Category Archives: Testosterone-y

What to expect when you’re expecting tween boys.

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You know when you’re a new mama, and you have all sorts of ideals in your mind as to how you’re going to raise your children. You imagine the summer days full of dappled sunlight where you are cannonballing into a turquoise pool with your children, or maybe eating homemade freeze pops on long, warm evening walks? Those days are great, to be sure, but what I never imagined was being schooled by my children in Cars 2 racing games on the Wii, or having intense conversations on which model of car will be best for which race track.

Also things I’d never thought I’d deal with: saying things like “Don’t put your foot on other people’s faces”, “Don’t elbow your brother in the crotch”, and “No farting or talking about poop at the table”, listening to a litany of complaints about the unfairness of a video game that blew up someone’s car just moments before the finish line, and finding papers in the recycling bin that are divided down the middle with “Marmots” on one side and “Haters” on the other, “Marmots vs. Haters” scrawled across the top. What is going on here? I don’t know.

After the busyness of last week, this week seems to be all about staying in our pajamas/ sweaty yoga clothes as long as possible and taking things slow. Monday I went to Costco with the kids so that felt like a gigantic accomplishment. There were the customary arguments about who gets to put that item into the cart so I had to ridiculously instigate a rule in which the children had to take turns being helpful. I also had to rule against the children trying to pick up flats of sparkling water that was half their body weight. As per every mother everywhere, I got talked into buying a few things that weren’t strictly necessary. Unlike every mother everywhere, those items were blankets. The boys fell in love with “Sherpa Throw Blankets” and it’s been a struggle to explain to them that this does not mean that Sherpas are being thrown around in these blankets. They’ve been walking around the cool basement wrapped in these soft blankets, the blankets trailing behind like they are medieval royalty. Another thing I didn’t expect would happen.

Lately in order to fill that hollow space in my heart left from Mad Men and Breaking Bad, I’ve been watching House of Cards. I oscillate between fascination and curiosity as to whether or not politics is really like that. I’m inclined to believe that it is, sadly enough. The kids, on the other hand, are obsessed with watching Wheel of Fortune. It’s considered to be a huge treat to watch Wheel of Fortune before bed, and I don’t know if you’ve watched it recently, but it’s pretty much the same as it was 30 years ago, except that occasionally Vanna White wears pantsuits. Pat Sajak is exactly the same as he always was. I also discovered that Alex Trebek is 74 years old! Isn’t that incredible? I would have never guessed.

I just said “If you guys are going to wrestle, don’t mush each other’s face in the carpet” and “Don’t kick the exercise ball into the air!” so it is time to close for the day and reflect on the strangeness and unexpectedness of daily life.

Productivity Week Is At A Close

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Today is the last day of karate camp, and I’ve been SO PRODUCTIVE this week. Some of the accomplishments have been less fun – like taking the car in to get the tires rebalanced, and getting teary-eyed and having to call my husband because the guys at the tire place said we didn’t have an appointment and I’d have to leave the car there all day. Doing anything car-related, whether it be a tire issue or an oil change, makes me feel terribly anti-feminist and clichéd because I honestly have nearly zero understanding of car-related issues and my first reaction when anything goes wrong is to cry and call my husband. I know! It’s terrible. The most terrible part is that getting teary-eyed and calling my husband works every time, EVERY TIME, PEOPLE, and so I have no motivation to change this repellent behaviour. It always ends up with the car guys quickly fitting me in and apologizing for any inconvenience this may have caused me, and would I like a coffee? Sigh, I know. I hate being a cliché and yet, at the dealership where we bought our car, there is a manicure bar, a MANICURE BAR, PEOPLE, for women just like me who need to bring their cars in for oil changes but who also have anxiety attacks at the thought of it so hey, pretty lady, how about a manicure?

When I was in grad school I studied gender differences in incomes and I had two posters on my office wall: one was a fish riding a bicycle and the other was the Feminist Manifesto. Fast forward sixteen years and I’m crying at the tire place and getting my nails done at car dealerships.

Anyway, other than the tire balancing, it’s been a great week. Save for a half-day camp at the local farm/ petting zoo five years ago, my children have never been to a day camp. I’m kind of wondering why not, because they have gotten so much out of this camp, and it’s not just the improvement in their karate katas. For example, Jake has suddenly learned how to dive for rings at the bottom of the pool, which he would never do before. I realized the motivation behind this sudden act of athletic bravery when I learned that he was swimming with a very pretty thirteen year old brown belt. I see! Jake does not have any confidence issues on that front, given that he heard me singing You’re So Vain while I drove them to camp, and then casually mentioned that he thought that song WAS about him, since he’s so handsome and whatnot.

It’s been beautifully hot here, and we’ve had very few storms, which is highly unusual for Calgary. I could tell one was coming yesterday afternoon by the feel of the air and also because I am now 90 and I can feel it in my bones. Anyway, once I got the boys home from camp I threw their disgustingly dirty camp stuff in the washer, whipped up a batch of cookies and put it in the oven, and started dinner. The boys were relaxing like little non-evil Frank Underwoods, playing video games, and suddenly all went dark. The power went out! We rarely have power outages so I wasn’t overly prepared. I took the cookies out, put the just-thawed chicken breasts back in the fridge, and wondered what to do. Apparently I’m not at all like Ma Ingalls because I literally had no idea what to do. The house was super dark even though it wasn’t yet 5:00, what with the storm and black clouds. Eventually my husband came home and we all went out for dinner – being my car was trapped in the garage with the electric door. How dependent we are in this modern existence! God, I wouldn’t last a damn DAY on the old homestead. The power was off for over two and a half hours, but by the time we got home the power was on, the washer had finished its cycle, and I put the cookies back in the oven. Note: they turned out way flatter than normal but still were edible, so if you should ever be in a similar situation, try re-baking. It works, apparently.

The other day I was watching the news and there was this guy, Michael Bridge, playing the accordion. Now, my “experience” with the accordion is hearing the polka and while polkas are fun and all, they are not exactly remarkable. THIS GUY. He played a few tunes of a classical bent, and then suddenly ripped out with Sweet Child of Mine. On the accordion. It was the single most amazing thing I’d seen, music-wise, and I’ve been scouring the internet trying to find a video of it. No such luck, but if you find it, please let me know. A friend, after hearing about my fascination with this accordion-playing wunderkind, sent me this video and while it’s not an accordion, it IS pretty cool. A ukulele version of Billie Jean? Sign me up!

My productive week is almost at its end; this afternoon I will be watching two and a half hours of a karate tournament and demonstration, and tomorrow I will also be at a karate shiah tournament, and so I feel like my new identity as a sports mom is complete. I’m totally going to be Lynn Raisman, just give me a couple of years.

A 1970s Summer, But With Helmets and Seatbelts and Sunscreen

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It’s hard to believe that one week ago today was the last day of school. It feels like much, much longer, but not in a bad way. We just got back from three nights at my parents’ lake house and it was wonderful. But of course! How could it help being anything but when everyone – including me and the dog – gets insanely spoiled by Grandma and Grandpa? If anyone needs me I’ll be detoxing from my wine and chip consumption.

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There’s a lot of buzz around a certain theme this summer – a give your kids a 1970s style summer theme. I read the original article, smiled nostalgically, and was only a little surprised to find out a few days later that this idea, the idea of a free-range, lots-of-TV, drink-from-the-garden hose kind of summer had been taken very seriously. I didn’t realize that it was meant to be taken any way but as a heart warming nostalgia piece, but evidently, I misjudged the internet.

I don’t remember too much about the seventies – I was still pretty young – but I do remember watching The Dukes of Hazzard as a child. Age-appropriate shows weren’t exactly a thing back then, but fortunately, the law-breaking, moonshine-running plots went over my little bowlcut-sporting head. I was twenty-three before I realized that the underlying theme for Three’s Company was that Jack was pretending to be gay so he could live with two girls. I literally had no idea. I just remember feeling mild resentment that I, as a brunette, was forced to be on Team Janet. Add that to the Little House on the Prairie books – Beautiful Golden-Haired Mary versus Very Bad Brunette Laura – as well as the fact my best friend had thick, wavy, white-blonde hair, and it’s no wonder I have hair issues.

But back to the Dukes of Hazzard: while at my parents’ place, we went into town for the Canada Day festivities. A few blocks off the main street is this amazing place:

hazzard

I did not go in, despite the exciting claims of “Daily Food” and “Patio Pool Table”. But oh, how I wanted to.

Sunday had pretty much the worst possible weather imaginable for late June – high winds, pouring rain, and a high temperature of thirteen degrees Celsius. And here’s where the 1970s summer comes in: in the absence of video games and other technological distractions, Mark and I played approximately one million games of Go Fish, only one of which I won. Jake and I played a 40 minute game of War, and the only reason it ended at 40 minutes is because I eventually put a time limit on it. It was like playing a low-rent version of Risk. Mark made up his own games by drawing Pokemon and making little cards, and Jake played a game racing various Hot Wheels against each other.

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Eventually the rain stopped and we sent the boys OUTSIDE.

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Clothing wise, it does seem like we are having a 1970s summer. Last week I took the boys to the local amusement park, and I felt like some kind of fashion anthropologist, pinning the year onto the styles all the kids were wearing. We arrived at the park and there were busloads of teens from surrounding rural areas, clearly on an end of school celebratory trip. The temperature was about eighteen degrees, but the girls were almost exclusively dressed in Daisy Duke short-shorts and tank tops. A few had sweaters around their waists that their mothers probably forced on them. The only thing that was confusing to this fashion anthropologist was that I counted four pairs of overall shorts and one pair of acid-washed short shorts, which seemed more eighties than seventies.

Since there were so many people arriving at the park, the boys and I made a beeline for one of their favourite rides, the Dream Weaver, which is basically a bunch of swings that go around in circles high in the air. The boys jumped into the very short line, and I snapped a picture of their angelically happy faces. Look at those angels!

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They must be so excited and happy to get on the ride, one might think from looking at this photo. In reality, they are looking in an amused way at the swings that were stuck high up in the air. “EVERYBODY STAY CALM!” screamed the operator. “STAY IN YOUR SEATS WITH THE SEATBELT SECURELY FASTENED!” I’m not sure if anyone was about to quickly unbuckle and jump thirty feet down just to be free of the Dream Weaver, but in any case, we steered clear of the ride for the remainder of the day, even after the maintenance people deemed it ride-worthy.

With the Dream Weaver off our radar for the day, the boys chose to participate in a water gun activity in which they were paired against a couple of teen boys, and let me tell you, nothing gets my kids’ spirits up like the idea of a battle challenge. They didn’t win.

Wet

They were happy with their efforts, and didn’t complain at all about spending the day in soaking wet clothes. Later we had peanut butter sandwiches and bought cotton candy, which seemed ridiculously expensive. What is the markup on a $5.50 bag of cotton candy? I’m guessing $5?

Cotton candy, card games, and broken carnival rides – maybe it’s going to be more of a 1970s summer than I thought! In any case, a great first week. xo

Just call me Lynn Raisman.

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I’m not sure how you parents of children in highly competitive sports do it. This weekend was the Candy Cane Shiah at the boys’ karate dojo, and the boys each competed in a kata and a weapons division. The whole time I was a bundle of nerves and it was the Candy Cane Shiah, a very friendly and fun competiton. I felt like Aly Raisman’s mother, except all that dialogue was going on in my head and also, I didn’t really know the routines that they were doing. STICK IT STICK IT YEAHHHHHH. Mark got a bronze in kata and a silver in weapons in his division, and Jake got a silver in kata and a GOLD in weapons. This is what he looked like after winning:

So that was pretty fun. The entire day they walked around the house wearing their medals, like they medaled in an actual Olympic event. It was a constant jangle all day long.

This photo says everything about their personalities. Last night the boys were working on math sheets, practicing for unit tests on Tuesday. I looked over Mark’s word problems, which were all correct but just had the answers written down, no setting up of the problem, no work.

Me: Mark, you have to show your work. 801 is the correct answer, but how did you get it?

Mark: Um, I regrouped. In my head.

Jake was working on greater than/ less than problems, and the question specifically asked “How do you know?”. Jake wrote “Because I know math.” Partial credit?

The weekend before last we decorated our gingerbread house, and I feel like we’ve made gargantuan strides in this area. Part of this is the fact that I buy the pre-made house with the pre-mixed frosting and the pre-cut-out gingerbread characters, and before you say well, YEAH, you have to be an idiot not to make something decent out of that much pre-fabricated festivity, I invite you to see the house from 2011. But look at this year’s offerings! I am going to admit that this is the year that I have had the least involvement with the decoration, and it is also our best house ever. Possible correlation. I was too busy making the gingerbread Christmas tree to really fuss over the frosting lines on the roof, but it turns out my husband is remarkably competent in this area.

Those are my husband’s hands, not mine, wielding the frosting.

 

That is supposed to be me, in gingerbread woman-form. Aren’t I lovely?
See, the little tree was taking up all my efforts. And the red snowman…I don’t know. It wouldn’t be a gingerbread house in the Boyhouse if there wasn’t some kind of dead/ bloody/ blown up/ violent component.
Mark made a smiley face on the side of the house – the windows are the eyes. Jake put that blob of red frosting there, showing where the nuclear explosion was. I should maybe be concerned.

Nicolemania and Beatlemania

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This is where I spent the vast majority of my week:

Every year – twice a year – leading up to the book fair I feel deflated and exhausted and think this is IT. This is the LAST TIME I’m running the book fair. Then, after running the book fair, raising thousands of dollars for the school library, and feeling universal adulation and love from the student body, who call after me while I’m walking through the playground, like I’m Jennifer Lawrence and the students are the paparazzi, “Hey, it’s the book fair lady! Hiiiiii book fair lady! Hiiiii! I love my book about zombies/ Diary of a Wimpy Kid/ Pete the Cat/ Lego Friends.”, I feel like I can keep on keeping on. My friend’s son, who is in fifth grade, thanked me in a very formal and polite way for all my “time and efforts” to “make this book fair possible.”

So that’s nice. I feel good about that; much better than how I felt when I read over my emails last night. Remember the kazoos? The kazoo playing at the school’s 50th anniversary assembly? The kazoos are going to be played as part of a performance by my children of the song YELLOW SUBMARINE. I feel a great deal of despair about this for a number of reasons, one of which is I haaaaaaate that song with a passion. Also, kazoos. 

All this 50th anniversary festivity is – somehow? – connected with the advent of Beatlemania, which Mark’s teacher seems to be embracing with passion. He was assigned to write down five Beatles’ facts and five Beatles’ songs. I was trying to help him with these facts, keeping things empirical rather than subjective, but my husband was home, and the result was somewhat disastrous.

Me: They were known as the Mop Tops! Isn’t that funny? Their hair was considered to be crazy back then!

Mr: Paul sucks.

Me: That’s not appropriate.

Mr: Paul DOES suck. He still writes songs like he did fifty years ago. They suck.

Me: I liked him in Wings.

Mark: What’s Wings?

Me: Another band. Let’s keep going. The band broke up in 1970.

Mark: Why did they break up?

Mr: Because of a chick! She was nuts though.

Me: SERIOUSLY. Let’s keep on topic.

Mark: Who was the chick? Was she pretty?

Me: The WOMAN was Yoko Ono. She was John’s girlfriend. I guess she didn’t really like the other Beatles.

Mark: Some girls do NOT like their crushes to hang out with their friends.

Mr: Exactly.

Mark: *writing* They also went to India a lot.

Mr: They went to India and did a lot of drugs and went crazy.

Mark: I don’t think I should write that. *writes They went to India and got groovy.*

Me: *sigh* How about some songs? I like Golden Slumbers.

Mark: I’ll tell you one thing, I HATE Yellow Submarine.

Me and Mr: Good boy.

http://www.thecomicstrips.com/store/add.php?iid=100655
Image from thecomicstrips.com

  
My friend sent me this comic strip and YES. Although, we all know how I feel about Tom Petty. Or do you? My darling friend Stephanie tagged me on Facebook to play that game where you tell random things about yourself. She gave me the number 8, so I have eight things to tell you about! It seemed too long for a status update, and so I have crafted it seamlessly into a blog post. Also it’s Friday, I’ve been at the book fair all week, and although I haven’t cracked open the wine yet – it’s only 11:30 in the morning – I feel like I happily COULD. It’s been that kind of week. Without further ado, here is my list.

Eight Random Things About Nicole

1) I really, really can’t stand Tom Petty’s music. Do you see what I did there? I didn’t say “I hate Tom Petty” because my dad always said “You don’t HATE anybody” to which I would respond “How about Hitler, Dad? Can’t I hate Hitler? Dad? Hitler? I hate him! So I CAN hate somebody.” Yes, I was a delight of a child. Anyway, I don’t like to be super negative about a person – a celebrity is still a person, I say from my glowing book-fair-lady-celebrity – and so I will say I DO NOT ENJOY HIS MUSIC. For all I know, Tom Petty is the world’s nicest guy.

2) I do enjoy a wide variety of music. Eclectic, if you will. I love motown and fat caped glittery Elvis, I love disco and 1970’s ballads, I love hippie music from the 70s, I love catchy 80s tunes and “alternative” 80s music, which makes me nostalgic for my youth, I love old-skool rap from the 90s and hip-hop and reggae (I don’t like reggae. I love it.) I have an incredible memory for lyrics which makes me think that I could probably do a lot more with my life, if the space in my brain which knows the words to every song ever recorded was devoted to something, you know, useful.

3) I wear the colour black all the time. I almost always have something black on. This habit dates back to my youth, which I probably shouldn’t admit to.

4) Sometimes – not often, thankfully – I find myself having conversations that go like the SNL carpool sketch with Alec Baldwin and Kristin Wiig, which is my favourite sketch ever, but less fun in real life.

5) I always, without exception, choke up when singing the following songs: Landslide, Foolish Games, and How Great Thou Art.

6) I often put on my jammies by 7:00 pm on weekdays. This means that during the week my husband frequently sees me in one of two outfits: a) sweaty yoga clothes first thing in the morning, and b) plaid jammies with a picture of Snoopy on them. This is marriage, kids. As my young friend Emily says when she sees a particularly unflattering outfit, “Those are married lady pants.” I’M SURE HE FINDS ME EXTREMELY SEXY IN MY MARRIED LADY PANTS THAT HAVE SNOOPY ON THEM, EMILY.

7) Despite this, with the exception of 5 am yoga, I never leave the house without makeup on and my hair done. NEVER. I walk the dog with lipstick on, I fancy myself up to go to the Co-Op. I’m totally going to be one of those scary old ladies with bright orange hair, lipstick bleeding into my lip lines, clouds of Chanel No. 5, and super fancy matching earrings/ necklace/ bracelet sets, who get all gussied up to go down to the residents’ lounge to play canasta. Note: need to learn to play canasta sometime in the next forty years.

8) When I was in Grade 11, I was Amanda Wingfield in the school production of  The Glass Menagerie. I rocked out a Southern accent like nobody’s business. I feel that I was born in the wrong place. I think I would have made an excellent Southern lady. I secretly LOVE when people refer to me as “Ma’am”.

So now it’s your turn! Instead of tagging people on Facebook, I’m going to tag bloggers to tell random numbers of things about themselves. Who wants to start? I’ll give you…six!

What’s my excuse? Boy humour.

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The boys and I were having dinner together this evening, and the topic that dominated most of the conversation was as follows: a friend of theirs hit himself in the testicles with his own Styrofoam airplane. The hilarity involved in relaying these details to me was immense. Apparently the only funnier than someone being hit in the testicles is someone being hit in the testicles by launching their own Styrofoam airplane and having it curve in just the right way. An unintentional groin shot to oneself by one’s own efforts? Evidently hilarious.

Some days, I find it difficult to string two words together. At times, my head feels like it’s going to explode with things like the Halloween Dance, and would tahini and chocolate go together, and what am I going to make for the bake sale and when, and why can’t I get “Don’t Stop Believing” out of my head? I think my intellect is FAILING, is what I’m saying, people. I’m sure we’ve all heard, by now, of that “What’s Your Excuse?” woman, and I have two things to say: a) she looks pretty awesome, and I like to believe that she set out to be inspirational, not condemning, and b) my excuse for my rapidly fading mental capabilities is dinnertime conversations about self-inflicted groin shots, punctuated by reminders to please not fart at the dinner table. Yes, that is a valid excuse.

The kids have been working on making musical instruments out of recycled materials at school, and some of their friends have shown me the items that they chose to make: a harmonica made out of popsicle sticks and rubber bands, a drum made out of a coffee can and waxed paper. Jake decided to make a guitar, because “girls like guys who play guitars”. True that, but they also like guys who have good jobs, so get that math homework done, sweetheart. Here is Jake’s guitar in all its glory:

Not bad, even if the tape on the fret (is it a fret? I don’t really know my stringed instruments that well) is kind of coming off. No matter! It’s a decent effort.

Mark brought home his instrument too.


It is a bass guitar. Allegedly. He did not specify if there were once other parts. He did not specify whether it looked differently at some point prior to suffering some kind of fourth grade destruction. He did not specify the level of effort put into this project. In the spirit of not asking questions to which I do not necessarily want to know the answer, I am not inquiring further about it.

Mousetastrophe

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Friday afternoon, the kids were at a birthday party and I was basking in the glory of having crossed every item off my to-do list. I was feeling pretty good about myself; maybe even a bit smug. I was wiping off the kitchen countertop and opened the cupboard underneath the sink to throw something in the garbage, when I saw something strange. At first I thought I had spilled coffee grounds, but no. No, I always take the little compost bucket out of the cupboard when I throw the coffee grounds away. I moved the compost bucket, and saw more strange black things. My stomach gave a lurch and I googled “mouse droppings.”

That smug, happy feeling dissipated instantly. I took everything out of the cupboard, grabbed the bleach, and started cleaning. I had only a few minutes before picking up the children from the party, so I piled the garbage bags, rags, sponges, garbage pail and compost back under the now bleachy-clean sink cupboard. After returning home, I called my husband in a semi-panic, and as I did so I opened up the lazy susan where I keep the flour, oatmeal, and other baking needs. “OH MY GOD” I screamed into the phone. “THEY’RE IN HERE TOO!” I immediately hung up the phone, threw out the open bag of oatmeal, and bleached that cupboard as well. My husband was working on something “more major” than a “mouse” and so it would be a while before he was home. 

Now, I’m a feminist. I shovel snow in the winter, I have been known to clean the gutters, a few weeks ago I even got on a ladder and pulled the decorative scarecrows out of the garage loft. But mice? No. I did what any girl would do in my situation: I called my parents. My dad answered the phone, and in response to his normal salutation I began shrieking that there was a MOUSE in the HOUSE and it was in the CUPBOARD and AIEEEEEEEE. My dad listened for a few minutes, then said what all dads say when faced with hysterical daughters: “Here, I’ll let you talk to your mother.” Within thirty minutes my dad was at my house, setting up traps under the sink and in the lazy susan: two snap traps and one “mouse inn”.

At this point I felt like burning the whole house to the ground, or maybe having a stroke, but on the advice of my husband I poured myself a glass of wine, ready to prepare dinner. SHAKY, but ready to make dinner. Then, I heard it. I looked under the sink and the little door to the “mouse inn” was closed. AIEEEEEE. Mice mice MICE. Not two minutes after that, I heard a loud bang against the front window. A large smear, studded with feathers, was on the glass, and a bird lay motionless in the front garden. Mouse under the sink. Dead bird in the front garden. Possibly more mice in the house – who knows? I am not a catastrophizer. Normally, I can roll with the punches. But at this point I basically felt I was being overrun by vermin and there was a dead bird in the front yard and I couldn’t take it anymore. THE MICE COULD BE ANYWHERE, I thought. At that point, I broke. I started sobbing. I sobbed while making dinner. I sobbed while the children ate – I couldn’t eat. I cried so much that Mark begged me to please stop being so sad and Jake said Mom, we can get the mice, the mice are small, it’s okay, Mom. I just cried and cried while cleaning up the children’s dinner. The children fled downstairs to the safety of their video games while I cried. Two hours of crying later, my husband came home.

Husband: You have GOT to pull yourself together.

Me: *ceaseless sobbing*

Husband: It’s just a MOUSE. Look, I stopped at Canadian Tire. I bought all these traps.

Me: *hysteria*

Husband: You’re letting yourself get all worked up. You need to pull yourself together!

Me: *gulping, choking, sobbing* I think there’s a mouse under the sink.

At that point, my husband threw the “mouse inn” directly into the garbage, along with the dead bird. I hardly slept at all on Friday night. I kept hearing things. My husband kept telling me that I was “letting myself” get “all worked up” but it turns out I was right. Because Saturday morning I slowly opened the cupboard to find all the bait gone but no mice in the traps. There was apparently a mouse party, with droppings on top of the compost container, and in the lazy susan, a similarly stripped mouse trap, holes in the bags of chia and quinoa, and NO DEAD MICE.

Later my mother commented that maybe the mice were vegan, and my friend Lyn thought that next thing you know they would be into the nutritional yeast. FORTUNATELY the nutritional yeast is kept in a glass mason jar, so that was safe, but as for the rest, well.

It turns out the traps my dad had brought over were not working – obviously – and so my husband started setting up the variety of traps that he had bought: old fashioned snap traps, poisonous bait ones, and the humane catch-and-release kind. Just as a foreshadowing, I will inform you that the humane traps were also the least effective.

While he was setting traps, I went out and bought mason jars and stainless steel containers, and the rest of my day was spent putting all foodstuffs into such containers. The upside of this gross event is that I have super clean and organized cupboards now.

My husband went back to the office, leaving me to take the kids to karate. At this point I was nearly insane with lack of sleep, fretting about the Hanta virus, and the (probably ridiculous) thought that I would one day open up my sweater drawer to find a horde of mice nesting there. After karate I gingerly opened the cupboard to discover that the only thing grosser than no mouse in the trap is to find a mouse in the trap. My husband was a good three hours from coming home and so after I heaved for a few minutes I called my parents – again – and my dad came over with his thick leather gloves to deal with the aftermath. Dads and their daughters, am I right? I was awash in gratitude as my dad reset the trap, and it wasn’t five minutes after he left when I heard a snap. And I use this as a cautionary tale for those of you sensitive people, like me. If you hear a snap, don’t think that the trap just “went off” “by itself”. I opened the cupboard to see a writhing, twitching mouse. At that point I just went to lie down, feeling like I was having a nervous breakdown.

I’m happy to say that after my husband came home, there were a few more “snaps”, and he sealed around the dryer vent where we think the problem originated. There haven’t been any more issues since Saturday; the cupboards are still clean and smelling festively of bleach and peppermint oil – the latter of which is apparently a mouse deterrent.

So, that was my weekend. Well, not all of it was misery and desperation. There was also this:

The boys got their yellow belts! They’re so proud and so am I. A bright (yellow) spot in an otherwise vermin-ridden weekend.