In our home, the phrase “Not my department” has become a frequent refrain, reflecting an all-too-common approach to shirking responsibilities. As our household has transformed into a well-defined operation with various roles, I often found myself dismissing requests for help, shifting those duties to my spouse or children.
“Mom, will you play a video game with me?”
“Sorry, that’s not my department.”
“Dad, can you assist me in finding matching socks?”
“That chaotic drawer isn’t my department—ask your mother.”
Recently, a significant change disrupted our previously efficient system: my partner took a job overseas for a year. Consequently, I am now in charge of all operations, and I have never felt more acutely the necessity for clearly delineated tasks to maintain order. Rather than delegating responsibilities that fall outside my expertise, I have had to take them on myself, with the faint hope of future compensation.
- Shoveling snow? Not my department… until now.
- Burying family pets? Certainly not my department, but that’s a task that can’t be postponed.
- Managing frozen pipes? That’s a new area of responsibility that I now oversee.
- Catching rodents? Looks like I’ve just been promoted.
My newfound pest control skills were put to the test last week when my son exclaimed, “I think I just saw something crawl under that door.” Suppressing my instinct to panic, I maintained a calm demeanor. After all, this was now my responsibility.
We suspected it was a mouse, despite my son insisting he hadn’t seen a tail. Ironically, we had recently owned two large rats, which you’d think would foster some sympathy for a small intruder seeking warmth. However, the mood was anything but sympathetic. “Kill it! Kill it!” my son yelled, climbing onto the kitchen table to avoid the creature lurking in our utility closet.
I quickly herded everyone into the car and drove to Home Depot—definitely outside my usual realm—to gather supplies: a pack of Tomcat-branded “snap traps,” advertised as “effective, reusable, and easy to set.” Unfortunately, none of these claims proved accurate. I learned that a dab of poorly placed peanut butter can nullify a mouse trap’s effectiveness, a lesson I filed away for future reference, perhaps to share with whoever eventually takes over this role. After several days, two traps, and no sign of the mouse, I began to wonder if our guest had found more hospitable lodgings elsewhere.
Then, during a visit from my mother, her partner, and my sister, the mouse reappeared. Hearing a rustling from beneath the kitchen sink, I opened the cabinet to find rodent droppings scattered across our fine china. As I contemplated the need to dispose of everything in the cabinet, I noticed a box of coffee K-cups shaking, indicating the presence of the rodent within.
Had I been home alone, I would have had to figure out how to extract the mouse-in-the-box using a rather elaborate method involving rubber gloves and shopping bags. But with family present, I realized I had another option: outsourcing. My sister discreetly disposed of the box in the backyard, and I believed we had resolved the issue—until she informed me the next day that she had seen “something slip under the closet door.” “No tail,” she added. Was it the same mouse or a new one?
Reluctantly, we returned to Home Depot for more supplies, fearing that multiple trips might tarnish my reputation. Along with additional traps, I also purchased humane options to appease my mother’s vegetarian partner. When we returned home, we were met with a scene that was more comical than concerning: my mother’s partner and my older son were yelling at the bookcase, where the mouse had taken refuge.
“Quick, get one of the traps out!” they shouted. The project had transformed into a collaborative effort involving my family, allowing me to step back and take a breather. I baited the trap and handed it over, relieved to not bear the burden alone.
As it turned out, our mouse was actually a mole, despite the countless online sources insisting that moles don’t venture above ground. We chose to drive several miles away from our home to release it into the snow, hoping it wouldn’t return. Unfortunately, without additional family members around, I would have to assume sole responsibility for pest control if any more rodents or small creatures decided to invade. But just for the time being—because it’s definitely not my department.
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In summary, my experience managing all household responsibilities has shed light on the importance of delegation and teamwork. While I may have temporarily taken on the role of pest control specialist, I have learned that it’s okay to share the load, especially when it comes to unexpected challenges.