The mice have become a really big effing problem. Like, really big. I thought it was a big problem a month ago. It's gotten bigger.
I was planning to blog today about how I'm 20 weeks along, and roughly halfway through this bitch of a pregnancy. I was going to post a picture of my "popped" tummy.
But I can't. My heart isn't in it. Partly because I'm feeling cranky about this pregnancy anyway, and I just don't want to whine about something so miraculous as life. Insert more cliches here. This baby is kicking my butt, and the mice.
I have tried traditional traps. I have tried new-fangled traps. I have laced my basement and garage with uneaten poison. I have tried this bait and that bait. I have moved furniture from walls to clean and clean some more. I don't think we've killed one single effing mouse.
I need to move the poison. Clearly, I don't have it in the right places.
I need to move the traps. Clearly, they are not in the right places either.
I need to get rid of the mother effing sofa bed in the basement that is serving as the Ritz-Carlton of mouse hotels.
Which means I need to remove the boxes and boxes and boxes of outgrown baby items off the couch. And probably burn them because of all the mouse disgustingness they are probably covered in.
I need to clean, organize, purge, vacuum, cry and cry some more.
I need to fill the hole in my bedroom (upstairs) wall with steel wool so the bastards can't keep getting in at night to eat... whatever it is they are eating.
I need to sleep on the couch (not the basement one) again tonight, so I can fall asleep without the sound of gnawing and squeaking and scratching keeping me awake.
I need to stop envisioning arson as they way to solve my problems. Burning down my house won't really make my life easier.
I need to stop dreaming about the seven-headed Mouse King, that simply must be the head-honcho of the fleet of rodents invading my house. It's hard to sleep when visions of mutant rodents seep into my brain (and an unborn child kicks and bumps and leaves me unable to breath).
The mice are killing me. Every nibble I hear, I die a little more. Does this sound overly dramatic? Sorry. You're not living this infestation hell. I don't know what to do. All I can do is cry... and clean a little more.