Monsters Under the Bed

Last night, as I stood on a chair frantically crying into my phone, I could only think of two things. Number one, the horror of a mouse crawling over my sleeping body, and number two, I am no where near ready to be an adult. Here’s the story:

I am going to be 18 years old in 17 days, but I am not prepared to grow up and handle my own problems. For example, I still beg my mom to make my appointments, schedule all my meetings, and make soup when I’m sick. Adults are supposed to be able to make their own soup and call the dentist.

And yet, when I was home alone and witnessed a small brown mouse dash across my bedroom floor and under my bed, my immediate instinct was to jump on a chair and call my mother.

It was getting late, and I was being overdramatic (shocking I know). I told her I couldn’t possibly sleep in a room teeming with mice, and that surely they would infest my bed. She wasn’t home at the time, and I hadn’t a clue what to do about the situation other than cry.


Now a reasonable, mature, almost 18 year-old would have just sucked it up and gone to bed, ignoring the impending thought of rodents squirming around. But I am not reasonable by any means, and my loving mother came home to handle the problem.

After insisting that there were no mice beneath my bed, table, or in the closet, she said goodnight and kissed me. I realized that next year I would be alone, with my roommate of course, and that my mom wouldn’t be there to get rid of the monsters under my bed.

Listen, growing up sucks. Having to be mature and reasonable sucks. Handling dirty little vermin sucks. Thinking about dealing with all of the above on my own sucks.

But I now understand that at the end of the day, my rescue is only a phone call away. (And also that you’re never too old to check under the bed for monsters, because they come in all shapes and sizes.)


Maddie Rheinheimer

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