Baby mice

My 4-year old, Kessa, asked me today, "Where do the mice play?"  I believe it's part of a song she learned in preschool.  I told her that at Grandma and Grandpa Lovell's house they like to play in the grain shed, because they like to eat grain.  Suddenly a memory flooded over me.

I remember being back in the shed immediately behind the brick shed.  I don't remember much else about that shed.  I don't remember what was in it.  I just remember being out there.  I found a nest of baby mice.  They appeared abandoned and very sad.  It broke my little heart to see them.  I tried to convince my mom to let me bring them inside and nurse them back to health.  She would have nothing of the sort. (Looking back I can see her perspective.  She spent half her life trying to kill mice.  Why would she try to save some?)  I spent a lot of time out there the next couple of days, holding them, petting them, and speaking encouraging words to them.  They ended up dying anyway. I'm sure I was sad about it.  But mostly I just remember how cute baby mice were, as opposed to their grown up counterparts.  Though, I suppose that's true about most animals, isn't it?