As the mother, I’m the Gladys Kravitz of the household. Everyone’s business is my business, whether they realize it or not. Grades, friends, plans, schemes, food, phone usage, very little goes unnoticed. Or, at least, that used to be the case.

Now it’s as if Gladys got a job.

Her investigative nature is still there but she’s tired. She has deadlines. She has emails. She has a family. She has approximately 50 things she should be doing at any given moment.

So sometimes I have to let things go unnoticed. Unanswered. Uninvestigated. What little bandwidth I have is carefully spent.

That’s how I ended up with a new rug and a ripped couch.

We had just arrived home from a nice, relaxing dinner, complete with a beer from Slackwater, when everyone walked toward the front door. My husband left the door open while I stayed behind in the car to enjoy the glorious quiet and Instagram reels.

It wasn’t long before I heard yelling and screaming coming from inside the house, followed by the sight of panicked movement through the window. Then my 15-year-old son ran into the garage and grabbed a shovel. I slowly made my way up the steps and through the open door, hesitant to end the world of chaos I knew was stirring.

There they were: my husband, my children and my cats, all holding court around the couch.

“The cat brought a mouse inside and it ran under the couch.”

My dial-up wasn’t connecting. I wished them luck and went to bed.

This wasn’t the first time one of our cats had brought home a mouse. Or a snake. Or a bat. I’ve personally dealt with all three, including once smacking a flying bat with an empty Clorox wipe container before releasing it back into the wild. Foolishly, I assumed my husband would handle this one.

The next morning, I asked how the mouse hunt had gone. Apparently, the plan had been to leave not one, but TWO doors open in hopes the mouse would simply find its way outside. Our cats, meanwhile, had apparently decided their job description ended at delivering dinner.

For days, I searched for the mouse. I cleaned out the pantry. I pulled out the refrigerator. I moved the couch in every direction imaginable.

Nothing.

The cats, however, continued to sit guard at the foot of the couch, apparently committed to the investigation even though they had contributed nothing to the resolution.

On the third day, the smell began. Everyone agreed it was the couch. I flipped it over, pulled off cushions, rolled up the part of the rug under the couch. Eventually, I ripped off the bottom cover because I was convinced the mouse had somehow chewed its way into the couch.

Nothing.

The smell got worse. Finally, on my hands and knees, I dismantled what remained of our couch in an increasingly desperate attempt to locate the source. When I pushed myself back to my feet, I felt something distinctly squish beneath the other end of our massive rug.

The poor mouse had apparently decided to die beneath my favorite rug, slowly decomposing into our hardwood floor. I’ll spare you the graphic details, but let’s just say a decomposing mouse is sticky.

Shockingly, the mouse had not excused itself from our home despite the open doors.

The cats didn’t finish the hunt.

My husband didn’t finish the hunt.

The children didn’t finish the hunt.

And Gladys didn’t get involved but she stands by the decision despite the outcome.

I have never felt the saying “there aren’t enough hours in the day” more than I have at this stage of my life. I have kids old enough to do most things themselves but young enough to still need me present. I am old enough to know what I want for myself, but still young enough to feel guilty when I pursue it. I want to get back to my own goals, but there is always something — a family need, a work obligation, a mess, a problem, a person who needs something.

And somewhere along the way, I think a lot of women become convinced that being needed is the same thing as being responsible for everything. As women, we feel like we’ve got to be involved in every facet. We’re watching the family, the partner, the job, our friends, our home, the bills, the calendar and the details. When there is a little space for ourselves, we feel guilty.

Choosing to sit in the car, in the quiet and then opting out of the mouse hunt gave me that reminder we don’t have to fix things, we don’t have to investigate, to be the person that takes the call. Sometimes the mouse can wait.

Sure, there may be consequences but the couch can be put back together, a new rug can get rolled out and the floor may just need a good polish.

Not every problem needs to be immediately solved and it’s OK to step away and be unavailable, because we are only dial-up.