Raising a Stink....er....

There are nights when bedtime is like playing Whack-a-Mole and there are nights when people go to sleep willingly.  This week, we've been pushing hard so bedtime was almost...almost a relief for most of them. 

Then I heard the scream.   The Don't-stop-run-up-the-stairs-something-is-wrong-take-the-steps-two-at-a-time scream.  I'm thinking Mouse...snake...blood...as I shout "I'm coming!" My oldest son and daughter are hot on my heels to provide assistance.  Then we hear, "STOP IT!"  and know that this just requires me.  My oldest two roll their eyes and march back down to their computers. 

In the boy's all lights on bedroom, I find my middle son holding the railing normally used for his brother's bed.  He is positioning it to hit something underneath his brother's bed.  There is a voice under the bed.  "STOP IT." and more screams.

A thousand questions explode in my head but all I can get out is "Why?"  

A timorous shaking hand points from under the bed at a toy barn that the other brother has been hitting with the edge of the railing.   I don't get it.

"Mom!" my older son says with a bit of impatience, "There's a stink bug."  He then angles the railing and tries again to squish the insect against the plastic toy barn. That he doesn't hit the fan with the other end is a minor miracle. He only succeeds in pushing the barn with the bug further under the bed where his brother is hiding, resulting in still more ear splitting screams. 

"There's a bug so I'm under the bed." is the breathless reply.

First I disarmed the exterminator, then I grabbed the barn.  "Get out from under the bed." I ordered.  He crawled out, his eyes are wide and fearful.  "What are you going to do?"   "Get rid of it."  I answered.  My son frowned.  "My cars are in that barn."  he said with the air of being both sad and resigned to losing the barn and the cars as the price for the destruction of the bug.  

"I'm just....going to get rid....of the insect."  I explain as I march out to the bathroom to send the creature to it's untimely demise.  He asks as I'm trying to tuck him back in bed if he needs to change the sheets.   I promise there are no bugs or bug parts on his bed.  He accepts this although the other child is puzzling it over and I can see his brain starting to ask questions about whether or not I've thoroughly inspected the room sufficienty to make such a promise.  Quickly suggesting that maybe he can come downstairs and get both of them some water, I turn off the lights and bid a hasty retreat.  The prospect of getting to leave the room is sufficent distraction.   

Going back downstairs, I find my son who was getting the water armed with the shop vac.  He's angling the tube to suck up a few stray stink bugs in the kitchen.  "It's after 9.  Bed.  I'll get the bugs." and he gives me a "But you might miss one look." I smush one with my bare hands.  "See. I'll handle it."  and grab a napkin.   "Be sure to wash your hands." my son warns, and takes the two drinks off to bed. 

Tossing the body of the bug, I wonder how I get these guys not to be paralyzed by anything with six legs.  I've seen this happen before. As silent war between two of my daughters who favor the front seat was put off by one of these critters.  One always tries to beat the other to the chair, but with a little stink bug crawling on the window on the outside, both opted to sit in the back peacefully.   One of the other creatures successfully kept my four year old from deciding to get out of her room after I put her to bed the other night.  And it wasn't even in the house, it was the shadow of a bug on the outside of her window reflecting on the wall from the moon.

....I caught myself considering whether or not to catch one of these bugs and just keep it for emergency purposes; then I heard millions are headed this way next week from Pennsylvania.  I think I'm going to remove all the railings and bats and blunt objects from the house.

Ladybug Ladybug Fly Away

Nothing unites brothers and sisters like a mutual enemy. Mom calling for people to come clean up for example.

Or mutual fear.

In this case, it was bed time. Mom had done her part. All children under the age of 7 had been attended to, teeth brushed; stories read, clean, fresh pajamas and beds tucked in with prayers and such. Mom had recently explained that parenting hours are from 6 A.M. to 9 P.M. with provisos for children who are sick or under the age of 3. It has been a tough summer thus far enforcing this but I'd finally gotten the key message through. All others need to disappear into their rooms during non-service hours.

So when my fiver shouted out "Mommmmmmmmmmm. There's a bug in my room." I called back up the stairs to see if this was a five alarm bug or a don't bug me type bug.

"It's a ladybug." was the scared reply.
I called back that ladybugs were happy bugs, friendly bugs and would not bite, bother or scare anyone.

But other people upstairs only heard, "There's a bug in my room."

Immediately, five other residents of the upstairs bedrooms could just feel the presence of six legged creatures and see them everywhere. Not buying the mass insect hysteria, I let it be known that it was bed time, even for bed bugs.

So while I busied myself with the dinner dishes, the kids took matters into their own hands. Clearly, no one should sleep alone and clearly, no one could sleep in the bug infested room or the room adjacent to that, though that may have been a boy induced allergy to Barbies and all things pink.

My oldest son reported to me as he came out of his room, (also upstairs), the scene just outside his door. Commando crawling siblings armed with pillows and comforters scuttled across the floor like plaid and pink and Disney Cars colored ladybugs. They scrambled into the toddler room where two sisters were only too delighted to share their night time accommodations. They shut the door and turned out the lights, within minutes all of them were asleep.

They all slept in that one room that night.

I had to consider the possibilities; could ladybugs be used as a security system, to keep kids in bed after hours? Could they be used as a herding prod, to get kids out the door and into the car? Or as an incentive...eat your salad, or I release this ladybug into the kitchen.

But in the morning, I located said ladybug and took it outside to the garden and people resumed their normal citizen kid lives.

I haven't used the ladybugs despite their obvious alure, because I know, with great power comes great responsibility.

Adventures in Pest Control

Every summer, I get to release my inner hunter instinct that must come from my pioneer ancestry. Normally, our family emphasizes a harmony with nature, but there are a few notable exceptions. Any nature that decides to make our home its habitat, foregoes all benevolence from the home owners.

We weren’t always this blood thirsty. It was a gradual corruption of our core values, an erosion of our gentle sensibilities that started with our first apartment in New York City. One day I came home from work to be warned by my husband not to enter. A heavy cloud of choking toxins hung in the air. “I’ve just taken five years off my life.” He explained, looking rather frightening with an aresol can in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. He took me for a walk in the village park to explain while the apartment gasses did their thing. “The roaches were having a family reunion on our stove.”

Bugs freak my husband out faster than anything, so I smiled benevolently and we went out for dinner before returning to a now faintly musky smelling but bug free one room apartment.

When we moved to Houston, it was my turn. I had never seen mice in a home before, even having lived in New York city. The first time I saw a mouse, it ran and I screamed a’la that faceless woman from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. I even reached for the broom. My husband went to the local hardware store and bought an environmentally friendly trap to catch the mouse. He baited it with peanut butter. That idea alone put me off of PB&J for years.

The next day, “Mickey” was trapped in a small green case and well fed. Now we had to release the darn thing somewhere which meant carrying the case with said mouse to somewhere. My husband patiently convinced me to get in the car with the green box, I put the green box in a shoe box and then held the shoe box. I was afraid we had caught the mensa of mice who would figure out how to get out of the humane trap and scurry around the inside of our car.

Releasing it into the park however, turned out to be much more difficult than originally planned. Opening the trap, we waited for Mickey to leave. Mickey didn’t move. Tapping the glass case only further convinced him to stay put. Shaking the trap didn’t work either. In the back of the car, we had a hammer (Don’t ask), and I thought we could maybe smash the side of the polyurethane case to make the opening bigger. My husband convinced me that it looked cruel and that this probably wouldn’t work, so we waited. Forty five minutes later, Mickey finally decided to poke his nose out of the trap. A dog barked. Back inside he went.

Just when I started to think we should start charging rent, my husband sprinkled some cookies he had in his lunch bag from yesterday outside the trap. Mickey was willing to go out to eat. The trap was now ready for additional use the instructions on releasing said, but it would have to be cleaned. Looking at the green plastic cage filled with mouse droppings, I threw the whole thing out. I wasn’t even tempted to recycle.

The next turn of the battle with beasties came at our first home, with our daughter, newly potty-trained. We had purchased a house next to a vacant lot, which gave the whole place an open feeling of being bigger than it was, but also meant we had flora and fauna for neighbors. When our daughter screamed in the bathroom, “Something is slithering at me.” We knew there was only one thing she meant.

My husband captured the snake in a brown paper bag and I praised his man-god hunting skills. Then we worried the whole incident would set potty training back for years. I knew I wasn't going to use that facility anymore.

I have however, finally come into my own, for I am the Samauri exterminator of all flying insects. Flies, wasps, bees and mosquitos, anything with wings that darkens our door doesn’t stand a chance against dead-eye Mom. The kids take my title seriously and have been keeping a running tally. Hunting my quarry, I am known for the quick and merciless strike. However, zealotry in this activity can have its downside. It seems I hit the sweet spot on the window the other day, and now, well, the winged creatures of the world have their own private exit and entrance.

Until it’s repaired, here’s hoping they are as slow to catch on to it as Mickey.

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