This apartment ain't big enough for the three of us...
I saw Jenny McCarthy interviewed on Oprah the other day (got hooked during my brain surgery recovery and I still DVR the show). Mrs. Jim Carey was promoting her new book, "Mother Warriors." Her observation is that women have the ability to become superhuman warriors when their children require it.
Jenny highlighted the story of a woman who had suffered the loss of both arms and legs following a horrific encounter with a form of flesh eating disease. The illness was contracted during her pregnancy and required this gravely ill momma to remain hospitalized following the birth of her child. When initially faced with the news that her limbs might require amputation, she replied, "Cut them off. Let's go. I need to get home to my baby." This woman astonished her doctors with her grit and determination to recover beyond what any of them could have imagined. Today she is raising her daughter in an extraordinarily normal fashion, despite her situation. Mother warrior.
Don't get me wrong, I was impressed with this woman's story. But I felt like calling into the Oprah Show to tell my own warrior story. Flesh eating disease sounds like a walk in the park compared to what I faced last Sunday.
Terry is on a shoot in Vancouver for two and half weeks. So I am flying solo until he returns. Last weekend, I packed up the munchkin and we headed to Grandma's. We stayed on Long Island pretty late Sunday night hoping to avoid traffic (Sunday was the last game ever played at Yankee Stadium. Good times on the Cross Bronx Expressway).
We finally pulled up to the front lobby of my building at about 9:30. I had a lot of bags - including Brendan's laundry basket - and the doorman watched them for me while Brendan and I returned the car to the garage. It was about 10:00 by the time I finished all the shuttling of stuff, and a sleeping Brendan and I were finally in the apartment and almost ready for bed. I let him stay snoozing in his carseat while I brought his laundry basket upstairs, got out his pj's, etc.
Just before getting Brendy out of his little resting spot, I went in his room to open his window. I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw. My blood froze right on the spot. Somewhere in all the shuttling, a cockroach the size of my foot had crept into Brendy's laundry basket and it was now strolling across the carpet like he owned the place. This was not a normal cockroach. This was the rogue kind that rambles through the streets of New York at night, kicking over garbage cans. This was the kind that scuttles from deep within concrete bowels when construction unsettles their lair (our building has construction going on right near our lobby). This was the kind that some New Yorkers insist is not a cockroach, but is a "waterbug". I think this is crap. I think this is what people say to convince themselves that cockroaches can't get that big.
A quick calculation of the flight time from Vancouver left me with the realization that I was going to have to deal with this on my own. There was no way I could let this thing get away or we would have to pack up the car and go right back to Grandma's. From there I would call our realtor and send Terry our new address so he'd know where to go from the airport.
Mother warrior kicked into gear.
It took me at least half an hour, and several failed attempts, but I finally caught that damn thing under a wastepaper basket. After the first miss, this kitten-sized creature ran behind the couch. I could hear it back there. After the second miss, it flew under Brendan's crib, and that's when I got angry. There was no way I was going to let this thing roam around my sweet baby's room. No sir. By then, I was standing on a chair in the middle of the carpet, shedding tears of rage. I lay in wait until the monster whizzed under my chair. With a tribal yell I threw the basket down and trapped that f*%$er. For good measure, I grabbed a heavy book and put in on top of the basket. It remained there until the next day when my burly super took care of it with a broom.
After the capture, I immediately called Terry. He was out having an expense account dinner in some fancy restaurant and didn't pick up his phone. I left him a message. The kind of message that indicated payback would be required.
The next morning I sent Terry an update: "When I awoke, the basket and book had been tossed aside. Our kitchen cupboards were bare as was the liquor cabinet. The roach was sitting on the couch watching Good Morning America wearing my bathrobe. Get your ass home."
