I'm Trisha, and I Have Musophobia

Hi. My name is Trisha, and musophobia is my shadow.

Ask me to change extreme diapers or clean up middle-of-the-night vomitus, and I'll boldly go where few men dare. Put me under the knife to bring forth life or burn my skin to rid me of cancer, and I'll push through the fear.

But let a mouse scurry across my path or eat the food in my pantry or leave its cursed droppings in my linen closet, and I will lose control. Absolute control.

Perhaps this phobia started when I was just a child, staying at a family member's home in the summer. Our late nights were full of french fries and card games...and hopping from chair to couch to keep those pesky rodents from getting too close. This was the price of country living. The mice thought they were part of the family.

Then, we bought our home in the desert and the cruel reality of home invasion surfaced. I remember arriving to a dark house one night, ready to clean and prep it for move-in, and seeing my first evidence of the utter boldness of these creatures. They had eaten a hole almost clean through the potato chip bag on the counter and left me droppings along the way. I was disgusted.

In our years of living in this house, I've encountered mouse babies in my linen closet (and had to call the neighbor boy over to dispose of them because Ink and Little Big Man were so little and my Beloved was out of town), dead mice in a Beanie Baby container, a renegade pantry mouse that eluded us for a LONG time, and other rodent nightmares. I even remember calling an exterminator and having him tell me mice were well known for crawling over people's faces at night while they were sleeping (yep, he really wanted our business).

Yes, I know cats are great mousers, but we live in the desert, and a cat outside has the life expectancy of about 12 hours. We love our friendly Bull Snakes, but unless we imprison one under our house, their success rate is hit and miss. Steel wool, poison, traps...we've tried it all, and though poison ranks high in my book, no remedy has been permanent. Thankfully God gives us occasional reprieves during which we won't spy a mouse for months.

This last rodent-relief session ended the other night while Cap'n and I were watching something on the computer. Have you ever had that sensation when you haven't seen something directly move before your eyes, but your eyes saw something nonetheless? Not only did I indirectly see movement, but the wrapping paper roll next to me moved. Cap'n and I were out of that chair in a millisecond, landing on the bed for refuge. I was screaming for Jake, our second oldest, and before you know it, all three men are in the room looking to confirm my claim that a mouse was in the house.

"But, did you SEE it?" was the question. "Well....no, I didn't see it, but I know something was there." Uh-huh.

I didn't hear another peep from my supposed nemesis, nor were there any sightings that night. The trap was ignored, and there weren't any late night sounds of invasion. (You know...you're lying in bed and hear the scurrying over in the corner or the scratching, and you just know they're having a good time with your stuff.) I thought perhaps my musophobia had morphed into paranoia. I was relieved to think I was crazy.

Fast forward to the next day, the MIDDLE of the day, and I'm talking to my Mom on the phone. I'm de-cluttering here and there and moving about MY house with confidence and ease, as any good homemaker should have the freedom to do. And then IT happens. The IT that, only by God's mercy, did not put me into labor.

I stepped, barefoot, on a mouse.

Oh me. Oh my. It was the grossest furry sensation I've ever felt.  I ran, screaming all the way, to the other room, hanging up the phone and leaping on the couch. There was not trace of a quiet and gentle spirit in me. Poor Jake, who was outside on a ladder, had to keep himself from falling, so startling was my scream.

Everyone rushed inside and gathered around the creature in the kitchen. They told me it was still alive, but that I had crushed its head with my foot. They said there was blood. I'm still having a hard time believing their story. After all, there was no blood on my foot, and when I looked down, that Madness-Inducer appeared to already be dead.

The Littles stared in wonder as I wept on the couch at the horror of it all, my three year old offering me the truth of, "But, Mommy, God made that mouse." At dinner, I was given the name "Mouse Killer" and my precious family shared scenarios from Mouseland-Down-Under in which those creatures are trembling at the thought of the pregnant lady's foot that looms above them. My three year old continues to tell me how she'll kill mice with her bare feet when she's a Mommy.

Delightful.

It's been said "in acceptance lies peace." That's just not stickin' with me right now. In acceptance of my morbid fear of mice, I still have a morbid fear of mice. In acceptance of God's providence, I ponder the thought that He placed that mouse at that time under my foot, my BARE foot. Joel Osteen would declare that's a picture of God telling me I can have victory over my fear of mice if I just believe hard enough.

For now, I'll just pray for reprieves, keep a good supply of traps and poison on hand, and work on re-directing my three-year-old's mothering aspirations. And if you ever hear me scream, well, you can pretty well guess why.

With love,
Trisha