By Contributing Mama Robin Singer

I’m all washed out.  I’ve had it.  Please… no more laundry.

Last week we discovered we have mice.  Those little buggers seem to be cuddling up in the bottom of my laundry piles (clean laundry only of course!).

So we call the exterminator.  I absolutely hate the idea of killing them, but I feel helpless.  We put traps out.  Catch three.

Then… more “evidence” appears in the linen closet upstairs.  Boy, can those guys spread it out – they’ve hit every towel and sheet in there. And this closet is jam packed. As we begin to pull out the piles upon piles of linens that we hardly ever use, we discover the mice have made beds… by pulling the cotton from the insides of tampons and then lining them with cough drops for convenient little midnight snacks.  Clever little shits.

Needless to say, I’ve been doing laundry for about a week straight. Forget any regular clothing.

Then, just the other night, I’m lying in bed when I see movement – a quick scurry across the top of my cabinet  (where I stuff all my shoes and purses).  I get a glimpse of a tiny little mouse coming out of the shoe pile and heading right back in.  “Eeeeek!” I scream, waking my husband. He doesn’t appreciate it. But I don’t care. This is an INVASION.

Upon further examination, I discover that three of my shoes and one of my purses is filled… with droppings? Nope.

With cough drops? Tampons? Nope.

Dog food!  How the —- did dog food get into my closet!? From downstairs!

A little hoarding action.  Those thieves were actually carrying the dog food from the kitchen to my closet! Holy moly, this is disgusting.  But I laugh a little.  And curse the little buggers again.

On Monday, I am finally getting on top of this laundry situation.  Then later that evening, when I get home, my husband tells me that my 5-year-old daughter Tess vomited twice. Oh I hope it’s just junkfood.

Five minutes have passed when she arrives in the kitchen to tell me she just vomited all over her bed.  I strip the bed (comforter and all).

And then she throws up again. Another quilt.  Another set of sheets.  Another pillow.  Added to the pile.

Last set of clean sheets go on the bed.  She vomits again.  Some of it makes it into the bucket I provided four hours earlier.  I cover the small spot with towels and tuck her in again.  The next three times, she manages to find the bucket.  Thank you for your mercy, oh lord.

Would it be okay to tell my family not to wear anything until I catch up?

Robin Singer is a mother of two girls, an aspiring author/illustrator of children’s books, and an upcoming hom mouseicide expert.  She spends most of her days planning insanely complicated girl scout meetings or updating the PTO blog, ignoring both her dreams to finish the illustrations for her first book and her responsibilities to take care of the home.  She is married and lives in northern central New Jersey.