Black rat

A black rat crossed my path on the subway stairs yesterday.

It was of substantial size and menacing demeanor, but what freaked me out the most, apart from the fact that I nearly trod on it, was the fact that it reminded me of a mouse.

Strange thing to say I suppose -- of course rats resemble mice. But rats I can deal with. Naturally, I would experience fear and alarm if I found one in my kitchen. But I would be able to think clearly and form a plan. Mice, on the other hand, drive dark and clammy fear into the depths of my soul. I cannot think, I cannot function, I cannot breathe.

After my close encounter with the rat, all I have been able to think about is the mouse we had in the bedroom a few years back.

It made its first appearance in the dead of night. I was awoken by Mr Berman, stumbling around with the light on.

"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing. It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
"It's not nothing. What is it?"
"It's a... cockroach-type thing."
"What kind of cockroach-type thing."
"Erm...one with a tail."
"It's a MOUSE?"

For the next 5 minutes, I stood on the bed screaming until Mr Berman manhandled me into the guest room and told me in no uncertain terms to keep the hysterics to a minimum while he dealt with it.

I did not sleep a wink.

The next morning, I was forced to ask our babysitter to help me retrieve clean knickers from the bedroom. Just as I was reaching into the drawer, I saw a dark shape run behind the dresser. I literally leapt onto the light fixture. When our babysitter eventually managed to get me down, my hair was standing on end, I had goosebumps on every inch of my body, and was sweating like a woman possessed.

I didn't sleep a wink that night either. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.

Because we could not find the mouse. Until I could discover evidence of its demise, or its continued existence, I was a tormented soul. I spent all day at work researching humane traps, peanut butter bait, and peppermint oil deterrents. When I arrived home, I would feverishly search for droppings, then throw the boys in the car and drive around the block until Mr Berman got home from work.

Eventually we found it, by smell. It had crawled into Mr Berman's gym bag, and expired in his sneaker.

We were recently recounting this episode when Mr Berman surprised me -- nay, horrified me -- with a confession. He had hidden the full story, knowing it would send me straight into an asylum.

He had been half-woken up by the cat jumping on the bed, and something crawling into the palm of his hand. He squeezed his hand together, and realized the "something" felt unpleasantly greasy. At this point, he sat bolt upright, flicked on the light, and saw a mouse, in his palm, apparently squeezed to death.

At this point, Mr Berman panicked. In his defense, he is not at his best when roused from a deep slumber. And he was more than a little unnerved by his greasy palm and the contents therein.

So while he considered what to do about the situation, he put the mouse down -- ON THE BED -- and went to wash his hands. When he returned, the mouse had come to its senses and was staggering across the bed in my direction. It was mere inches from my face, but it saw Mr Berman and fortuitously performed an unexpectedly athletic leap onto the floor.

This is the point at which I woke up.

What if I had woken 5 seconds earlier? What if the mouse had chosen my hand to crawl into? Or my nostril, god forbid. I swear the shock would have killed me.
So you can see why I was distressed by the rat.

I have started to obsess again over its smaller cousin. Am I going to lose all ability to function until every rodent is expunged from New York City? This could mean a long stay in Bellevue.

The climb

Why, oh why, did I think it a good idea to climb 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center yesterday? Yes, it was to raise money for MS, a very worthy cause. But I did this last year, and remembered the ghastly experience in agonizing detail, so I should have known to bow out gracefully this time.

But, as is often the case, the train had left the station. I had strong-armed colleagues, appointed a team captain, and told everyone and their mother I was doing it, so do it I must.

I set my alarm for 5:45 am. Turned it off. Woke up in a panic at 6:17 am. Thought for a minute about not showing up. I could stay home and snuggle with my kids. Or at least argue with them about what's for breakfast. Decided it wasn't honorable to bail. Drove like a maniac. Met my bleary-eyed colleagues at 7:10 am -- way earlier than should be legal.

The group was in higher spirits than they had any right to be. Bets were laid. Jokes were made. And lots of photos were taken. For god's sake -- had they no mercy? I am way past the age where I can face a camera before noon, and certainly never without lipstick. I hadn't even had a cup of tea to brace me.

The siren (unnecessarily loud) went off at 7:30 am and up we climbed. And you know what? We all made it. And we enjoyed it. (Actually, make that "enjoyed" it. I enjoy a good sleep, a good wine, a good laugh. A good climb? It's just not the same kind of "enjoy".)

The athletes in the group ripped up the stairs with startling ease. The chap who hadn't worked out since college (lifts drinks I gather, but that's about it) made it up alive. I climbed and swore, climbed and swore, emerging into the sunlight after 20 minutes with a limp fist pump.

All fine achievements. But they pale in comparison with the achievements of people we passed along the way. The lady with MS climbing one slow step at a time on her walking frame. Very young kids climbing to support parents affected by the disease. Firefighters climbing with all of their gear -- yes, all of it.

It was humbling to be in their company. And I was so, so proud of my colleagues for getting out of bed to join them.

You know, something just occurred to me. They have 2 water stops on the way up. Next year, I will ask them to serve mimosas. Climb and sip, climb and sip. It will be so much more civilized.

Lowering my standards

I love to cook.

The first birthday cake I made for my eldest son was an overachiever's delight. My husband and I labored late into the night, lovingly crafting Spongebob out of homemade madeira (don't skimp on the butter), and fondant icing. So lifelike, it felt wrong to cut him, especially when he bled strawberry jam and a couple of the smaller guests almost passed out.

Over the years, I've made Bob the Builder, Thomas the Tank Engine, various Teletubbies, a soccer field, and the entire cast of Star Wars. And while I loved the result, getting there was always stressful. Particularly because in addition to making a cake for a party at home, I would also deliver 24 beautifully-crafted, home-made cupcakes to school for the class celebration.

My work partner Dave pointed out, every year, that I should just buy the cupcakes.

"I can't. I just can't."
"But you'll be cooking 'til midnight."
"They have to have homemade cakes."
"Why?"
"I always did."

I was desperately hanging on to my childhood notions of "what makes a good mum". My mum was an amazing cook, who created meringue swans afloat on seas of blue jelly (jello, I believe, is the U.S. translation). She scooped out orange halves to make dessert-filled baskets and boats. Her crowning glory was a field of mushrooms, made of green jelly and meringue, with lightly sprinkled chocolate flakes lying in a wispy circle under each fungi, representing the spores that fall through the night. Spores. She remembered the spores.

It's quite clear I get my kitchen overachiever gene from my mum.

You might say times have changed. But my mum worked too. Although, by her own admission, not like I do. And, most critically, my mum is able to get by on 4 hours sleep a night. I most certainly am not.

It came to a head when my son's birthday fell during a particularly busy spell at work. Whisking butter and sugar together at 1:00 am would have sent me over the edge. Something had to give.

I went to the fanciest cupcake shop I could find, and dropped $60 on 2 dozen sunflower-bedecked concoctions. My son's class loved them. Scoffed them down in 5 seconds flat.

The world did not end.

So after years of turning out butterfly cupcakes (the key word is butter, NEVER margarine), I made my peace with the fact that I am not my mum. And I am not a bad mother if I buy cupcakes. I am a sane one. A mother for the 21st century.

I called to confess to my mum that I had bought cupcakes.

"Well, that makes sense," she said.
"I feel like a bad mother. You always made everything."
"You've got more on your plate. I don't know how you do it."

The guilt melted away. I have since lowered my standards even further, and these days buy not only the cupcakes, but the big party cake too. Let's face it, when you're feeding kids something sugary, it barely touches the sides. Why waste the effort?

I also gave up on the fancy cupcake shop. This year, I bought the biggest cake I've ever seen. At Costco. I didn't handwhisk butter into it. But I paid my $17.95 in a really, really loving way.