How-ever, he was the most well-behaved person in the room recently as his daddy marched around with a baseball bat and his mama walked on the furniture.
The baby stayed with my family two Saturdays ago while Zac and I shopped for Wyatt’s birthday presents and visited the Tim Hollis museum of all things childlike and wonderful in Dora.
It was late in the afternoon by the time we crossed the Cordova city limits again. We decided to let Wyatt stay with my mother a little longer while we watched a movie called “Hurricane Season,” an omen if ever there was one.
We had barely gotten into it when the tornado sirens went off.
For the next two hours, we went back and forth between watching the movie, checking in with James Spann and trying to coordinate the best time to pick up our son.
The movie ended before the twisters did. Finally, my mother called to say that she and my dad were bringing Wyatt home while there seemed to be a break in the storms.
We were waiting for our son to arrive when Zac suddenly jumped up and announced that there was a mouse in the corner of the living room.
I was still frozen when my protector came back carrying a baseball bat and an empty Huggies box.
Before we could discuss the pitfalls of this plan, hail started falling so hard that it sounded like someone was emptying a gigantic ice tray on top of our house.
Almost immediately, my parents pulled into the driveway. My mother threw a blanket on top of Wyatt and ran with him into the carport. His eyes were as wide as saucers.
Then thunder shook the ground beneath us. Zac ordered me to take the baby into our closet, which is a makeshift shelter during bad weather.
I kept Wyatt as calm as I could while Zac focused on the mouse, which had scurried underneath the couch.
When Wyatt and I emerged from the bedroom, our hero was trying to impale Mickey with a wire hanger.
A few minutes later, Zac asked me to use the hanger to push the mouse into an open area so he could smash him with the bat.
I reluctantly put the baby in his playpen and crawled into the floor. To my delight and horror, I didn’t see a mouse under the couch.
Zac searched the area and discovered the rodent hiding under the loveseat, the piece of furniture I happened to be standing on at the time.
While Operation Kill Mickey continued, I kept one eye on my husband and the other on my son from my lookout atop the loveseat. Every time I glanced into the playpen, I was a little afraid that I would see Wyatt petting something that only looked like a stuffed animal.
When Zac lost sight of Mickey for the second time, I had had it. I snatched up Wyatt and gave Zac a “fix-this-now-or-else” glare.
He walked around with flashlight in hand for a few minutes. Then he asked me this stupid but quite sincere question — “You didn’t see anything run through here, did you?”
The mouse didn’t die that night, but Zac nearly did.
I was barely speaking to him when we went to bed. If Mickey had joined us at any point while we slept, Zac would have been a bachelor by morning.
We have had unwelcome furry house guests before. Zac killed our first one not long after we moved in.
He was home alone and watching TV one day when a mouse came scampering through the living room. Mickey the First died of injuries sustained when a heavy drinking glass came crashing down on his head.
We have been putting out poison but have converted to glue traps now that Wyatt is getting into everything.
I hope they get the job done. If not, I may have to put a few theme park attractions in the front yard and change our official address to “The Cohrons’ Magic Kingdom.”