Kids Say the Darndest Things

People say that you will always get an honest answer out of a kid. There's some serious truth to that - kids don't understand social norms and what might be hurtful, misconstrued, or inappropriate. They just say whatever comes to those growing brains of theirs. And while it is sometimes embarrassing for their parents, it is a quality that I deeply envy, and I think it's often beautiful.

These tiny humans understand things like love, forgiveness, and truth that we adults seem to learn to filter over the years. In between the funny, inappropriate, and sometimes mortifying moments, Clark (and others his age) speak such profound wisdom that it stops me in my tracks. 

I am the kind of parent who believes in never burdening little people with the problems of big people, but I am also a truthful parent who wants my child(ren) --- NOT an announcement --- to know that whenever they have a question, that mom is going to tell them the truth. It's a big part of the reason people treat us like criminals because we don't do Santa or the Easter Bunny. I don't want to ever blatantly lie to him.

First, the funny -

My child is completely literal. Being that he is my only child, I don't know if it's just him, or if every child is this cut and dry, but it CRACKS me up. Below are just a couple of recent conversations that highlight this -

1.) The Ins and Outs of Milk

C: Momma, if you mind, can I have a glass of milk?
H: Sure!
C: Fank you.
H: You're welcome. Do you know where we get milk from?
C: *looks at me like I am a moron*
C: Yeah...from the old ladies at the grocery store.

--- True, that is where we get OUR milk. ---

2.) Snake Hunting

*We were watching a show and a family found a live snake in a box in their home.*

H: Clark, what would you do if we had a real, live snake in our house?
C: *shrugs* I don't know...catch it and make it dead.

--- Good point, kid. ---

Next, the inappropriate - 

1.) The Penis Rules 

C: Boys has penis.
H: You are right.
C: I show you my penis?
H: No, that is private.
C: Ohhh. Okay. I just touch my penis?
H: No, not unless you really have to, and if you do, go to the bathroom. Otherwise, leave it alone.
C: *blank stare*
C: *In the middle of the living room, opens his shorts*
H: CLARK! What are you doing?!
C: I'm just looking at it! I CAN look at it, can't I??
H: *Facepalm*

--- It's ALWAYS about a penis with a boy, isn't it? ---

2.) The Old Man at the Swimming Pool

*Ryan and I took Clark swimming, and we had to wait a few minutes in a long line.*

C: *Swinging his arms*
H: Please be careful, you almost hit the people in front of us.
C: Sorry, mom. It was a ass-ident.
H: It's okay, but I don't want you hitting the guy in front of us.
C: BECAUSE HE IS AN OLD MAN?!
H: No, it's just not nice. And don't scream.
C: BUT HE IS AN OLD MAN! (He was like 40, tops)
H: *Frantically trying to change the subject*
H: What do you want to do in the pool?
C: *Pointing*
C: Is dat OLD MAN going to da pool, too?
H: *trying to become invisible while pondering moving 3 states away*

Now, the wise -

It should be no secret to anyone who knows me at all that I am an ally and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and inclusion. And it is probably also no secret that I am angry, hurt, and disappointed in the United Methodist Church's decisions at the most recent annual conference to continue being a culture of exclusion. It further complicates things that my husband is employed by the United Methodist Church, and he is also very good at that employment and loves being there.

One of the million reasons why I love that man is that he never tries to tell me what to believe, or how to process my emotions. I told him that I couldn't, in good conscience, attend our church for a few weeks or more. I needed time to step away and sift through my broken heart before I could decide my next move. He supported me through that and gave me the space and the time that I needed to heed some great advice that highlighted the fact that nothing changes by abandoning it.

So one Sunday morning about a month after the vote, I told myself and my Lord that I was going to get up, get dressed, and be a part of the change I want to see in the world. Which meant attending the church that I love and continuing to campaign and fight for what I believe Jesus would do.

It was an unusually quiet ride to church, as I was still sorting through everything and pretty nervous to be in attendance after such a long absence. Kids are so dang smart and perceptive. From the backseat, a little voice piped up and this was our conversation -

C: Momma, are you okay?
H: Yes, honey, I am. I'm just sad.
C: Why?
H: Because some people not really at our church, but connected to our church did some things that really hurt my feelings.
C:
C:
C:
C: (in the toughest voice I have heard from him to date) Who did it, Momma?!
--- I think he was ready to defend my honor ---
H: Some people that you don't know.
C: What did dey do?
H: Well, they are being kind of mean to families who have two Daddies or two Mommies (the best way I could explain it to his understanding). You know, like your friend at daycare who has two Daddies?
C: Ohhh, yeah! Dat SO cool!
C: Why are dey being mean?
H: Well, these people don't want families with two Daddies or two Mommies to be able to be a pastor, or to marry each other. And I am sad because I think we should love everyone.
C: I wish I had two Daddies. My Daddy is such a good Daddy, Momma! I wish I had two of my Daddy!

Now, I understand that he is 3 and that he by no means understands the full spectrum of LGBTQ+ issues, nor do I completely understand where his beliefs will lead him, but I DO know that I explained it to him the absolute best way that I could, and that he responded with nothing but love. He was reminded of a family structure that looks different than his family, and he thought it was cool and wished he had two Ryans in his life. Again, that shows that his understanding of the situation has some growing to do, but it also shows that his first instinct is to lead with love. Kids understand that on a deeper level than we give them credit for.

I'm proud of my boy and the way that his brain works. And I am proud that I am raising such a compassionate kid, even if he is a blossoming smartass who calls people old and pays WAY too much attention to his penis.

The Seven Year Itch

Seven years. That's how long I've lived in Iowa. Seven winters under my belt with only 1 killed deer/car on my record. A few fishtail drives, but nothing even this Vegas girl couldn't correct. I've shoveled lots of snow. I've learned to balance (sort of) on slippery sidewalks.  But today, I met my match.

After my sweet husband shoveled 13 inches of "heart attack snow" in several 90 minute shifts to dig our cars out, he told me to be sure to take the short side of our alley out this morning.

Sidebar: Clark received a Paw Patrol shovel from Aunt Tammy & Uncle Bob for his birthday last year. He has been talking for 11 months about getting to shovel snow with it. So while Daddy huffed and puffed and braved the elements, I inched our door open and let Clark "shovel" the deck from our warm kitchen. Ryan came in after(what we thought was) his final hour of shoveling, drenched in sweat and several layers of clothing, catching his breath, and very kindly made a HUGE deal about thanking Clark for shoveling the deck for him. Without missing a beat, our 2 year old patted his Dad's shoulder as he walked away, and nonchalantly said "Oh, you welcome, Daddy!'

I was up extra early thanks to insomnia, so I bit the bullet, got ready, and headed out to my car. That's where things got dicey.

I very carefully reversed straight behind me in order to  avoid the snow bank. Reverse is not my strong gear, so I was very pleased with myself as I switched into drive and turned the wheel. Screeeeeeeeeech. Bumpbumpbump. Ice. And not just a patch - an entire alley COVERED in several inches of very thick, very frozen ice. While my winter driving experience is limited, I have had success reversing when I can't get traction in drive. I'm smart. I can do this. Back to reverse, back to a few feet of motion, bumpbumpbump. Now, instead of 2 wheels stuck on ice, I have managed to get all 4 wheels onto frozen solid water. At least I'm pretty.

By my third attempt, I realized I needed to call in the big guns. Lucky for me, the big guns had been watching from the door and was already headed my way in snow gear, armed with a bright yellow plastic shovel. While he may have been cursing me under his breath, he was very sweetly telling me I could stop apologizing three times per breath. Realizing much faster than I did (he is definitely the brains of this operation) that I was stuck on ice, not snow, he tossed the plastic shovel aside and started pushing the car and my heavy butt while I gunned the gas on the back swing and tried not to run him over on the down slide.

After several attempts, ice breaking, changing drivers, and a lot of screeching and burning tires, my knight in snow gear drove off onto a real road with me slowly skidding down the rest of the alley behind him. Shaken, I made it to my now toasty warm car, buckled up, and slowly drove off. That's the exact moment that I remembered my lunch was at home. Determined to not go back, I resolved to order extra at my daily Starbucks stop to get me through the day. Main roads seemed fine, but my nerves proved to be shot when I saw traces of frozen precipitation on the road to that beautiful double tailed mermaid. Turns out I love my life just a little bit more than my coffee.

Finally completing my 10 minute commute to work an hour after it began, I pulled into my parking spot and breathed a sigh of relief that I was in 1 piece. That audible noise was immediately accompanied by the loud growl of my empty stomach.

Deciding to quench my hunger with a cold Diet Dew, I took a crisp dollar bill out of my drawer and headed to our machine at work. Like always, it took my dollar, had me make my selection, sent the arm up to my requested number, and then I helplessly watched the machine stop in front of my deeply desired caffeine before flashing "sold out" across the tiny screen and returning my dollar in quarters. Two of which, the machine promptly ate while I was loading them to try a different number.

Fighting back tears for the third time today, I took a deep breath and retrieved the not-so-secret keys from their designated spot, opened the giant machine, took my pop, and closed and locked the machine. Still holding the 4 quarters like the frazzled, on-the-verge-of-crying thief that I am. Nope. Not today, Satan. 4 quarters and a post-it note explaining the issue to the designated staff member in charge of these things, caffeine in hand,  I was ready to turn my day around.

Another loud hunger rumble. Hmmm, Diet Mountain Dew isn't that filling when it's the only thing you give your body 4 hours after waking up. Just then, an angel in disguise appeared with a very large piece of succulent, moist, golden, delicious cake. I devoured it faster than a feral momma cat who hadn't seen food in a week, much to the wide eyed horror of the sweet friend who shared. As I was taking my first breath since inhaling the yumminess, I asked "what was that divine syrup you used??" Her horror quickly turned to amusement as she said "Rum. It's a rum cake. I forgot you don't drink - I should have given you half of a piece."

Soooooo, there I was, drunk* at work. Not sure if that was an upgrade or downgrade to my day, but I seemed to care a lot less about living in this God forsaken skating rink after that. Either way, I can attest to 2 things: 1. That darn cake was AMAZING and I would have eaten it all had I not been afraid to call Ryan to tell him I was fired for being drunk at work... at 10am on a Tuesday...after he labored for an hour to get me there on time, and 2. that the 7 year itch IS a thing. At least when it comes to real winter. Anyone know of lucrative jobs on the beach? For Ryan, that is. I'll be home making my new favorite cake.

*I'm like 97% sure I wasn't drunk, but that might be the Rum talking.

Dadgic

In my 30 some years of life, I have been blessed with some amazing fathers. Chief among them are my own father, who I have the immense pleasure of still having to this day. His booming laughter and orneriness really know no bounds. I have the added blessing of having a wonderful bonus dad who I earned when I married his son. His kindness and sweet heart are two of my favorite things in this world. And then there’s the guy who I get the privilege of watching as a father every day; my husband.

I know everyone always says this, especially around Father’s Day, but my husband really is the best dad. I knew a long time ago that he would be a great dad; it’s part of the reason I wanted to marry him. Some things in life you just know, and this was one of those things. 

Even though he didn’t have a ton of experience with kids, Ryan jumped right in and filled his role as Clark’s father so seamlessly. He is loving, patient, fun, silly, calm, funny, and warm. He never shies away from Dad duties. He doesn’t babysit or watch our child; he parents him. Pretty darn well, I might add. While I know that is the baseline from where dads are typically measured, I think it’s a sad but true reflection of how little society expects from fathers.

There has not been a single day in Clark’s 29+ months on this earth where I have had to ask Ryan for help. I know a lot of moms who aren’t so lucky, and I believe that he deserves to be celebrated. From the fact that he has never once complained about missing work to care for our boy, to the joy and squeals that he elicits from our son every day for just walking through the doorway, to what I call dadgic (the magical ability that fathers have to speak the same command a child’s mother has said no less than 18 times, and said child immediately and without question obeys request).

Ryan is the dad who throws Clark up in the air so high it makes my heart sink to my knees, and leaves our toddler breathless from laughter. But he’s also the dad who rocks a scared little boy back to sleep after a bad dream at a ridiculous hour on a work night. And he’s also the dad who makes an unruly toddler serve his time in the corner and apologize to his momma for yelling at her. 

He has instilled a love of music, adventure, guitars, Jesus, humor, and Cardinals baseball in our boy. Ryan has loved Clark since the day he found out he was going to be a father, and has never faltered in his quest for Clark to know how loved he is. There's nothing more a mother could wish for in a father for her children.

Is there anything in the world sexier than a good dad? Maybe a good dad with a killer beard and backwards baseball cap, but that’s a different kind of post ;). Happy Father’s Day to you, my love. Thank you for picking me to raise a family with, and thank you for that sweet little boy who is lucky to call you Daddy. We love you so much!

Pin THIS, Pinterest

I am not a Pinterest mom. I do not understand Pinterest, or how to pin anything, or how to find things I’ve pinned, or how to make my creations look like what Pinterest made look so dang easy. So imagine my delight when 36 hours before the party, I received a text from daycare informing me of the upcoming Valentine’s Day party that included the phrase ‘Bring a dish to pass, and be creative with the theme of Valentine’s Day in mind. We want it to be special.’ Well you know what I want? To buy a tray of cookies and go on with my life. And I also want about a week and a half notice to get that half-hearted gesture off my back.

Genetically speaking, I should be good at this. I mean, my mother is basically the inspiration behind Pinterest. Or at least she should have been. Turkeys made out of suckers, cookies that look like stained glass windows, candy that looks exactly like bacon and eggs…the list goes on. She always cheerfully got me an apron and a chair and let me ‘help’, even if my assistance was more of a hindrance. I try my best to channel her patience in the kitchen…like not dying on the inside when my kid puts dog food in a pan and says ‘I make hot dog!’ while I try to cook one mediocre meal. In his defense, it might taste better than an actual hot dog.

Where I don’t excel is in actually making the ideas come to life. I will spend hours scouring Google for ‘EASY holiday themed treats’, find the easiest and cheapest looking one, head to the store (with a toddler in tow; which should be its own medal eligible event), come home exhausted after a day of work at my fulltime job and spend 45 minutes debating what would be easier: make the stupid treats, or get in the car, drive until we run out of gas, change our names, and start a new life. Daycare gets paid on Mondays, so they won’t be looking for Sarah in Omaha and her creative Valentine’s Day inspired dish to share. 

Aside from the dish, why do I have to sit with a 2 year old for 83 pain staking minutes while he scribbles across 11 store bought Valentine cards with puns about being sweet? He’s just going to give them to 11 more tiny people who also can’t read.

Look, I appreciate that daycare wants to have traditions and parties and make cute little crafts. I love it. It is part of the reason why we chose the daycare that we did – because we knew that our kid’s day would be enriched by these things. The problem I have is WHY I have to participate. I pay them to create this environment. If I wanted to join in, I would apply to work there. 

And here’s my other issue…the perfect little daycare family with the perfect treats that the perfect mom spent 11 hours and $492 creating. They’re 2. They eat rocks. Nobody is impressed with your 12 perfectly pink tiramisus in the shape of the freaking Mona Lisa served on a bejeweled heart platter that you made yourself. Our daycare has just such a perfectly perfect mom, who has no shortage of comments about the rest of us. And so help me Cupid, if she makes one remark about the red pancakes and light syrup (I’m sure her hand pressed sunflower oil that she picked the ingredients for from her perfect white picket fenced yard is a real hit with the toddlers) we bring, I will be on the front page of the paper being arrested outside of daycare for shoving pink tiramisu up her perfect butt.

This is why I hate the holidays. As if I don’t have enough going on in my life, now I have to MAKE crap?! Is there some sort of business that I can pay to make the thing I saw on Pinterest, they’ll deliver it to daycare, and then I can take the credit? Because I would pay good money and compromise my morals for that kind of service.

The Spectacles Spectacle

My husband is the quintessential creative mind. That man, at any given moment, may have no clue where his keys, wallet, or phone are (hint: all different, but equally peculiar places), but he can hear a song for the first time, pick up a guitar, and play it perfectly. This is why it was no surprise to me when he lost his glasses 3 weeks after getting them. That was 8 months ago.

We searched high and low for those glasses that I was sure would turn up during our recent move, but they did not. We’ve found the case, and we’ve looked in the most ridiculous of places…under the bathroom sink, in the trunk of the car, Clark’s toybox…EVERYWHERE.

Since we are approaching the 1 year anniversary of him getting glasses, we have sort of given up on the hunt and filled our time looking for all of the other things of his that he misplaces. The most recent hunt was for his wallet. For Christmas, I bought him a key finder that seems to work really well (and has already paid for itself in time that we would have lost looking), but his wallet has no such beeping GPS.

Around day 10 of the hunt for his wallet, he grew tired of having no driver’s license and no access to his money, so he gave up the fight and cancelled his cards…a GUARANTEED way to find your wallet. Clark and I were sitting in our recliner sharing a granola bar one day when our dumb dog did something that I can’t even recall (but I assure you, it was dumb) that required me to toss Clark and the granola bar aside to come to the dog’s rescue. When whatever it was had been handled (Olivia Pope style), I scooped Clark up and looked around for the other half of our granola bar.

Our furniture is notorious for eating our things – if I had every moment that I’ve ever spent sticking my hands down the sides or flipping it over and pulling the flap to release an avalanche of socks, pens, phones, the remote, and any other puzzling object, I could probably rule the world by now. So, I sat down, reached my right hand down the side of the chair as I had done a million times before, and pulled out Ryan’s wallet full of canceled cards, but the other half of the granola bar was nowhere to be found.

Our dog may be dumb, but she is very food motivated. She can smell a crumb of food under a table, and will incessantly sniff as loud as possible, for whatever length of time it takes for you to get up, move the chair, and let her under. So we figured that the missing snack was probably under the chair and that Mia would have it found in no time. We give her so much credit that isn’t due.

WEEKS went by, and aside from the occasional ‘where in the world?!’ thought, I didn’t devote much of my time to the granola bar mystery. Last week, Clark was missing one of his bowling pins and was becoming increasingly desperate to find it. I got up, flipped the chair over and heard a clank that sounded like keys. Knowing that it couldn’t possibly be keys because ours were accounted for, and knowing that my T-Rex arms couldn’t reach to the bottom, I asked Ryan to come fish out whatever it was I heard. He reached into the inner workings of the couch, and said ‘I feel a lot of things, but not sure what any of them ---‘ and then burst out laughing while he held his GLASSES in his hand. And half of a granola bar. And a bowling pin. And socks.

And in true fashion with the kind of luck that man has, even after residing IN OUR CHAIR for over half a year, they didn’t have a single scratch on them! So, now that he can see clearly, I’m going to have to start wearing makeup again. Doesn’t he look like the cutest, most studious lumberjack you’ve ever seen?

How Spontaneity (Figuratively) Killed The Planner Mom

When you are a parent, spontaneity is not your friend. I am a planner to a fault, and my husband is the very definition of one who flies by the seat of their pants. He loves being spontaneous, so every once in a while, I make a concentrated effort to plan to do something spontaneous. I know – planning to be spontaneous isn’t being spontaneous, but this is the extent of the deal with the devil that I am willing to make. But every once in a while, the stars align for a brief moment in time, and I agree to do something on a whim. These times rarely end well.

Our son has been sporting the haircut of a very angsty emo teen for a couple weeks now, due to the fact that we have noticed a downward spiral with each haircut that he has. The first one was a breeze – he sat up on his dad’s lap, smiled, and patiently withstood the hair cutting process. From there, it became progressively louder and more challenging. Imagine greasing up a feral cat and asking it to sit still and be groomed. Then add blue suckers covered in hair, a lot of screaming, and phones being thrown in the wild animal’s general direction hoping it would enjoy a YouTube video and calm the heck down. Now you have a picture of what our night looked like.

Around 6:30pm last night, we decided to call a salon near our house and see when their next available appointment would be. As luck would (or wouldn’t) have it, they had an opening at 6:45pm. Putting aside the panic that struck the pit of my stomach at doing something so last minute, I forced my most believable smile and against my better judgment said ‘Sure! We’ll take it!’ Grabbing a sucker for my purse to use as a lure for a well behaved, no tears experience, we loaded up and headed toward the salon, discussing with Clark what we were about to do, and being lied to with every utterance of agreement from him about the plan. We walked in right on time, were greeted, and shown to the chair. That is where things began to unravel.

As she pulled out the shiny cape with the fun animals on it, Clark went from cheerful to screaming bloody murder in 0.42 seconds. She, having the same idea as myself, grabbed the basket of suckers and offered him a token of bribery for allowing her to shape up the mop of hair he had on his head. Sans cape, she calmly grabbed the clippers and slowly turned them on, demonstrating to Clark how they didn’t hurt byrunning them across her arms. Convinced this was all a trap, Clark took the sucker in one hand, and with both hands, put a death grip on his hair and made clear his displeasure at the thought of cutting even one strand. Deciding that it was best to take a break, we sat in the lobby and allowed another customer to go ahead of us.

Said customer was a control freak mom and her 8 year old. FORTY minutes later, the mom was still telling our poor stylist how she didn’t like her son’s hair and wanted it even shorter. So the nice stylist cut it shorter. Then the mom wanted his bangs swept to the side. No, the OTHER side. Judging by how important the bangs were to her, I can only deduce that One Direction is hosting auditions in our town today, and those bangs are her kid’s shot at stardom. Bangs swept to the correct side, the son mentioned how itchy his neck was and mom nearly blew a gasket on the stylist for making the son’s neck itch. All I could think about was how this nice girl was probably going to set her scissors down, walk out the door, and never return. She was incredibly patient, washed the boy’s hair, and then sweetly smiled at us and asked if we were ready to try again. I should have asked if she was well versed in performing exorcisms.

90 minutes, many talks, offers of YouTube videos, a water bottle he was allowed to squirt wherever he wanted, and two suckers later, she did the best she could with scissors only while Clark did his best impression of a very angry honeybadger. And while the hair is finally out of his eyes, he looks as if he was the one entrusted with scissors and left unsupervised to cut his own hair. Out of protection for her business, we promised not to use the stylist’s name or salon, as this is not a reflection of her skills and talents. It is, however, a glaringly accurate picture of what happens when you think a spur of the moment haircut an hour before bedtime on a 2 year old is a good idea…

Hostile Work Environment

If you have followed my blog for any amount of time at all, you know that my luck is not the greatest. Mine is a life sprinkled with good fortune in terms of family and irresistible good looks, and terrible in terms of staying upright, my dream to be independently wealthy, avoiding weird illnesses, and other things of the sort.

I did hit a small jackpot in the job lottery and found one that keeps me busy, paid, and overall, pretty happy. In the couple of years that I have been there, I have become the go to person for most things, and enjoy getting to be a helper throughout the majority of days. The problem with being the helper is that when crap goes south, there is nobody to turn to except yourself. And crap always goes south.

I took a much needed day off after Thanksgiving so that we could visit Ryan’s family 6 hours away. After working Wednesday, we hit the road about 4pm with a toddler stowed away – he did a good job both ways overall, but traveling with a toddler just makes it more complicated. After a few days, we made the trip home late Saturday, rested on Sunday, and hit the ground running on Monday. Ready to be back to work, I strolled into the office my usual hour + before another soul arrives, and started answering the swarm of emails that awaited me. Before long, I needed to reach into my top desk drawer to retrieve my stapler that I have to hide because I work with hoodlums who will steal anything left out.

I grabbed the stapler and noticed something small fly off of it out of my peripheral, but didn’t think much of it. As I proceeded with my day, I took inventory of my desk and noticed that something wasn’t quite right. Random pieces of all of my office supplies were flying off every time I picked something up from inside my drawer. I decided to investigate, not knowing that I would never be the same as before saidinvestigation.

Upon an extended look into my drawer, I realized that I had an intruder gallivanting through my things in the form of a rodent. A mouse had been in my desk! And he left so many presents. As I continued to search and remove said presents with bleach wipes, I noticed that this had been more than a quick drop by visit over the holiday weekend – I had a full blown squatter living between the 3 drawers and inner workings of my desk. A mouse was living in my desk and using my nametags as urinals!

Having grown up in the God forsaken desert where the only living creatures were scorpions and tarantulas, I have very little experience with mice. Everyone who I begged to help me asked me if I had any food in my desk, and I kept telling them that I have gum and like 3 werther’s hard candies; 2 of which had been eaten through. 1.) Apparently, my mouse is an 85 year old woman, and 2.) I have food in my house, but that doesn’t mean that people can just show up and say ‘You have food, so I live here now’. That is not how it works! What am I supposed to do? Draft a tiny little subpoena and leave it in my desk with a court date?

Luckily, we have an amazing maintenance director who brought me some traps, told me to put them in the middle drawer and around the walls, and he would show up at 6am to check the traps for me. I think he took one look at me and knew I was no match for a creepy crawly mouse. Day 2 of the hostage situation began with new presents in drawers 1 and 3, and an empty trap in drawer 2. She’s a smart little old lady mouse!More bleach, some prayers, and the trap moved to drawer #3, and I ran for my life.

Day 3, I walked in, set my things down, and slowly opened my bottom drawer with my foot. As it slowly slid open, I thankfully saw no mouse and better yet, no mouse trap! As I rejoiced at the mouse’s day of reckoning, I felt the slightest twinge of sadness for the mouse’s life being over at the tender age of 85, but I technically didn’t kill her. I just ordered the hit that did kill her. Totally different. She’s either haunting me or she left her husband behind, because as I left today, I swear I heard a squeak as I shut the drawer. It either said ‘Rest In Peace, Gladys’ or ‘I’ll exact revenge on your life, Heidi, for killing my dear wife Gladys’.