the mouse, the toe, and the staircase

So our cat Zeke likes to catch mice, have his way with them, and then leave the remains somewhere in the house, usually in a high-traffic corridor. Sometimes it's a bird, but usually it's a mouse. Then several weeks ago he brought in a live mouse, which I trapped in a hatbox and released in the back yard, after strongly scolding Zeke against this behavior. (Actually, I chased Zeke with a broom and said scram, you to Rachel's enduring amusement.)

Then several nights later Zeke brought in another live mouse, only this one proved wilier than his cousin, and before I could get him trapped in a hatbox he made his way behind the fridge. My efforts to remove him from my fridge were, alas, unsuccessful. I trusted that the mouse would make his way outside on his own, or meet up with the cats while trying. And after that I just moved on.

That is, I moved on until there was a very fishy smell in our kitchen for a day or so running. I assumed it was due to the fish that had just been cooked there, but Rachel said she'd know the smell of dead mouse anywhere. This was around 10:30pm on Monday night, when we were due at the hospital the next morning. I got my tools out and began the grim task of disassembling the back of my fridge in search of a mouse corpse. The guts of the back of my fridge are not really pretty in the best of circumstances, mind you. After about 20 minutes of fridge-dissection, as I was looking for new angles with which to shine my flashlight, Rachel suddenly remembered that this wasn't the smell of mouse corpse, it was the smell of mouse urine. Which is about the time that the beam of my flashlight hit four boney little claws hunched on my kitchen floor under my fridge.

I don't really want to get into the details of the ensuing melee. Suffice it to say that more appliances were dissected, cupboards were unloaded, and higher-grade flashlights were enlisted to the cause. And suffice it to say that the mouse eluded my hatbox to the last, when the need to get up early in the morning to attend the birth of my twin daughters overrode my desire to have my kitchen rodent-free. We all make our choices.

But at some point during the cupboard-unloading, a large pan was dropped on the three center toes of my left foot. It was a good, sharp blow, although it didn't really hurt much at the time or afterward. It was a blow that seemed like it should do some damage, but didn't, in other words. At least it didn't seem like it had done much damage until sometime in the morning on Wednesday, when my second toe started hurting when I walked. I was up to my ears in babies and recovering wives and sleep-impeding hospital bustle to pay too much attention, but by 1pm when I went home to take a nap, I was limping pretty badly. When I woke up I forgot about it until I stepped out of bed, at which point I fell to the floor in a heap.

So I did another shift at the hospital from 4pm Wednesday to 1pm Thursday, when we were discharged, and I was progressively gimpier as time went on. When I took the suitcase out to the car I was a sad, hobbling site. When we got home from the hospital, I taped the big toe to the second toe, and this made it a bit easier to walk, but I was, and am, still limping pretty badly. I've basically been exploring alternative walking methodologies, giving my heel and the outer rim of my left foot way more action than they're used to seeing. I'm seriously considering a cane. The fact is that when I put any real pressure on that bum toe, I feel an explosion of white hot pain in my foot that forces me, without any real choice is seems, to remove any and all pressure immediately, even if that means flopping to the ground. Teaches you to step carefully.

So tonight things are good here at the Long homestead. Parker is happy to have his mom and dad here, and we're very proud and pleased to be here with him. The girls are sleeping mostly, and eating some, and basically being adorable every second of the day. And did I mention beautiful? Yes, indeed. So we watch Survivor, and eat cereal for dinner, and feed and change and swaddle the girls on the living room couch. The very picture of domestic bliss, and a real respite after the stress of the hospital. And then it's time for the girls to go to bed, and time for Rachel to do the same.

So I take both of the girls in my arms to carry them up the stairs, and this is the first time I've held them both at once, and it's an odd feeling, but it also feels pretty natural, which I find comforting as I limp my way up to the bedroom. And it's just as I'm reaching the top, with my gimpy foot still on the top step and my good foot on the landing, that I lose my balance. It's brief, and subtle, but I'm definitely in the midst of falling sideways and backwards down the stairs, with two sleeping two-day olds in my arms. And without really much in the way of conscious decision, I dig in with my bad foot and shove myself forward, the explosion of pain a badge of fatherhood I wear for an excruciating two or three seconds, with about as much pride as chagrin.

And here's the happy result of my rambling little tale: