After a full day of errands, I pull into my driveway to spot my 13 and 9 year-old sons sitting on the roof. I’m from the school of parenting that touts, Scream first, ask questions later. So, after I was done chewing their behinds with, “What would you have done if one of you had fallen off the roof and cracked your skull open on the patio, like a raw egg?! WHAT THEN?! ANSWER ME! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?? ” They were sheepish and on the verge of tears when they finally admitted. “We saw a mouse in the house and it was HUGE!!”
“A mouse? You see a mouse and you CLIMB ON THE ROOF?” I was speechless. These are the same boys who brag about how they’d judo chop a midnight intruder and kick him in the ya-ya’s and render him unconscious by defending the household from evil with their various Nerf weapons and Lego battleships. I growled some more and told them if I ever, EVER found them on the roof again, especially if their dad or I are not home, they’d be a couple of sorry ninjas.
And, with that, I headed into the family room, turned on the fan, flopped on the couch and took a load off. I was just finding my serenity again, when I felt the fan blowing my hair. I reached up to discover that it was not the fan moving my hair, but a teensy, weensy (smaller than my thumb) field mouse, lost and terrified and trying to get away from our dog. If it hadn’t been a baby, I’d have had a heart attack on the spot and died. But, as it was, I only shrieked at the top of my lungs, flew off the couch and was halfway to the roof, my ninja warriors hot on my trail.
“The MOUSE! IT’S BAAAAAAK!” the boys screamed.
“I KNOOOOOOOWWW!!!” I shrieked as I flew through the door. “You know all that stuff I said about not getting on the roof?”
“Yeah,” they shouted as they lapped me.
I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong.