Minnesota Prairie Roots

My daughter's Santa Mouse book, the one I read to her so many times that I had the words memorized.

“SO THAT’S WHY we haven’t caught the mouse,” he says. “The mouse was in the drawer.”

I am not laughing. Not at all. I do not laugh about mice.

But they—the two guys in my life—find this incredibly humorous.

First, a little background: I am afraid of mice. Because of that, I will not venture into our basement after dark. I am no dummy. I know that mice tend to scurry about in darkness.

I am not taking any chances. So one evening this past week, I ask my husband, Randy, “Can you go in the basement and get a book for me? It’s in the bottom dresser drawer.”

He looks at me, obviously thinking, “You have two legs. Get it yourself.”

But I am stubborn when it comes to rodents. I have had too many unsavory encounters with these skittering varmints to risk another.

And besides, I really want this book, Santa Mouse, which was a gift from my Aunt Dorothy to my oldest daughter more than 20 years ago.

My husband reluctantly obliges my request. Upon his return, Randy concludes that a mouse, which has twice snapped traps in our basement laundry room, must have been hiding in the dresser, in the book, the entire time.

“Ha, ha, ha,” my guys chortle. I scowl at Randy and my teenage son. They laugh some more. Loud guy laughter.

I am not going to give them the satisfaction of even the slightest hint of laughter escaping my lips. I must not show any signs of weakness regarding my stance on mice. If I laugh now, my husband will have me checking mouse traps next. And that would be worse than entering a dark basement.

© Copyright 2009 Audrey Kletscher Helbling