On Saturday morning we were preparing for a busy (and fun, dammit) day outside. H had t- ball practice, and from there we had planned to go a bike festival/fund raiser for some trails in the woods we often ride. The family bike ride sounds innocent enough, but it involves packing up J and my riding gear: shoes, gloves, helmets and in my case shorts as I was NOT wearing riding shorts to T ball. Packing up H's 'bike' that attaches to J's bike making them a tandem, and S's chariot type attachment which attaches to my bike making us a rickshaw. Hoisting the bikes on top of the car. Transferring car seats to J's car which has the bike rack. Making us all fit is a circus act. Luckily for me, the loading up, unloading and assembling once we arrive at the riding location, the disassembling and reloading the car once we're done riding, and the unloading of the car, the putting away the gear and relocation of the car seats once we get home is for the most part J's job.
This particular bike ride also required catering, which is my job. I packed lunch and snacks and water for all of us and carried it on my back for the ride. Towing S. I had an irresistible urge to write "sherpa" across my shirt, and might have if I had time to iron it on. Even in irresistible urge mode I couldn't deal with the aesthetics of marker on my shirt. Once we got to the park, we ended up not eating the lunch I packed, but instead the pulled pork sandwiches and potato salad offered in order to properly contribute to the fund raising. (Yeah that's it). The pulled pork was from an entire roasted pig. A pig that had cherry tomatoes in its eye sockets. A pig whose head was later positioned on a stick, a la Lord of the Flies. H only wants to eat vegetables lately. Coincidence?
On the way out the door for our t-ball, bike riding, meat eating adventures- it was chillier than I thought, so I ran up stairs to grab a sweatshirt. When I got into our room, I noticed Maxi, our cat, staring at J's closet. Tail twitching. I had seen her there earlier, when I got out of the shower, on her hind legs looking at J's shirts. The fact that she was still there was not a good indication of there just being clothes in the closet. I reached in and shook one of J's shirt sleeves at random. A mouse fell out. I screamed. What is it with mice that is synonymous with screaming? I have had pet mice, I really don't mind mice. Still, I screamed. Even though I wondered if a mouse was in the closet, I didn't think there really was, didn't think I'd find it if it was in there. The fact that I chose the right shirt sleeve out of the 20 or so that are in there shocked me. The mouse landed in a crumpled up shirt at the bottom of the closet. I ran to S's room and got an empty diaper box, scooped up the crumpled shirt, mouse and all, and took it to the back of the back yard. I saw the mouse frozen still except for the fact that it was breathing so hard it looked like a balloon, so I know I got it out. For once I was glad for our crumpled shirt empty box lifestyle that facilitated the mouse removal. It struck me funny that this seemed all in a days work. It was quick, I had remembered to grab my sweatshirt (and made sure to shake it out!) Jumped in the car, and we were off.