I've been keeping up the list, every night before I go to bed. But instead of sharing with you my sappier moments (heaven knows we've had enough of that around here), I thought I'd share with you some things that could have made The List.... but didn't.
1. Kept a plant alive for 6 months.
Didn't make the list because.... Sweet husband thought the plant was fake, so he didn't water it. For a week. Needless to say, the plant is in the trash.
2. Made it through swim practice twice in one week.
Didn't make the list because.... my hamstrings were so tight I couldn't get out of bed the next day, prompting a long string of expletives that my boys thought was a great battle cry. Whoops.
3. The weather finally cooled off enough so that we could weed the front beds before being evicted by the Historic District folks.
Didn't make the list because.... apparently weeding is worse for your hamstrings that swimming. Walking down stairs is highly overrated.
4. Great guest priest at church yesterday.
Didn't make the list because.... The guest caused 2 offerings to be collected. My father-in-law, being kind, gave each of the kids a dollar to put in the plate, causing Will to loudly protest "Why do we have to pay them?" Twice. (We'd particularly like to thank to row behind us for only snickering, instead of the rowdy guffaw of the guy in front of us. Very classy.)
Hope your lists are growing longer - even with our mishaps this week, ours are.
Friday
Wednesday
She rules the school
So you may have gathered that I've been a bit emotional lately. And I'm betting that you can only imagine what happened this week when the mail brought us a large box from Will's Kindergarten teacher.
Oh yes, I burst into tears.
Kindergarten teachers, I'm pretty sure, have mothers' hearts everywhere, and if they don't, they should. They have also shown that they can make me cry at the drop of a hat, and it's not just this week. Kindy was one of those things I wasn't sure I was ready to tackle, no matter whether my children were ready or not. And imagine my shock when I cried every single school program, every last picture opportunity... with all three children. I was supposed to be an old pro by that point, but glory those teachers could wring me out every last time. I couldn't even stay for a gift presentation for fear of embarrassment, and that was just to the assistant - I'll be mailing my gift to you, thank you, with a tear-stained label.
Great teachers in general deserve to be loved well by parents, but great Kindergarten teachers just take the cake, because I'm pretty sure they are the only teachers that are also required to be full-time therapists to the parents. They console us on the first day that our children will survive without us, and on the last that our children really were just "spirited", not heathens. (OK, maybe only I got that pep talk.) And that they were sure the sweet child you picked up that day would grow out of that annoying behavior by first grade. (Again, was this just me?)
So imagine my surprise when I open the box, and our wonderful teacher has done a scrapbook with a layout for each month - full of artwork, pictures, and what they did that month. She kills me. And I'm sure each of the 11 other books are just as lovely, and just as "awesome" as Will said it was. And as a surprise to no one, I weeped happy tears over all of the growing we've done through the school year.
Making my gratitude lists have been tough over the last few days, since most of the things I can come up with probably don't really count as things to be grateful for. ("Husband only complained mildly about the lack of dry cleaning" was one of them that seemed questionable.) But this? This tops the charts. So my one and only list item for tonight - the best Kindergarten teacher a boy could ask for.
Here's to you, Mrs. R - thanks for holding my hand, and letting Will go fully ready for what the world has to offer. We're incredibly grateful.
Oh yes, I burst into tears.
Kindergarten teachers, I'm pretty sure, have mothers' hearts everywhere, and if they don't, they should. They have also shown that they can make me cry at the drop of a hat, and it's not just this week. Kindy was one of those things I wasn't sure I was ready to tackle, no matter whether my children were ready or not. And imagine my shock when I cried every single school program, every last picture opportunity... with all three children. I was supposed to be an old pro by that point, but glory those teachers could wring me out every last time. I couldn't even stay for a gift presentation for fear of embarrassment, and that was just to the assistant - I'll be mailing my gift to you, thank you, with a tear-stained label.
Great teachers in general deserve to be loved well by parents, but great Kindergarten teachers just take the cake, because I'm pretty sure they are the only teachers that are also required to be full-time therapists to the parents. They console us on the first day that our children will survive without us, and on the last that our children really were just "spirited", not heathens. (OK, maybe only I got that pep talk.) And that they were sure the sweet child you picked up that day would grow out of that annoying behavior by first grade. (Again, was this just me?)
So imagine my surprise when I open the box, and our wonderful teacher has done a scrapbook with a layout for each month - full of artwork, pictures, and what they did that month. She kills me. And I'm sure each of the 11 other books are just as lovely, and just as "awesome" as Will said it was. And as a surprise to no one, I weeped happy tears over all of the growing we've done through the school year.
Making my gratitude lists have been tough over the last few days, since most of the things I can come up with probably don't really count as things to be grateful for. ("Husband only complained mildly about the lack of dry cleaning" was one of them that seemed questionable.) But this? This tops the charts. So my one and only list item for tonight - the best Kindergarten teacher a boy could ask for.
Here's to you, Mrs. R - thanks for holding my hand, and letting Will go fully ready for what the world has to offer. We're incredibly grateful.
Tuesday
Ethel Merman has nothing on me.
Exercise is not your friend. Or at least, it's not mine. I had finally sucked it up and joined the swim team, only to realize that it is full of triathletes and high school kids waiting for their season to start. These are not people I'd usually associate with, given that I have the athletic prowess of a doorstop.
But anyway, I joined. And I had a tired weekend, driving to drop one of my children off with my parents, and immediately having houseguests - I was tired enough to take a 2h nap on Sunday, which for me is highly unusual. And I was still wading through my day on Monday, but I knew that exercise should make me feel better, and usually gives me that energy lift, so I'd give it a shot.
Exercise completely sucked last night, and today I feel worse than ever. It could have been the lack of sleep from the guests, or the late night read of Harry Potter, or the warm water they were pumping into the pool, but it totally sucked. And the worst part?
I was lapped by a woman who is 8 1/2 months pregnant.
Not just passed, like during the kicking drills by the kid wearing fins. Lapped. Hard core, blew by me, leaving a wake the size of the Titanic, lapped. By a pregnant woman who I could have sworn might just have a waterbirth at any second in the pool.
Now listen, I knew that I was out of shape, that I was lucky to be able to just keep up most nights. But getting lapped by a pregnant woman just is wrong, wrong, wrong. This is not an event to encourage the newly converted to come back to the pool, this is an event to send me running for the nearest couch. (Which I promptly did, after practice, comforted by my old friend, the Klondike Bar.)
This is the part of me that I don't really like all that much - the secretly competitive part. I can't just let this go, you see, I now have a countdown going to this woman's due date so that I can be safe in my lane. I just can't accept that these are no longer the summers where I could sit on a couch all winter and hop right back into the pool and be the fastest kid there.
But seriously, a pregnant woman?
But anyway, I joined. And I had a tired weekend, driving to drop one of my children off with my parents, and immediately having houseguests - I was tired enough to take a 2h nap on Sunday, which for me is highly unusual. And I was still wading through my day on Monday, but I knew that exercise should make me feel better, and usually gives me that energy lift, so I'd give it a shot.
Exercise completely sucked last night, and today I feel worse than ever. It could have been the lack of sleep from the guests, or the late night read of Harry Potter, or the warm water they were pumping into the pool, but it totally sucked. And the worst part?
I was lapped by a woman who is 8 1/2 months pregnant.
Not just passed, like during the kicking drills by the kid wearing fins. Lapped. Hard core, blew by me, leaving a wake the size of the Titanic, lapped. By a pregnant woman who I could have sworn might just have a waterbirth at any second in the pool.
Now listen, I knew that I was out of shape, that I was lucky to be able to just keep up most nights. But getting lapped by a pregnant woman just is wrong, wrong, wrong. This is not an event to encourage the newly converted to come back to the pool, this is an event to send me running for the nearest couch. (Which I promptly did, after practice, comforted by my old friend, the Klondike Bar.)
This is the part of me that I don't really like all that much - the secretly competitive part. I can't just let this go, you see, I now have a countdown going to this woman's due date so that I can be safe in my lane. I just can't accept that these are no longer the summers where I could sit on a couch all winter and hop right back into the pool and be the fastest kid there.
But seriously, a pregnant woman?
Monday
Wow. I mean honestly, wow.
Blogging, I think, has always been a bit of a funny thing. You throw something out there, unload a bit, and watch it stick to the wall. It's a bit like those spitball contests - sometimes the mix is right and they stick, other times it just falls to the floor and leaves you a bit unsatisfied.
When I unloaded the other day about being here, I never expected it to stick - I was just hoping to leave feeling a little lighter, and then go on about my day, looking for paisley flip-flops to match my beach bag. But suddenly, instead of just feeling lighter, I felt less alone - there is a whole large community of MVP Moms and friends, crying into the morning beverage of their choice.
I had no idea.
So, thank you. Thank you for the emails, and the comments, and the support. I wish that I could gather all of us up into a cafe with good coffee and comfy chairs and I could squeeze your hand and make both of us feel better. But I can't seem to find a reliable babysitter, so this note will have to suffice.
So thank you, thank you from the bottom of my un-monogrammed heart.
When I unloaded the other day about being here, I never expected it to stick - I was just hoping to leave feeling a little lighter, and then go on about my day, looking for paisley flip-flops to match my beach bag. But suddenly, instead of just feeling lighter, I felt less alone - there is a whole large community of MVP Moms and friends, crying into the morning beverage of their choice.
I had no idea.
So, thank you. Thank you for the emails, and the comments, and the support. I wish that I could gather all of us up into a cafe with good coffee and comfy chairs and I could squeeze your hand and make both of us feel better. But I can't seem to find a reliable babysitter, so this note will have to suffice.
So thank you, thank you from the bottom of my un-monogrammed heart.
Wednesday
Being MVP stinks.
There are things, I guess, that you never thought you'd say aloud. The things that you don't want to say aloud, for fear of jinxing yourself. And then, the things you should have said aloud the whole time but didn't, for one reason or another.
And it turns out, of course, that the things you should have said are the ones that haunt you. The thank yous, the I love yous, the pats on the back. The grievances you really should have aired instead of taking one for the team, the honest answers that you knew he didn't want to hear.
So we've moved to Mayberry. And I've taken about 78 for the team, and I'm finding myself still crying into my coffee most mornings. It's not that I hate it here. In fact, I sort of like it here, minus my ability to get my consumer fix. But the UPS man likes me, and I like that I can depend on him to come, unlike my mail, which is an entirely different story. (Apparently the mail motto of constant service is optional here.)
But honestly, I didn't have a choice in the matter. Well, I mean, I did, sort of, but when your husband decides that this current locale will fulfill his dream come true, how do you turn that down? How on earth do you say no? You don't, I tell you, you just start packing. And take one for the team. And become, in his words, the "MVP of this household."
Wa-stinkin-hoo, I tell you. Wave some banners already.
I should have said something, I know, but he was so darn excited, and he was about unemployed, and the dream house was waiting, and I didn't really love those neighbors anyway, come to think of it.
Ahem.
Apparently I did love my neighbors. And my pool, and the too busy street, and the intense insistence that if you don't request every last teacher your child has, social services should be called for neglect. And heavens, do I miss the weekly breakfast. And the fact that I didn't feel on display, and if my child got suspended from camp for hitting (ahem), or, say, offed a gerbil, my social life didn't depend on it. Because they were honest about it. Brash, unfriendly, opinionated, but honest.
I know we have some growing to do in this place, and my absolute hatred of change and lack of social skills is going to make this a learning process of the worst kind. But honestly, I can't decide if I like these people. First impressions are fine and all, but it's forcing me to relive being the odd-one out at a deep south college, the lone child who didn't have 3 first names and a set of hair ribbons. An even deeper horror ensued when I cut my hair - there were seriously 3 of us on sorority hill with hair above the collarbone, and although we didn't know each other, we nodded and smiled each time we saw each other in a show of solidarity.
Honesty wasn't king in college. Back then it was all about the right look and feel - did she go to high school in the right place, wear the right hair bow, have the right band party connections. It took me 3 long years to find my place, and even then, it was fleeting, as the people I found left for other more diverse pastures. But this isn't a place that will be temporary, one that I can count down to leave.
We are here, for good, or until the kids graduate high school, we said. No more stress about jobs, moving, making the next thing work. This is it. We're here.
I should have said something.
But in my efforts to make the best and make my way, I'm trying to think nightly about 10 things that I'm grateful about. Some of these will be fluffy, for sure, but I'm hoping that over the next few weeks, I'll find that my lists have more to do about being here, and less about just surviving. So here's tonight's list:
- The cable guys fixed our cable without breaking my internet.
- My sister came for lunch and we actually enjoyed it.
- My husband is coming home early from his conference, and "has a small gift."
- My friend is healthy, even if her sisters are not.
- I have far away girlfriends who keep me sane, and one step away from taking myself too seriously.
- The quilts are ready to be quilted. (Who knew?)
- That my daughter couldn't wait to call me and tell me all about the HP movie.
- That my boys are still the best of friends.
- I have enough food choices to be baffled as to what's for dinner.
- I fixed the sprinkler system without making it worse.
And most of all, that I have a family to crown me MVP. Even if it means taking a few for the team.
And it turns out, of course, that the things you should have said are the ones that haunt you. The thank yous, the I love yous, the pats on the back. The grievances you really should have aired instead of taking one for the team, the honest answers that you knew he didn't want to hear.
So we've moved to Mayberry. And I've taken about 78 for the team, and I'm finding myself still crying into my coffee most mornings. It's not that I hate it here. In fact, I sort of like it here, minus my ability to get my consumer fix. But the UPS man likes me, and I like that I can depend on him to come, unlike my mail, which is an entirely different story. (Apparently the mail motto of constant service is optional here.)
But honestly, I didn't have a choice in the matter. Well, I mean, I did, sort of, but when your husband decides that this current locale will fulfill his dream come true, how do you turn that down? How on earth do you say no? You don't, I tell you, you just start packing. And take one for the team. And become, in his words, the "MVP of this household."
Wa-stinkin-hoo, I tell you. Wave some banners already.
I should have said something, I know, but he was so darn excited, and he was about unemployed, and the dream house was waiting, and I didn't really love those neighbors anyway, come to think of it.
Ahem.
Apparently I did love my neighbors. And my pool, and the too busy street, and the intense insistence that if you don't request every last teacher your child has, social services should be called for neglect. And heavens, do I miss the weekly breakfast. And the fact that I didn't feel on display, and if my child got suspended from camp for hitting (ahem), or, say, offed a gerbil, my social life didn't depend on it. Because they were honest about it. Brash, unfriendly, opinionated, but honest.
I know we have some growing to do in this place, and my absolute hatred of change and lack of social skills is going to make this a learning process of the worst kind. But honestly, I can't decide if I like these people. First impressions are fine and all, but it's forcing me to relive being the odd-one out at a deep south college, the lone child who didn't have 3 first names and a set of hair ribbons. An even deeper horror ensued when I cut my hair - there were seriously 3 of us on sorority hill with hair above the collarbone, and although we didn't know each other, we nodded and smiled each time we saw each other in a show of solidarity.
Honesty wasn't king in college. Back then it was all about the right look and feel - did she go to high school in the right place, wear the right hair bow, have the right band party connections. It took me 3 long years to find my place, and even then, it was fleeting, as the people I found left for other more diverse pastures. But this isn't a place that will be temporary, one that I can count down to leave.
We are here, for good, or until the kids graduate high school, we said. No more stress about jobs, moving, making the next thing work. This is it. We're here.
I should have said something.
But in my efforts to make the best and make my way, I'm trying to think nightly about 10 things that I'm grateful about. Some of these will be fluffy, for sure, but I'm hoping that over the next few weeks, I'll find that my lists have more to do about being here, and less about just surviving. So here's tonight's list:
- The cable guys fixed our cable without breaking my internet.
- My sister came for lunch and we actually enjoyed it.
- My husband is coming home early from his conference, and "has a small gift."
- My friend is healthy, even if her sisters are not.
- I have far away girlfriends who keep me sane, and one step away from taking myself too seriously.
- The quilts are ready to be quilted. (Who knew?)
- That my daughter couldn't wait to call me and tell me all about the HP movie.
- That my boys are still the best of friends.
- I have enough food choices to be baffled as to what's for dinner.
- I fixed the sprinkler system without making it worse.
And most of all, that I have a family to crown me MVP. Even if it means taking a few for the team.
Thursday
Now Serving Table 6
There are things that you would think that might be the bane of my existence. Bats, perhaps. But I'll let you in on a little secret - the bane of my existence is dinner.
No really. It's dinner.
It's not so much the actual food of dinner that drives me crazy, nor, in all honestly, the family around the table part. Although, around the 40th "Why did the cow cross the road" joke, it comes pretty close. (For some inexplicable reason, this is what dinner winds up as at my house, and a refined sense of humor is clearly not in my children's genetic code.)
It's the decision of what to have. I would (almost) rather personally wrestle the bats out of my attic than make a decision on what to make for dinner. (Not that there are bats, per say, but I think you get the idea.) And it's not that I have horribly picky eaters, everyone will pretty much eat something that goes with the main dish, if not the main dish itself.
But heavens to Betsy, the picking is likely to kill me. We have designated nights for pizza (Friday) and spaghetti (Sunday), but the other 5 nights are dreadful. Do we grill something? Order something? (Almost always no, we live in restaurant wasteland, I tell you) Meat? No Meat? Will the kids eat that? Will my husband? Do I even have that?
Just shoot me.
I've tried those places where you make 478 meals that you freeze in advance. I've tried menu planning for the week so that I only have to make the decision once. I've even tried buying food daily so that I have what I need. They have all ended the same way - unidentifiable science projects in the freezer/frig/cabinet that get tossed some unspeakable time later, while I stand there, gap-mouthed, trying to find something to eat.
So I've come up with a new plan. We're going to have people bring us dinner every night. May take some moving around, since I hear other neighborhoods are pretty generous with their residents, but I'm sure selling the house once a month won't be too troublesome.
Line up, guys, who's up first? And just so you know, we've already grilled, had chicken, and can't have spaghetti until Sunday.
No really. It's dinner.
It's not so much the actual food of dinner that drives me crazy, nor, in all honestly, the family around the table part. Although, around the 40th "Why did the cow cross the road" joke, it comes pretty close. (For some inexplicable reason, this is what dinner winds up as at my house, and a refined sense of humor is clearly not in my children's genetic code.)
It's the decision of what to have. I would (almost) rather personally wrestle the bats out of my attic than make a decision on what to make for dinner. (Not that there are bats, per say, but I think you get the idea.) And it's not that I have horribly picky eaters, everyone will pretty much eat something that goes with the main dish, if not the main dish itself.
But heavens to Betsy, the picking is likely to kill me. We have designated nights for pizza (Friday) and spaghetti (Sunday), but the other 5 nights are dreadful. Do we grill something? Order something? (Almost always no, we live in restaurant wasteland, I tell you) Meat? No Meat? Will the kids eat that? Will my husband? Do I even have that?
Just shoot me.
I've tried those places where you make 478 meals that you freeze in advance. I've tried menu planning for the week so that I only have to make the decision once. I've even tried buying food daily so that I have what I need. They have all ended the same way - unidentifiable science projects in the freezer/frig/cabinet that get tossed some unspeakable time later, while I stand there, gap-mouthed, trying to find something to eat.
So I've come up with a new plan. We're going to have people bring us dinner every night. May take some moving around, since I hear other neighborhoods are pretty generous with their residents, but I'm sure selling the house once a month won't be too troublesome.
Line up, guys, who's up first? And just so you know, we've already grilled, had chicken, and can't have spaghetti until Sunday.
Monday
Down 3, more to follow
Had a really great lazy weekend, not much going on here. A couple of updates:
- The mouse biker gang has been diminished by 3. I would tell you that we're being humane about it, but I'd be lying. If you'd like to adopt the little fellows, feel free, although I'll warn you that their tastes have changed from Tostitos to Oreos. And they should have known that anyone who touches the mom's secret Oreo stash is one dead mouse. They were warned.
- My children had their first exposure to p@rn on Saturday morning, fresh with their Pop-Tarts.
- The kind ladies at the pool this weekend alerted me to the fact that incoming 1st graders are required to read 2000 pages by the end of the school year. "We didn't want your boys to feel left out - be warned that most of the kids will have their 1000 pages done by September 1 so that they can get their t-shirt." Fantastic - anyone got 2000 hours to spare to get our reading requirement done by then? (Anyone want to explain to me how it is that this is their assignment and not mine, and how on Earth that I thought I was leaving a less competitive school?)
Hope your weekend was just as uneventful!
Oh? You didn't gloss over point 2? And want explanation? Silly me, I thought I could throw that in there and you wouldn't notice. Apparently the prior owner of my cable box had a lifetime subscription to the Blue channel's Super N-de Wrestling event, and the box would occasionally turn the channel to tell us that the event was no longer for purchase. Except on the time that it was available for purchase. I pretty much broke all land speed records to get there and call the cable company. Should make us a popular place for play-dates, though. [Ed to add - the cable box changed the channel for us, every time that the show was available. Including, my to my great dismay, this time. There needed to be no random flipping for full frontal fun.]
And did you know that spell check substitutions for "tostitos" are variations on the word "prostitute?" Someone should call their marketing department. Or the Blue channel.
- The mouse biker gang has been diminished by 3. I would tell you that we're being humane about it, but I'd be lying. If you'd like to adopt the little fellows, feel free, although I'll warn you that their tastes have changed from Tostitos to Oreos. And they should have known that anyone who touches the mom's secret Oreo stash is one dead mouse. They were warned.
- My children had their first exposure to p@rn on Saturday morning, fresh with their Pop-Tarts.
- The kind ladies at the pool this weekend alerted me to the fact that incoming 1st graders are required to read 2000 pages by the end of the school year. "We didn't want your boys to feel left out - be warned that most of the kids will have their 1000 pages done by September 1 so that they can get their t-shirt." Fantastic - anyone got 2000 hours to spare to get our reading requirement done by then? (Anyone want to explain to me how it is that this is their assignment and not mine, and how on Earth that I thought I was leaving a less competitive school?)
Hope your weekend was just as uneventful!
Oh? You didn't gloss over point 2? And want explanation? Silly me, I thought I could throw that in there and you wouldn't notice. Apparently the prior owner of my cable box had a lifetime subscription to the Blue channel's Super N-de Wrestling event, and the box would occasionally turn the channel to tell us that the event was no longer for purchase. Except on the time that it was available for purchase. I pretty much broke all land speed records to get there and call the cable company. Should make us a popular place for play-dates, though. [Ed to add - the cable box changed the channel for us, every time that the show was available. Including, my to my great dismay, this time. There needed to be no random flipping for full frontal fun.]
And did you know that spell check substitutions for "tostitos" are variations on the word "prostitute?" Someone should call their marketing department. Or the Blue channel.
Thursday
If I wanted to live in Animal Kingdom, I would have moved to Disney.
When we were looking for this house, there was talk of things that live in old houses. Like mice, and spiders and the like. But I was assured, you see, that these things live outside, and that our dogs would alert us to the presence of anything else.
I was lied to.
It started, you see, with the bat. On the day of closing, our realtor asked "Any bats in the attic?" and we were told the cute story of how the previous owners paid an unsightly amount of money to completely bat-proof the house, and that we would own "The Only House in the Historic District that was Bat-Free." Guess what we had in our hallway 3 days after we moved in? Oh yes, one bat, flying up and down our hallway. We took care of it, and I will tell you that Google is a mighty force when dealing with bat removal. (I will also tell you that if you're having to Google such things while in process, you are certainly not qualified to handle the problem. Especially at 3am.)
Next came the lizards, which apparently think my back sidewalk is Club Med, and don't incredibly bother me until children attempt to catch them and bring them inside. (No, I am not that cool Mom that allows for reptile tanks. I am the Mom standing on a stool screaming.)
After that came the largest set of spiders I've ever seen, who I think are responsible for the disappearance of our neighbor's cat. But I'm learning to levitate, so I can deal with them being around. I just won't walk on those floors any more.
But now, you see, we have met our match. Mice. Or really, really talented tortilla chips that hurl themselves out of the bag and onto the counter tops. You pick, but I have my suspicions. These mice, you see, are not subtle, even in the wake of my husband trapping one of them. Oh yes, they roam in packs, apparently, like a street gang, holding my snack cabinet hostage. I now feel compelled to announce my presence when I go into the kitchen, lest I interrupt their frolicking.
And the dogs? Clueless. They can alert me to the presence of the ever-dangerous mailman, but things I actually want protecting from? Not a peep. They are the most worthless watch dogs ever created.
So for now, we'll be eating out, and I'll be learning to levitate. I'm pretty sure This Old House never had episodes like this.
I was lied to.
It started, you see, with the bat. On the day of closing, our realtor asked "Any bats in the attic?" and we were told the cute story of how the previous owners paid an unsightly amount of money to completely bat-proof the house, and that we would own "The Only House in the Historic District that was Bat-Free." Guess what we had in our hallway 3 days after we moved in? Oh yes, one bat, flying up and down our hallway. We took care of it, and I will tell you that Google is a mighty force when dealing with bat removal. (I will also tell you that if you're having to Google such things while in process, you are certainly not qualified to handle the problem. Especially at 3am.)
Next came the lizards, which apparently think my back sidewalk is Club Med, and don't incredibly bother me until children attempt to catch them and bring them inside. (No, I am not that cool Mom that allows for reptile tanks. I am the Mom standing on a stool screaming.)
After that came the largest set of spiders I've ever seen, who I think are responsible for the disappearance of our neighbor's cat. But I'm learning to levitate, so I can deal with them being around. I just won't walk on those floors any more.
But now, you see, we have met our match. Mice. Or really, really talented tortilla chips that hurl themselves out of the bag and onto the counter tops. You pick, but I have my suspicions. These mice, you see, are not subtle, even in the wake of my husband trapping one of them. Oh yes, they roam in packs, apparently, like a street gang, holding my snack cabinet hostage. I now feel compelled to announce my presence when I go into the kitchen, lest I interrupt their frolicking.
And the dogs? Clueless. They can alert me to the presence of the ever-dangerous mailman, but things I actually want protecting from? Not a peep. They are the most worthless watch dogs ever created.
So for now, we'll be eating out, and I'll be learning to levitate. I'm pretty sure This Old House never had episodes like this.
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