Last night when the stockings were hung (and filled) by the chimney with care, and the boys were nestled with sugarplums dancing in their little sweaty heads, I settled down for my long (not really) winter's nap. And yet, all was not right. A creature was stirring.
This morning we naively brushed crumbs off our big dining room table, added a couple place mats and served a Christmas breakfast with Nana, Papa and VB. In the middle of the table was a tray with the boy's gingerbread house.
But something was wrong. A big chunk of the corner had been nibbled. And part of a tree on the opposite side. I accused the boys, (although this isn't really their style.) No one fessed up.
Mice? No way! Couldn't be. Someone must have eaten a chunk. But when it was suggested that we throw out the remnants of the gingerbread, still no one fessed up.
Yes, mice. No, we've never seen any sign of critters before. Cereal is kept on the floor of the pantry. Fruit is on the counter. A compost bowl is by the sink. Crumbs abound. Never have we seen a package nibbled. Nothing has ever been amiss like this.
And yet, mice. What else? Santa had his chips, salsa and beer (yes, they did, really), the reindeer had a fat carrot, I was eating Christmas cookies from a tin, CD was enjoying Santa's beer (Santa had to drive) and no one else was around.
Gives me the creeps. But there is a mousetrap as centerpiece tonight, baited with... gingerbread house. I'm not sure what I want to find in the morning. I might sleep in.