A mouse in the house

Yes, that's right.  We have a mouse.

A few weeks ago I rounded the corner into our kitchen with the intention of starting some breakfast for Eliza.  As I came round, a small, longish shape disappeared under the fridge.  I couldn't be sure what I saw, but it was enough to send me out of the room again to put on shoes.  When I actually did begin making Eliza's oatmeal, there was the pitter-patter of clawed little feet underneath the stove.  I texted Nick.  It was time for the exterminator to bring home some equipment.

However, we didn't see anything again.  No mouse droppings.  No other sightings.  No evidence that I hadn't just imagined anything.  After all, it was morning, and before I wanted to be up.  Maybe I was too quick to jump to conclusions.

And then this morning.  I was standing in the kitchen with Nick.  I looked down in time to see a mouse come scurrying from.. somewhere, and in it's haste, it slipped down the slope of our kitchen floor and almost fell at my toes.  Or rather, on my toes.  Joy.  We really do have a mouse.  And just to make sure to set any doubts to rest, the little bugger later ran out of the kitchen, right past Nick and I as we sat at the dining room table eating our oatmeal.  Indeed: it roams the apartment.  I've had unease about sitting on the floor or letting Eliza play unsupervised since.

Of course, the necessary measures are on their way: traps, bait, etc.  Thankfully, my husband is fully capable of taking care of the traps, because as little as I like mice alive (and I really don't like mice), I like their corpses even less.

Ew.