While it’s typically a sign of inadequate customer service, the phrase “Not my department” surprisingly became a common response in my household. As our domestic life evolved into a well-defined operation, various roles emerged, each with its own tasks.
“Hey, Mom, can you play a video game with me?”
“Sorry, that’s not my department.”
“Dad, can you help me find matching socks?”
“That chaotic dresser drawer is not my department—ask your mother.”
Recently, our family dynamic was disrupted when my husband took a job overseas for a year, leaving me in charge of every department. Suddenly, I realized the importance of shared responsibilities to keep things running smoothly. No longer could I pass off tasks outside my expertise; I had to add them to my growing list, hoping for some sort of future compensation for my efforts.
- Shoveling snow? Not my department… until now.
- Burying family pets? Definitely not my area, but it needed to be done.
- Dealing with frozen pipes? Surprise! That’s now my responsibility.
- Catching rodents in the house? Apparently, I’ve been promoted to pest control.
The test of my new role came when my youngest son, Max, casually mentioned, “I think I just saw something crawl under that door.” I fought the urge to freak out and instead put on a brave face. After all, this situation was now my responsibility.
We concluded it was a mouse, though Max insisted it had no tail. Ironically, we had recently owned two large male rats, so one would think we’d be more sympathetic to a tiny intruder seeking warmth. But no, “Kill it! Kill it!” Max shouted, perched on the dining room table to avoid the unseen menace.
I quickly piled everyone into the car and headed to Home Depot—definitely outside my usual jurisdiction—to gather the necessary supplies: a two-pack of Tomcat “snap traps,” advertised as “effective, reusable, and easy to set.” Unfortunately, these claims fell flat.
Unbeknownst to me, a dab of poorly placed peanut butter could render a mouse trap useless. I made a mental note of that nugget for future reference, or perhaps I’d include it in a future report when I’d pass this role to someone else, hopefully soon. Days passed with two traps set and no sign of the mouse; I began to suspect it had moved on to greener pastures.
Then, during a visit from my mother, her partner, and my sister, the mouse reappeared. I heard rustling from beneath the kitchen sink and discovered small piles of droppings on our fine china. As I plotted a way to rid myself of the contaminated items, I noticed a box of coffee K-cups shaking. Something was definitely inside.
Had I been alone, I would have had to employ an elaborate strategy involving gloves and multiple bags to dispose of the mouse-in-the-box over my neighbor’s fence or even consider moving. But, with family in the house, it dawned on me: I could outsource this task.
My sister bravely took the box outside, dealing with it far more gracefully than I could have managed. I thought we’d seen the last of our little visitor, so it was infuriating when my sister reported seeing something slip under the closet door again. No tail, she noted. Could it be the same creature or a new friend?
Reluctantly, we returned to Home Depot for more supplies, each trip posing a threat to my reputation. I became quite the pest control aficionado—something I never anticipated adding to my resume. This time, I came prepared with humane traps to appease my mother’s partner, who was a staunch animal rights advocate.
Upon returning home, a comically chaotic scene unfolded. My mother’s partner and my eldest son were yelling at a bookcase. “We caught it!” my son exclaimed. I realized they had cornered the mouse behind the bookcase. Each time the mouse poked out its nose, my son barked, “Hey! Hey! Heeey!”
“Quick, get one of the traps!” I instructed. What began as my solo mission had transformed into a collaborative effort involving my family. I baited a trap, handed it over, and took a step back. While I felt a twinge of guilt for not being more involved in capturing the small creature, the relief of not having to handle it alone was immense.
In a twist of fate, what we initially thought was a mouse turned out to be a mole, despite numerous Google searches claiming moles avoid being above ground. We theorized it might be confused or experiencing an identity crisis. “Maybe it hangs out with mice,” I joked.
No longer willing to take chances, my sister and I drove the little mole far from our home before releasing it into the snow. Thankfully, we haven’t seen it or any other guests since. However, I know that without additional family visits, I’ll be left to manage pest control solo if any more furry intruders decide to invade. But that’s only temporary—because pest management is definitely not my department.
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Summary
When my husband took a job overseas, I found myself managing all household responsibilities, including pest control. After a series of humorous and chaotic incidents involving a mouse (or perhaps a mole), I learned the importance of teamwork and found relief in sharing the load with family. While I may be handling many tasks alone for now, I know that pest control is not a permanent part of my job description.