There's a Mouse About the House

The Scene last night:

It's 2 a.m. and I am fast asleep, warm in my bed beside my sick miserable 2 year old.

Suddenly I hear, "kelly.... hey, kelly...Kelly!"

I awake to find Jeff standing in our dark room in a tee shirt and sweat pants (the baggy kind cinched at the ankle), tousled hair, tennis shoes on, holding a swifter and meaning business.

"What is going on?," I ask him in a sleepy stupor.

He says (with a face full of serious), "I think...there's a mouse...in the kitchen!"

With this information presented before me and him standing there armed with shoes and a swifter I died laughing. I sat at the edge of the bed trying to figure out if he was seriously waking me up to investigate, in the middle of the night, a teeny tiny mouse that may or may not be nibbling on something in the kitchen.

Turns out, he was.

We headed to the kitchen to get to the bottom it, he stopping at the doorway, silently we listened. Sure enough, sounded like nibbling.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and see it.

All, light grey, 2 meesley inches of it.

Gross? Yes (who wants to be the people that have a mouse in their kitchen? I swear it's clean- remember?, I scrubbed it yesterday!).

Scary? Pshhhhh!

We headed to the basement for a trap, I peanut-buttered it up and placed it beside the trash can under the sink. Then I scratched myself, burped, escorted the little lady back to the living room by the hand to finish his late night work and I headed back to bed.

As I lay my head on my pillow I thought about the image.

The image of my scared husband standing there over my bedside in the middle of the night and how it will forever be a comfort of hilarity to me.

He needs me. If I wasn't before, now I'm sure of it.