A Story from Grandma Lynn

The grandchildren appeared quietly in my house. My brain was still in story-telling mode. I had spent the entire dark and rainy Saturday afternoon at my computer, in my own personal space, in a dream like state composing what I was sure was the next Pulitzer for literature. The phone startled me and I realized it was 4:30pm and from the sound of Bruce’s voice at the other end of the phone conversation saying that Lisa would be arriving with the children in 3 minutes, I knew that I must quickly uncurl myself from my chair, call the pizza guy and change into clothes that would not give away my secret indulgence of writing in my pajamas.
Although the adjective quickly when applied to my body movement is hurriedly becoming a misnomer, I was struggling into my pants as the grandkids quietly filled up my entry. 18 year old Sayeh was just putting down the whining 2 year old Arian; almost seven year old Setareh was obediently taking off her shoes to store them beneath the desk in the entry. I tried to hurry to get the kids a snack and a drink, something, anything. But my focus was still inside my story inside my computer.
Sayeh was sitting at the counter, Arian had disappeared into my office to locate the toys in the closet and Setareh was at my side as we searched the pantry for just exactly what she wanted for her snack. My cupboard is pretty bare I said to her, my back to her lanky body. I was about to explain in too much detail about the mouse in our cupboard who had eaten through the plastic and/or heavy paper of the nut roll snacks, the chips (he had the courtesy to eat from only the bags which we had opened and snacked on first), the almonds Bruce had just purchased and repackaged in a Ziploc. Every time I picked something up, there was a ragged chewed piece on the bottom. Bruce and I spent hours Friday night stripping all the food from the shelves, removing the shelf-lining, washing down the shelves and plastic containers with bleach and as a final touch Bruce sprayed the shelving with Lysol. Anything that was too old or sat beside a mouse-tested item was tossed. Even a Costco-sized carton of “fishes” that Arian loves to eat.
Before I could warn Setareh about the mousetraps baited with peanut butter, I heard it snap! Setareh and I gasped at the same time. I whipped my body around as the mousetrap flipped over. I expected the absolute worst as I yelled,
“Oh my god, the mousetrap!”
Setareh’s big black eyes filled with tears. She began to cry. I wanted to lift her up, but I can no longer do it.
“You scared me! Oh you’re scared too. Here, let me see your hand. Come sit on the couch so I can put you on my lap.”
Together we sat and looked over her hand. No blood.
“We were just so scared!” I said as much to soothe her as to appease my guilt at not having issued a warning about the traps. Setareh said she just touched it because she didn’t know what it was. I explained about the mouse and the cleaning and the fact that Grandpa had set up a sonar thing to chase the mouse outside and the trap just in case (not wanting to tell her the truth that as far as I was concerned the only good mouse was a dead one and as part of our marriage contract Bruce was the chief hunter of all icky things in our house).
Setareh’s smile returned as I talked. She accepted my benign explanation.
“Grandma, did you ever see the movie Stuart Little?”
“Yes”, I said, ‘but this mouse is a little different.”
“I know,” she said, “He probably wasn’t wearing clothes.”