Mice Brothers

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As the crisp Winter air turns to Spring, the call of the Songbird is joined by my yelling of, “Don’t leave food out! That’s how we get ants!”

Ooooo I hate ants. I write that while shaking my fist in the air. The ground underneath Evanston is 99 percent ant and every home we’ve had was overrun come Springtime. Over the last decade, I’ve developed a strict regimen for ant apocalypse. First, I deliver ant sized fliers warning ant villagers to leave my house immediately or feel my wrath. Then I spray enough ant killer around the outside of our house to kill every living thing within a half mile. I like to do this without any protection to prove what a big man I am. I spend the next several months screaming every time I see a live ant. “How? How can you be alive? Our house is a toxic waste dump!”

A month ago, I received a text from Diana that read, “Our cleaning lady found mice poop under the oven.” Diana was smart to send this message via text because I hit the roof of my office with rage.

“See what happens when you leave cereal out?” I shouted at a junior copywriter.

Instead of murder, which was my suggestion, Diana purchased a few humane mice traps. These things are basically a little tube with a little door that springs closed when the mice enters, attracted by the smell of peanut butter.

Our neighbor Lexa told us a while ago she used the same kind and left for a long weekend. She came home to discover three mice had gotten stuck in one trap and were reduced to cannibalism to survive. Gross.

The first night we left the trap out, we caught a tiny little mouse. Which left the question, what to do with the mouse? I couldn’t feed it to the dogs, because they wouldn’t eat it. I also didn’t want to just pitch it out into the neighborhood. I like most of my neighbors. Plus, you already know what Lexa does to mice.

So I drove the little guy out to a park in Chicago. There is a little Par 3 course attached, so he can still be tied to his North Shore roots. Plus tons of garbage. I opened the trap and attempted to free him. But, he refused to leave. I had to shake him out like the last Pringle in the can. Eventually he let go and scurried off. I called to him, “I love you! Don’t come back or I’ll break your neck!”

The next morning, we caught another one. I planned on just tossing into the yard of our neighbor who is a real jerk about recycling cans. But Diana was concerned about this new mouse being separated from his mouse brother. I reminded her this mouse had the brain the size of a garbanzo bean and was most likely riddled with rabies.

But then I began to anthropomorphize them. I imagined a little Eli mouse, scared and alone on the 9^th green. His only desire was to be reunited with his little Luca mouse brother.

So I drove back out to the golf course and dropped off Luca Mouse. I shouted, “Hey Eli Mouse! Here is your brother. Come and get him!”

Luca Mouse darted off to find his brother. And I’m sure didn’t get eaten by a hawk.

GOAL!

I really enjoy Luca’s Sunday soccer games. They’re late enough in the day that you can get some stuff done. They coincide with Diana’s day off from the wine store. Plus, they have very low stakes.

The team is not good. They’ve been clobbered by 6 or 7 goals every game. There as a pretty big stretch where our team didn’t score a single goal. This, coupled with the fact Luca is two years younger than almost everyone else in the league, means it’s just great that Luca shows up.

The stress is low. Diana and I simply sit in the sun, hold hands and watch the team get dismantled every week. We always keep an eye on the proceedings, as there is nothing worse than parents who spend the game on their phone. But we don’t get all crazy about it. Sometimes we’ll shout out the name of Luca’s teammate to prove we know the name of his teammates. And you know I love me some AYSO based comedy.

A few Sundays ago, we set up our canvas foldy chairs and waited for the extermination of The Silver Fire by The Other Team Whose Name Is The Color Of Their Jerseys and An Animal Or Fire Based Noun. I noticed the TOTWNITCOTJAAAOFBNs were coached by a co-worker of mine. My normal social anxiety was coupled by a desire not to have to have an awkward conversation with a fellow dad about how crappy our team is. So I tightened my sweatshirt hood over my head, real slick like.

The game started as they always do, with children crashing into each other and the two kids who are actually good completely taking over. Luca was on defense. What Luca lacks in size and experience, he more than makes up for in speed and enthusiasm. The little guy races all over the field.

His enthusiasm caused him to be woefully out of position for a defensive player. He was standing right in front of the opposite team’s goal when his teammate passed him the ball. He turned and shot the ball. Into. The. Goal.

Words cannot describe what came over me. I am normally a painfully reserved person. A lifelong effort not to be noticed has neutered my ability to show enthusiasm about anything. When Luca scored that goal, I became an insane person. I leapt out of my canvas foldy chair, sending it toppling backwards. I screamed a string of unintelligible words, like I was speaking in tongues. Diana and I did that thing where you hug and jump at the same time. Remember when Howard Dean ruined his presidential chances by making that weird “Yehaw” noise on stage? The noises I made would make Howard Dean say, “Take it down a notch.”

For the rest of the game, Luca attempted not to make eye contact with us out of utter embarrassment. But that didn’t stop Diana and me from shouting, “You are getting an ice cream cone, mister!” whenever he ran by.

The Silver Fire ended up winning their first game of the season. Okay, technically I know you aren’t supposed to keep score. But everyone does and they won. So there.

Luca spent the rest of the day eating ice cream and acting kind of grouchy. Most likely due to exhaustion. Or ego.

Baseball

When I was a kid, I was on a baseball team for exactly 1 week. In that time, I was encouraged to find another extra-curricular activity after beaning a pick-up truck with an errant throw during practice. So off to band camp I went.

Luca, on the other hand, combed through the deep recesses of his genetic pool to find the one active baseball gene in his system. He is the happiest member of the Valley Produce “Bombing Potatoes.”

Yes. The Bombing Potatoes. This is what happens when coaches let teams name themselves. I am proud to say Luca was the author. In one recent practice, his coach gathered the ream and said, “Okay. Last chance to rename the team. Any takers? Anyone at all? Anyone want to name the team something other than ‘Bombing Potatoes?’ Anyone?”

No casting agent could construct a more perfect collection of cuteness. Every one is more adorable than the last, with their little cleats and oversized mitts and their perfectly cowlicked hair.

Luca upped the cuteness ante by adding a black eye to his wardrobe.

According to Hamann Legend, Luca was playing pitcher in one of the countless games organized in our back yard. Grover poop is first base. Trouper poop is second. Grover poop is third. Also Grover poop is home. He gave his friend some helpful advice on batting and was rewarded for his instruction by a baseball in the eye.

He actually had the gall to be embarrassed by the giant purple and green and black splotch around his socket. We told him he was now the most intimidating and cutest player on the Bombing Potatoes.

My role on the Potatoes is official Social Anxiety Sufferer.