My husband believes there is a raccoon living in our attic. With this in mind, he went upstairs with a ladder and baby-gated the rest of us downstairs. I grumbled about being stuck with both kids at this particularly hyperactive moment in the day (from about 3pm on it becomes chaos in our house, especially on days like today when we haven’t gotten out much) and he said, “Do you want to go in the attic? You can go in the attic.” With that self-sacrificial tone of voice, you know, that says quit whining and I’m the one doing the dirty work.
I said, “Yes! I’ll go in the attic!” To which he replied, “No, no, no, no, no,” and escaped as fast as he could, given he was carrying a giant ladder.
Now, maybe I’ve seen too many comedies. Maybe my respect for/fear of local wildlife is a little lacking. I don’t want to get rabies or touch raccoon poop or have a twenty-pound rat launch itself at my face. I’m not Will Ferrell, I’m not Chevy Chase. Such mayhem would not cue a laugh track, I know. But still, the idea of crawling around the attic with a flashlight, looking for a raccoon and its pile of treasures (when I think about raccoons, which is probably more than is normal, I always envision them hording piles of candy wrappers and costume jewelry, going over each item with their adorable little claws) seemed a lot better than staying inside. Because, well, my kids are inside. Clearly, my husband felt the same way. Perhaps he invented the racoon as an excuse to get away for a while–a theory compounded by the fact that he found no raccoon, nor evidence of one. Continue reading “A Raccoon in the Attic, and Other Reasons to Get Away from My Kids”