Babbo spotted the mouse today. He said very calmly “I think I saw the mouse go underneath il Bambino’s changing table. What should we do?”
“I will kill that mouse. Let me get a broom,” I said, enraged that the mouse would dare tiptoe near my kid.
“We can open the door so the mouse runs outside,” Babbo said.
“No,” I said. “We must kill it. Or else it will come back.”
And we stood and waited even though I thought it was extremely unlikely that there was actually a mouse under the changing table. I was so confident in this belief that I pulled aside the changing table while Babbo was busy closing doors. The mouse took his opening and ran directly into the kitchen and under the stove. I made a very embarrassing noise that perfectly encapsulated my shock and fear.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Babbo asked, rushing in at the sound of my yelp of fear. “I told you. The mouse was under the changing table.”
“I guess…” I said, gripping the broom handle while my heart returned to a more regular rhythm. “I guess it’s because I am stupid.”
We stood there looking at the stove.
“Let’s turn it on,” I suggested. “He’ll run out from under the stove.”
Babbo considered that. “If the mouse dies under the stove, it will smell really bad.”
“I know,” I said, already dreaming of mouse flambé.
We turned on the stove, brooms at the ready. We heard some scurrying. But no mouse. We waited 10 minutes. But no mouse.
“How long do you think it takes to kill a mouse at 350 degrees?” I asked.
Babbo just looked at me.
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I said finally, putting the broom aside.
“How many traps have we got?”
“Five, six maybe?”
“Let’s put down some traps.”
We did. Five minutes later we heard scurrying. The mouse was gone, having nimbly avoided our two traps.
“I guess this is what people meant in the lobby when they said, ‘I saw one in my apartment last night,'” Babbo said.
We scrubbed the floor with clorox wipes and put down some more useless traps.
Steel wool. That’s the next step.
Mouse 1, Humans 0.