As I lounged on the brown couch, savoring my daily (okay, twice daily) mint chocolate chip Popsicle, my mind wandered to the imminent arrival of my baby. At eight months pregnant, I was mentally preparing myself for the life-altering and miraculous event that billions of women had experienced before me. Anticipating a dramatic yet serene birth, I reassured myself that the pain would be bearable since I had planned on having an epidural. Humans had invented this wonder drug to ease the pain of childbirth, and I was fully on board. Feeling partially prepared and somewhat ready for anything, my thoughts were interrupted by a scratching sound. Not wanting to exert myself unless there was an emergency or I needed another Popsicle, I decided to wait and see. Perhaps it was just a tree branch scraping against the house or a harmless lizard.
To my dismay, the scratching sound persisted. As a pregnant woman, I was constantly tired yet hyper-aware, with every nerve ending on high alert to detect any real or imagined threat to my child. The scratching became more aggressive with each repetition. I rolled off the couch, reaching for my phone.
Without wasting any time saying hello to my husband, Jerett, I blurted out, “We have rats!”
“How do you know? Did you see one?” Jerett replied.
“I heard it. In the walls,” I explained.
“Maybe it’s just a mouse?” he suggested.
“Way too loud for a mouse,” I retorted.
“I’ll take care of it tonight. I’ll get some traps,” Jerett reassured me.
Jerett always had a knack for fixing things. Whether it was a fallen tree limb on the roof or a burst pipe, he had the skills to handle any situation. This quality was incredibly attractive, but it could also be frustrating at times. Despite my belief that professional help was necessary for these serious scratches, I decided to give him a chance to play hero.
During my pregnancy, I had read books about babies, such as “Eat, Sleep, Poop” and “12 Hours Sleep by 12 Weeks Old.” However, none of these books addressed the issue of rodent infestations. For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t help but shiver each time I heard a scratch. Our small 800-square-foot bungalow on a hill in northeast Los Angeles made it impossible to escape the sound. Built in 1920, the bungalow had a crawl space instead of a basement, inviting all sorts of critters to freely enter. Spiders and silverfish came and went as if they were performing in a high school marching band. Exterminators had little chance of keeping them away.
That night, we set a few traps in the crawl space. While the scratching sounds were scary, the sound of a rat trap snapping shut at three in the morning was downright terrifying. Thankfully, being pregnant exempted me from the unpleasant task of checking the traps and disposing of the rats.
The next morning, Jerett put on his work gloves, armed himself with a shovel and plastic bag, and disposed of a rat the size of a large squirrel.
A few nights later, the scratching resumed. To our horror, we woke up to find our bedroom floor covered in rat droppings. Miraculously, they hadn’t invaded our bed. Yet another perk of pregnancy was that I could leave the house while Jerett took care of the clean-up.
For the second battle against the rats, we invested in a fancy “smart kill” Wi-Fi-enabled rat trap marketed as humane. I prided myself on staying composed, even in the face of rats. I was determined to be a calm and collected mother.
During this time, I received another surprise—an induction. This meant that I wouldn’t have a cute Hollywood birth story where my water broke at a restaurant and we rushed to the hospital, only to have my baby in my arms a few hours later. My doctor was concerned about the baby’s weight, so she recommended inducing labor. Given my “geriatric pregnancy” supported by IVF, I followed my doctor’s advice without question.
A few days before the scheduled induction date, my doctor called with unfortunate news. “I have some bad news,” she said. “I broke my arm while mountain biking over the weekend. I won’t be able to deliver your baby.” Just great. At least the rats were gone. Or so I hoped.
The day of the induction arrived. My cervix was prepared with a balloon, and I was given Pitocin, a synthetic hormone, to stimulate contractions. Unfortunately, there was nothing cute or film-worthy about my experience. I had only been in labor for two hours when my sister, Amy, called. She was staying at our house with my niece.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this,” Amy began. “We saw three rats run across the floor. We’re perched on the coffee table for safety.”
I assured them that we would pay for a hotel and then went back to writhing in pain. Women had given birth under much more challenging circumstances throughout history. I had to believe I could handle this.
Finally, after over 30 hours of labor, our beautiful and healthy six-pound son was born. Two days later, we brought him home, where we were greeted by my in-laws, parents, and pregnant sister. Although I knew the rats were still lurking, Jerett assured me that he had set more traps and that we had hired an exterminator to save us.
That night, my father-in-law opened a kitchen cabinet, only to have a baby rat leap out, bounce off his bald head, and scuttle away. I had a meltdown. Clearly, being a chill mom was not my forte.
We eventually triumphed over the rats thanks to the exterminator’s help and decided to move out of the bungalow. However, unexpected challenges continue to creep into our lives, like snakes in the yard or bloody noses at peewee basketball games. If I ever hear another scratch in the walls, I may not remain calm, but I will be somewhat prepared for whatever comes my way.
In conclusion, as I reflect on my rollercoaster experience of pregnancy, childbirth, and rat infestations, I’ve learned that life seldom goes as planned. However, with determination and a sense of humor, we can overcome any obstacle that comes our way.
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