Mary had her 18-month check up last week and other than the frenzied car trip through rush hour traffic that had us arriving a full 30 minutes late and the frantic series of phone calls I made to make sure someone would be able to pick Irene up at the school bus, it was pretty uneventful. Her height, weight and development checked out okay and she took her shot fairly well.
So when she woke up with a fever the next morning, I was pretty sure that’s all it was — a side effect from her vaccination. When she brought up a thin dribble of milk at breakfast I still thought it was because of her needle. She’s not really sick, I thought, but I’ll keep her home anyway because she’s pretty tired and clingy.
Needing a refill on my morning coffee, I went into the kitchen to rinse out my mug. I moved a pot from the night before aside and found a DEAD MOUSE lying in the sink. I repeat, there was a dead mouse in my sink, wallowing in all his germ-laden lifelessness. Yes, I screamed. I’m pretty sure I did a quick tiptoe rendition of the River Dance, too.
I decided to skip the rinse, go directly for the coffee refill and get myself and my fevered toddler out of the kitchen pronto. I gave my heebie jeebies further outlet on Twitter with an excessive use of all caps and OMGs. (Sorry about that.) How could I even begin dealing with the dead rodent in my kitchen sink with a clingy toddler and a kindergarten kid due home before long.
Then I did what I always do when the going gets rough. I resolved to get take out.
I put Mary in the carrier and headed out to pick up Irene. It was actually a lovely day and we strolled along Dundas, deciding to stop in at a little cafe. All Irene wanted was a bagel with cream cheese, so I ordered one figuring we’d sit near the window and she could tell me about her day.
I was chatting with the owner of the cafe whose children go to school with my kids when suddenly Mary threw up a little. “Oh my,” I said. I took a couple napkins and dabbed at her face and at the small stain on the carrier.
Then she threw up again.
I grabbed more napkins. Again, she threw up. Now she was hurling vast quantities of chunky and sour puke all over my coat and her own and down our shirts. The owner handed me a roll of industrial strength paper towel and I did my best to get up the worst of it. Miraculously none of it got on the floor. It all landed on us.
I opted to take the bagel to go at this point. I still feel good about that call. We walked back home, enjoying the bright sunshine and the warm vomit nestled within my cleavage.
Post script:
I did finally dispose of the mouse that afternoon using a foam coffee cup, a paper bag and a sophisticated scoop and bag system. It’s little grey body was already stiff, the sight of it’s tiny little whiskers and toes still haunt me.
Post post script:
Irene came down to find me plucking away at the computer late last Sunday night with vomit smeared down her face. Poor thing. I cleaned her up and changed the sheets (which I had only just changed that day, OF COURSE), went back to work, changed them again, and so on. I guess it wasn’t the vaccination after all.
And thus concludes this tale of mice and vomit.