Let's Pretend

Let's pretend, just you and me, that it hasn't really been this long between posts, 'K?

Halloween and Biscuit's birthday have passed by in a flash and along with the passage of those two events, the space-time continuum in which I and my family exist has sped beyond warp speed just like it does every year. And just as in years past, time this year passes faster than it did last.

Sigh.

What to say about Halloween? We went to a friend's party, bringing along Indiana Jones who was adored all evening by Raggedy Ann,

a ladybug who has yet to meet a stranger

and a butterfly who was content on Daddy's hip for most of the night.

The anniversary marking the beginning of Biscuit's fourteenth year alive on Earth was quite the rite of gas passage. He had a friend over for birthday dinner consisting not of pizza as one would expect but rather of braised Moroccan- spiced rack of lamb avec tous les accoutrements. Yes, I thought it showed a hopeful sign of sophistication too. Biscuit says this is his favorite thing in the universe to eat and I was happy to oblige. About halfway through dinner someone lost control of his sphincter muscles and after that all gas hell broke loose at the table between Biscuit, his Buddy and Hubby. I've never been so happy to take the last bite of that delicious dish as I was that evening. Furthermore, I was repeatedly and colorfully reminded that guys always find farts funny no matter how many birthdays they've had.

Biscuit says, "Thanks, Gran!"

I've spent much more time in the garage over the past several weeks as a result of all the bright, beautiful light that's out there now. Thank you Hubby. But now I see how dirtyfilthygross it is out there. On the bright side (I'm sorry! I can't help it!!!) at least I can see what's been incubating out there for the past few months and I'm not sitting inside in the dark (groan) helplessly worrying about it.

On to the messes inside now...

Do you want to know the worst term I've heard this year? The phrase that catapulted me so quickly toward the Howling Fantods Zone that I actually shot past it straight onto the Isle of Denial? Here's how the phone conversation went:

"I only saw one and that was a day ago and I haven't seen any since so I don't really know if we have a problem or not."

"Yeah, you have an infestation. If you see one you have pro'ly a million eggs."

Oh.

MY!

GOD!!!!!!

Infestation?!?!?!?!?!

One little flea completely upended my whole entire house for the better part of a week. Not sharing John Donne's affinity for the petite parasites I couldn't sleep for fear that every single one of those million eggs would all hatch simultaneously while I slept, covering my kids in their slumber and eating them alive, leaving me to find nothing but bones, saturated diapers and a bit of bodily flotsam and jetsam in the morning.

The benefit is that the house is now CLEAN. Cleaner even than it was when we moved in. As clean as it would be if we were moving out and then we'd take a look around and say, "Man, why don't we keep it this clean all the time?" I'll tell you why. Because it's a gigantic pain in my ass. That's why.

Katie got a bath and a visit to the vet who said that she saw no signs of bugs on our beloved baby. She was scratching all the time and we were applying Frontline so we were at a loss as to where the flea came from until the following weekend.

Hubby and I were on the couch enjoying the last few bites of brunch since the Beans had gone down a little early for Happy Nappy (no, not lucky us-- they also woke up early but that's another post entitled "The Early Bean Gets The Binkie And Smacks Her Twin In The Head With It Because She's Very Very Cranky"). We thought we were so awesome! The house was clean, the kids were napping, we were actually eating a hot meal together in our jammies-- and then one of looked out the window into the screened-in patio adjacent to the family room. I think it was me but I can't be sure because, again, I was suddenly watching the Howling Fantods Zone fly past beneath me on my way back to the Isle of Denial and thinking that I've spent WAY TOO MUCH TIME THERE lately.

It was a rat. Not a mouse. Not a cute little pink-and-white rat like the one that was Mrs. Lanto's sixth-grade class pet named Mozart who used to poop in my desk until I figured out that I should put him in my friends' desks and let him poop on their papers / pencils / fancy erasers. Nope. We're talking about a fat, nasty, mottled-brown, disgusting, scrounging, honest-to-god-quick-grab-a-broom-and-pound-the-hell-out-of-it rat.

So Hubby, fearles defender that he is, put on his Braveheart and his shoes, grabbed the broom and ventured out to the patio. My job was to keep an eye on it. I watched it, hands clamped over my ears, fingers curling up in my hair, humming tunelessly (because the stock soundtrack on the way to the Howling Fantods Zone isn't nearly as pleasing as you might think). I pulled my eyes from the object sentenced to imminent destruction by broom to take one last look at Hubby should he return on rather than with his shield and when I glanced back, the rat had disappeared.

Poof! Gone! Just like that.

Hubby rooted around in the patio for a couple of minutes, cautiously yet viciously poking the broom handle here and there, but the fat-bellied beast was nowhere to be found. And it's funny. Hubby asked me a couple of days into my frenzied cleaning-and-disinfecting spree whether I was sure that I'd seen a flea. Aside from the fact that that was the absolute wrongest question in the world that he could have uttered at that moment (better ones immediately sprung to mind right at that second like, "How can I help you?" or "Do you need a hand with that?" or "Why don't you let me move that big heavy object for you?" or "How about if I take over this massive project for an hour so you can shower and eat because it would be so inconsiderate of me to just sit here and watch tv and let the kids cry while you stink and starve?" or "Is this something we can do together since I want out home to be as clean as you do?"), one thing I hope Hubby ALWAYS knows and trusts about me is that I never, ever cry wolf. I will concede the point that I am far more likely to assume and prepare for the worst-case scenario as far as the kids' health and safety is concerned than I am to just hang onto my pants and hope for the best, but these were FLEAS we were talking about-- bugs that wanted to suck our babies' blood in the dead of night and then go make more fleas to suck more blood. Third-world insects. And the guy on the phone had said "INFESTATION!"

So yes, I was sure it was a flea. Have I seen more? No. Do I regret moving furniture, washing clothes and linens nonstop, vaccuuming, scouring, disinfecting, and sanitizing for the better part of a week? No! Would I have rather been doing other things? Duh, YES! Do I lament the fact that I was the only adult in the house doing so? Of course, but I was also the only one to see the flea on Pipsi's face and (fortunately) the only one who felt the little itchy pinch of its bite. And now, I am also the one with peace of mind that I've done EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to rid the house of the vile bugs and I know that if they return it isn't because of anything I did or didn't do.

Am I sure I saw a flea? YES! And there's the culprit right there! Or at least, there he was. I don't know what happened to him (the rat, not Hubby). But I've called the exterminators again to come on out and get this guy (again the rat, not Hubby-- but it isn't yet noon).

In the meantime, I've seriously contemplated pretending that the entire thing never happened. But forgetting about that would mean that I'd forget all the issues we were facing while still managing to throw Biscuit a super-fun birthday party and enjoying a fun Halloween with all the kids. So I won't. When necessary I'll just scoot on back to the Isle of Denial, pour a couple of Pina Coladas and prepare a couple of chairs for the next time one of us sees something in the house that doesn't belong.