Mold, Mice and Colds—Oh, My!

When it rains, try not to get too wet. When it pours, make sure you have an umbrella. When it hails, just stay inside. You don't want to get nailed in the head by a chunk of ice that fell from the sky. It's just a bad scene all around.

Speaking of bad scenes, I have had one at my house. I think I need to put all of the past week's events down on "paper" so I am better able to see just why I ended up with a miserable cold. We got back from our trip to the South, and workers were still tearing down the walls of my house trying to get all the mold remediated. This, I was prepared to deal with. Smith was just getting over a little cold that he had in the South, and things were looking up—until he caught a second cold or virus that gave him a 104-degree fever for days.

I was up with him many nights in a row, feeding him honey to help with his cough at 11 p.m., 1 a.m., 4 a.m. and on into the morning. Poor little guy.

I dealt with that, and the missing hall bathroom, and loud machines behind plastic curtains that read "DANGER MICROBIAL HAZARD" just 10 feet from my kitchen. Then they tested the air and found the toxic mold levels were higher outside of the remediation area.  I was upset.  Like film-noir-bedlamite upset.

My poor son was sick as a dog, and apparently he had been breathing in toxic mold to help further his chest cold. I would rather eat black mold with a spoon than have my little boy breathe it for one minute, much less a few days.

I was so furious and entirely done with the house. Done as in get-me-on-the-next-train done. I called my husband and said that I wanted to go stay in a hotel for a night while the huge HEPA filter cleaned the air.

I searched for hotels in the area. I saw the options—decent hotels at decent prices—before I remembered . I found a palatable rate (I believe my family deserved a fancy hotel at this point) and booked our room. It was two days of blissful, worry-free fun.  

And then we came home to find that we had mice. Yes, mice. Apparently, our neighbor had recently torn down an old fence that was housing a bunch of mice, and the critters decided to come in to our house via the hole in the side created by the mold remediation. The horror, the horror.  

I have yet to see a mouse, but one chewed through our nice vacuum cleaner like it was Vermont cheddar. There must have been a truly delicious cheerio in that vacuum. I have gnawed through plastic to get to Thin Mints, but it was a plastic cookie sleeve, not an expensive machine. There is a difference; the mice just don't get it. Which is why I bought a bunch of traps that basically squash the mice and make them look like they are wearing neon belts that have been cinched too tight. It's the fleetest way to get rid of them, from what I read. I know, I know—PETA might cry foul, but I am sticking to my Nooski.  Mice are not cute furry friends; they are gross, germ carrying fuzzballs that wreak havoc on your home.

Now the mice are all being suffocated by neon green rings, and we are letting the mold inspection company come in and test the air again. Whilst the mold man is testing, he smells gas. Why don't I smell it? This cold.

Anyway, we had a gas leak in two places in the house, so they needed to shut off the hot water heater. At this point, I'm waiting for the roof to cave in on my head. I truly wouldn't have been surprised if the Kool-Aid mascot had burst through the kitchen wall and slapped me with a fly swatter.

"Oh yeahh!"

After a day of not showering (I refuse to shower in cold water unless I'm camping), Smith starts complaining about his stomach hurting, and he wouldn't let me put him down. After a visit to the pediatrician for the second time in five days, we found out his cold had turned into an ear infection. Again, my poor little guy. The next day (Tuesday), we find out that the toxic mold has left the house, and they can start building back the wall. The gas leak was fixed, and I took a long shower while Smith napped. There have been no signs of mice lately, so I expect I'll find one somewhere soon. Eek.

Does this mean things are back to normal?  Yes—except for the fact that I am sick as a dog and feel like my head is full of silly putty.

What should you get out of this story? I don't know. Maybe you had a bad week too, and you want someone to tell you about theirs. Maybe, like me, you laugh when you see someone getting pelted by a bunch of hail. Sure, you want to help them, but the initial sight is pretty funny.

Stay sane, Redondo Beach.