON MY COUNTER TOP! EW, EW, EW, EW, EW..." and other, more unintelligible things. When Reuben came into the kitchen, about all I could do was point at the burner of the stove that it was hiding under as I continued to shiver and gag at the thought of a dirty mouse in the place that I prepare meals. Olivia starred at me in wide-eyed wonder.

My quick-thinking husband directed me to get Olivia out of the kitchen and give him something to dispatch the mouse with. So I set Olivia up in her exersaucer in the living room and gave her the coveted TV remote so she would be so distratcted that she wouldn't notice the commotion coming from the next room. I cautiously went in and offered to help Reuben, who now had the mouse cornered behind the microwave. We plotted and finally decided that I should unplug the microwave so it could be moved better. As I did that, the mouse shot out from behind it, Reuben pointed and screamed "THERE HE IS, THE BASTARD!" and went for it, missing by mere millimeters. The mouse continued on his flight to freedom, vaulting over some baby bottles and a can of formula only to plummet 36" to the floor where he was momentarily stunned and then unceremoniously flattened with a frying pan. My husband, the mouse slayer.