 Marlaine Cover
"Mama Marlaine" |
Not a Creature Was Stirring...
My husband and I stood in the drugstore aisle (me nine months pregnant), surrounded by premature Christmas decorations and contemplating the most humane way to commit murder. “Billy,” I had screamed just fifteen minutes prior, “There is a mouse in the nursery!” Visibly relieved to learn the source of my upset did not necessitate he personally deliver his first child, he lovingly reassured me “Don’t worry, it’s just a field mouse; all we need to do is set a trap.”
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Horrified while I confess to being discovering the thumb sized rodent on such virginal territory, confronting the variety of cruel methods for terminating his young life made him seem less malicious and more adorable by the second. Traps that beheaded him were most assuredly out – as was poison. Just as Billy prepared to deliver a public scream himself in exasperation for my dramatic turnaround in sensitivities, I settled on a sticky pad with a peanut.
The next morning Billy exited the nursery with the pride of a hunter who’d captured a wild boar. “We got him!” he gloated as he headed out the door to the complex disposal. Moments later, however, he returned five whiter shades of pale. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Burying a mouse alive in a mountain of trash with feet cemented in super glue is NOT a humane solution!” he declared.
I have always believed it was appropriate to give credit where credit was due so here goes my true Christmas confessions. Fast forward 20 years. Our two daughters, home from college for winter break, are nestled sweetly in their shared bedroom. The house is silent except for ……..what sounds like nothing less than Atlas Van Lines rearranging the beams in our attic.
“What’s that?” they ask. Want though I do to brag that I have matured in the area of pest management in the past two decades, the truth is I haven’t. Whereas previously I was courageous enough to personally assist in selecting means for execution, now I simply hire a professional. Worse still, it required everything in my power NOT to hug my hired hit man when I opened the front door an hour later.
“Got some activity?” he inquired politely. “Do all the creatures of the north move south in the winter?” I asked in reply. “I believe I am hosting something proximate to the population of Chicago - and clearly they are suffering severe seasonal affective disorder because they are behaving as if it was Mardi Gras rather than Christmas.” Twenty minutes later he had meticulously set multiple traps in our attic and sealed off the air conditioning pipes that served as high speed railways for their mass relocation. “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, thanks to Terminex.”
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