Tonight my son decided to roll up the living room carpet. I didn't notice because I had my head in my file drawer slowly working on getting my inbox under control. Then suddenly I hear, "Mom! What's this?"
And he throws onto my desk a very flat (think roadkill) dead mouse. No lie. I cannot make this shit up.
I scream like a little girl in disgust.
His face freaks out. "Mom, I'm scared. I'm scared. What is that?"
"Why is there a dead mouse in our house?"
Because apparently it managed to use its last bit of mouse strength escaping from our two mouser cats (Maya and Luke) to get under the carpet.
And then it was walked on, played on, vacuumed, etc., for god knows how long.
I sent X-man to the bathroom, where he double washed his hands and then used antibacterial gel. I got a paper towel and tossed mouse pancake into the garbage and hauled it out to the can. Then I came back and sprayed down my desk with Lysol.
I called MacTroll to inform him of the kind of shit he misses never being at home. The joy of effing motherhood.