Mouser Money

I was just going about my business, taking care of the post-Shabbat detritus of floating salad leaves in the kitchen sink, along with a couple of tomato skins. I wipe the counters, load the dishwasher, wash and rinse, and put away. And then, I chance upon my normally placid cutlery drawer—the same cutlery drawer that does not usually elicit any excitement or emotion, for its normal existence as a cutlery drawer is simply that—a cutlery drawer. On this night though, I spy a few foreign 'objects', so minuscule as to almost be rendered unworthy of further investigation, except—my mind tries to process what it is seeing, as I transfer the 'evidence' into a disposable bowl. On a hunch, I enter my husband's sanctum—his home office—and with trembling hand, I shove my findings under his nose and utter the phrase that would change my existence—at least for the next few weeks– “Google this—please!”
 
Husband chances a glance at the bowl and complies. On the screen, as clear as a pot of just skimmed chicken broth, a picture is produced. And the picture confirms what my heart has known, but my mind does not want to believe: mouse droppings!
 
Husband shrugs shoulders, ready to return to his present workload. But wait—he is unaware of something—something he has not been privy to know for almost two decades—something that will soon shock him out of his seeming complacency to mouse droppings—forever!
 
“MOUSE DROPPINGS!” I scream. “MOUSE DROPPINGS!”
 
Husband sits still, looking at this woman who appears to be his wife, but now bears no resemblance to her.
 
“I'm leaving this house! I am not staying here one more minute! Mouse DROPPINGS!” I wail, erupting into a fit of hysterics. Now readers know I tend to get 'emotionally charged' at times—i.e. hysterical—but this was nothing compared to the complete meltdown I was experiencing.
 
Husband, in that infuriatingly logical manner common to all males, proclaimed, “So go.”
 
“Noooooo!” I screamed. “Mouse droppings! M-O-U-S-E droppings!”
 
Husband is really concerned now, and realizes this is not my run of the mill neurosis. He sits me down to explore this further.
 
“How come I didn't know that you had a mouse phobia all these years?” he asks. Men are just so logical!
 
“Because it never thankfully came up!”I sputtered. This was a bona fide phobia, accompanied by all the symptoms of  a full fledged panic attack. The thought of a mouse — a mouse!- in my house – was absolutely nauseating! I had never experienced anything like it — the complete and utter fear that took over, that quickly developed into a condition called — of course — mouse phobia. This was a scientifically proven phobia, resulting in all the unpleasant emotions I was experiencing,which in turn manifested itself in a host of just as unwelcome side effects, such as rapid heartbeats and nausea.
 
All of a sudden, our formerly comfortable and welcoming home became my most feared place to be. The only time I could relax was when I  was out of our house. The time I did spend at home was fraught with a never ending feeling of angst. I was afraid to walk around the house by myself, and even appointed  Mouseketeers—our children—to walk me to the different parts of the house that I needed to go to. One night, after most of the family was asleep, I realized I needed to get to the laundry area—which entailed walking past the kitchen. I picked up my cell phone and dialed our son's number. He was most probably ensconced in his room reading a book by now.
 
“Can you come get me?” I whispered into the receiver.
 
“Ma—are you serious?” came the reply.
 
“Yes,” I whispered back.”Hurry!”
 
I refused to cook. The kitchen necessitated a Pesach-like clean-up from all the droppings we found, but I wouldn't get close to it. I was afraid to be near my cutlery drawer, and was afraid I was developing a phobia to cutlery drawers as well. And then it happened.
 
It was early morning, when the remnants of sleep still rest comfortably on the eyelids, and reality has not yet set in. Dudu the bus driver would be here shortly, and the lunches needed to be made. I shuffled my way to the pantry, turning on the light. Suddenly, a flash of brown scurried right in front of me. At this juncture I must add that it is unfortunate that sound cannot be reproduced in an article, because to describe the scream that emanated forth from my vocal cords, cannot be done justice by mere description. Suffice it to say that those children who were asleep were no longer, and the ones who were awake wished they were still asleep. Never in all of our years of acquaintance with one another, and that is, all their lives, had they ever heard their mother scream in such a frightening and disturbing manner. I  cowered in the girls room refusing to come out, Dudu long forgotten, crying and hyperventilating intermittently. Needless to say, nobody went to school that day.
 
Enough was enough! I was suffering—really suffering the effects of a phobia, something I had never felt before. It was paralyzing, and it had taken over every aspect of my life. I sent Rabbi Brody an urgent e-mail, and after dispensing some practical advice, he explained that mice appear at times because one might have been negligent in giving of their maaser money, ("tithe", or loosely translates as charity set aside from ones income)—or rather 'mouser' money, as it has come to be known in our house.
 
As quick as he was able, my husband wrote a check , and we immediately gave it to a worthy individual we knew would make good use of it. Thus having taken care of the spiritual side of things, we moved on to the practical, and called  in the exterminator.
 
After laying down a couple of traps and some poison, he wished us good luck. Despite my constant anxiety because of our unwanted intruder, feelings of guilt plagued me whenever I thought about the mouse and his soon impending and unfortunate end.
 
I tried to get back to some semblance of self, but this phobia held me securely in its grip. I still wouldn't move about the house without being chaperoned. I tried to 'emuna-talk' myself out of it, tried to infuse some logic to get rid of the fear. I thanked HaShem for the mouse, but still–the anxiety and panic prevailed.
 
The traps remained empty. The mouse was never caught. The kitchen was eventually bleached and boiled due to sheer necessity, and the kids had a sudden aversion to an overdose of pizza and falafel. Slowly, the knots in my shoulders began to ease, as I fantasized that the mouse had gone back the way it came. We blocked all the holes in our cabinets with  Brillo type sponges upon our neighbor's wise counsel, since mice can't eat through them. I felt better each day, even though as one sensitive soul said to me, “It would have been nice if you'd had a body for evidence.” Yeah, thanks.
 
A few weeks later, I was on the balcony, watching the boys catch Dudu's bus by the park since they missed it by our house (yes, catching the bus is a competitive sport in our family). Suddenly, from inside, I heard my older son scream for my husband, “Tatty! Mouse!”
 
I stood on the balcony completely immobilized, a small whimper all I could muster. I waited for my husband to get to the scene and assess. The mouse had disappeared.
 
“Check!” was all I could say. “Write another check!”
 
Who needs fancy fliers from tzeddakah organizations? Just send in a mouse emblazoned with the logo of the particular charity–job done!
 
This time, I was determined to best my phobia. I refused to allow it to control me like the first time around. Yes, I still closed my eyes when I walked past the kitchen, and I still sent the kids ahead to scout out certain areas of the house. But I realized that the mice were just the messengers. They were simply tools in Hashem's hand to make me get closer to Him through prayer and charity.
 
I also learned never to judge anyone who was suffering from what I might perceive as a 'trivial' anxiety. So many people laughed when I told them how scared I was—but unless one has suffered  similar symptoms resulting from a phobia, it may be difficult to understand.
 
One night, in the course of conversation, my husband marveled at my ability to cope with living in Florida most of my life, with the over abundant displays of Mickey Mouse imagery everywhere. I thought about it, and came to the conclusion that I was able to make the distinction between a non-threatening cartoon character, and a real mouse in my kitchen. Even if my phobia reached totally illogical levels of fear at times, phobias are not meant to  make sense—they are simply another opportunity to cry out to our Father Who patiently waits every day for our prayers—even those inspired by the rodent variety.
 
So—we try to stay on top of our 'mouser' money as best we can. The children have come to understand that while living in this house, they will never own a hamster, mouse, or any other cousin of the aforementioned animal. My husband has gained a new perspective on the inner workings of  a phobia, and its ill effects on homemade suppers. And I—well, I have been humbled by a small, seemingly pest of a creature, whose small size bellied the big lesson it delivered by its very existence in my home. This small, furry denizen managed to remind us about the importance of not being remiss with our 'mouser money', and how one of Hashem's smallest creations can effect such big change, with such little effort.