Mice in the old house

My oldest cousin, who lives in the Bay Area, had a quick work trip to New York this week, so I suggested that he come over for dinner given Kaia’s short window between daycare pickup and bedtime. I prepared dinner and used his visit as an excuse to bake a seasonal dessert, so I made my much-awaited pumpkin spiced mochi muffins (which I actually had on my list of things to bake two years ago right before Kaia was born, but I clearly lost track of time). After he landed, he dropped off his bag at his hotel and came up to our apartment. He also had Joe’s Pizza delivered, which somehow excited Pookster. She’s only had a taste or two of pizza in her entire existence, yet somehow she immediately knew this was pizza and that she needed to have it ASAP, saying “Want pizza! Want pizza!” over and over until I cut her a slice and removed most of the pepperoni. Oh, toddlers!

We talked about work, travel, and home. I asked him how the house was (the one his mom shares with my parents). And he told me something I had no idea about: there are MICE in the basement again! The last time I heard about mice being in the house was before the foundation was redone, so around the time our grandma passed away in 1995. He said that they hadn’t made their way up to the second or third floors but were in the basement. And my dad had told him that he’d already caught SIX of them. That completely grossed me out.

It annoyed me to hear that there are rodents in the house. The obvious thought is the lack of hygiene as a result of these pests. But the other thing I thought about was all the endless clutter that my parents and my aunt have stored in the basement. The more clutter and crap there is, the more places the rodents will have to hide and shelter and make the basement their home. All of this just makes for a worsening situation. And I am pretty certain that they are doing nothing to clear the clutter and prevent these issues since the entire basement is a filthy, disgusting, dilapidated disgrace. I feel embarrassed just thinking about how that space looks.

I’m sure my mom never told me because she knew I’d say all of this. And she’d use the excuse that she’s “disabled” and doesn’t have the ability to clean it up. Because of course, it’s all just on her to do these things. The never ending cycle of insanity, angst, and torment in that god-forsaken house.

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