She Got There Before I Did
My name is Jenna. I’m 36. I live in Oregon with my husband, our two girls, and a cat who sleeps through everything.
We got mice last October. Droppings in the pantry. Scratching behind the walls at night. The usual fall invasion.
My husband set snap traps along the kitchen baseboards before bed. We’d been doing it for a couple of weeks. The system was simple: set the traps at night, clean them up before the kids wake up.
It worked. Until it didn’t.
Lily is six. She’s an early riser. Most mornings she’s up before us, padding into the kitchen to grab a yogurt from the fridge.
That Saturday, she got there first.
“Did It Hurt?”
I carried her out of the kitchen. I cleaned up the trap while she asked questions from the hallway.
“Did it hurt?”
“Why did we put that there?”
“Is it going to be okay?”
I answered as gently as I could. But the image was already burned in. My daughter — barefoot, in pajamas — standing six inches from a dead animal I put on the floor.
Not the mouse. Not the trap. Not the blood.
Her face.
The confusion. The horror. The realization that her mom and dad set something on the kitchen floor that killed a living thing — in the room where she eats breakfast.
That night I took every trap out of the house.
I couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t get up first again. I couldn’t guarantee the next trap would be cleaner. What if it caught the mouse by a leg instead of the neck? What if she found a live mouse on a glue board?
I was done with anything that leaves a scene my daughter could walk into.