Don't Scream, You'll Wake the Kids!
Tuesday, January 17th 2012 @ 6:55 AM
When my children were small their father traveled on business. Frequently, I found myself playing the role of single mother. In some ways, it was easier. Any arguments about parental decisions were conducted solely with myself.
In other ways, homeschooling three children without family nearby was incredibly stressful. Bedtimes were the worst.
We had a waterbed and the kids and I (we took turns) slept on a queen sized mattress conveniently located at the foot of the waterbed. With only a four-inch drop to the floor I didn’t worry about them falling, and if they needed something in the night I could hand it to them instead of getting up.
Yossi, at age five, had his own bedroom but he didn’t sleep there. Prince slept there. Prince was not an ordinary hamster. He was friendly and Buddah-like. He was happy in his little cage on top of Yossi’s loft. I was willing to remind Yossi to feed and water him, but the thought of touching him made me squeamish. He was, after all, a rodent.
One hot night, not long after Prince had come to live with us, and my husband was away, I put the kids to sleep. It wasn’t easy. I had Yossi on one side and Mimi, age three, on the other. In order to get them to sleep we had to do the whole bedtime routine.
I don’t know what it’s like in your house, but we had rituals. First they’d repeatedly dive from the waterbed to the mattress screaming, “Delta is ready when you are!” That took about ten minutes. Then we’d sing the family theme song: Janis Joplin’s “Oh L-rd, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz.” The long version. All three stanzas. Then we said, Shma Yisrael, which I’m sure Janis would have said if she’d been Jewish.
Afterwards, I’d read the book-of-the-month. This time it was “The Story of Ping,” in which a small duck is saved from being united with orange sauce by a sneaky boat boy. It was okay the first 4,000 times I read it, but whenever I asked “How about a different story?” I was outvoted. (Hint to new parents: Democracy is over-rated.)
Chava, the eight-month-old baby, had fallen asleep in her backpack which I had gingerly slipped out of and propped between the mattress and the waterbed. I figured after I got the other two to sleep I could try removing her without waking her. I knew the chances were slim, but I could hope.
Yossi and Mimi were just starting to snore when I heard a small scuffling sound. I raised my head from the pillow and in the light from the hallway saw what appeared to be a mouse, stealthily making its way toward our bedroom. My blood ran cold. I opened my mouth to scream. And then I realized: If I scream, I’ll wake the kids up. And if they wake up they’ll cry and then I’ll have to do the bedtime routine again.
I shut my mouth. The rodent got closer. Then it was touching me! It sauntered slowly across my chest. I opened my mouth again and screamed silently while fighting the urge to gag. Then it turned and went back toward the hall.
I eased myself out from my wedged-in position, all the while thinking, ‘Don’t wake the kids, don’t wake the kids,’ and followed him as he scurried into Yossi’s room. Prince’s cage was empty but the door was closed.
In the morning Prince was running in his treadmill, looking innocent and very satisfied with himself. We should have named him Houdini. Jean Leadloff would have been proud of us; even our rodents believed in the family bed.