I had my packing slips and two Barbies in their original boxes, as well as The Boy, the diaper bag, and my purse. It was quite a lot to juggle in my arms. You can't just slap a stamp on Barbie's butt and send her in the mail, so I needed a box to ship them in. I was looking at the box selection but The Boy was making it increasingly difficult. I would pull one out of the slot, assemble it, and then hold it up to see if Barbie would fit inside. Then The Boy would pull three more out of the slot and throw them on the ground. I would bend over to pick those up and Barbie would fall to the ground. I picked Barbie up and we would start the process over again. Select, Assemble, Check, Throw, Bend, Retrieve, Repeat. This was going to be a long trip.
I put The Boy down on the ground and (crazily) asked him to stand there "for just a minute." Working with both hands and no baby I thought I could be much more efficient. I selected a large shipping envelope with bubble wrap inside. In the time that it took me to pull an envelope out of its slot, The Boy was off. He fell to the ground and torpedo-crawled across the post office floor. Gross, but no emergency. I put the envelope and the Barbie down and headed to retrieve him, but not before he reached a brunette and pulled up on her legs. She startled. He grinned. I sighed. I picked up my little wind up toy boy and replaced him on his spot. I handed him a packing box to use as a drum. "Please!" I asked him, feeling ridiculous to bargain with a baby. He smiled sweetly at me, which I ignorantly mistook for understanding.
Take three. At this point I looked like a madwoman. I was aggressively stuffing Barbies in envelopes like I was a contestant on a game show. The Boy had gotten behind the self service counter and emptied the trash can all over the floor. I abandoned the mail, picked up The Boy, and stuffed all the packing slips and empty stamp sheets back into the trash can. I felt myself perspiring. I picked up The Boy and slung him on my hip, facing outward. Is it really only 10am? I was using my free hand and the counter to address the envelope when I heard The Boy spit up.I turned him around to face me but saw no evidence of spit up. I checked my clothes. His clothes. The floor. His face. My face. The counter. Nothing. Relieved, I turned back to the envelope and began to place the Barbie inside when I saw it. He had managed to spit up all down inside the envelope. He wasn't even facing the same direction...He must've turned his head Exorcist-style and projectile spat in a matter of a second and a half.
I'm not going to lie. It crossed my mind to just place that envelope back on the shelf- I hadn't even addressed it yet. Can you imagine the surprise if you were the next patron trying to mail some important documents and you grabbed an envelope filled with baby barf? Obviously I thought better of it. I quickly finished and took everything up to the counter to check out.
The attendant was a man with a strong middle Eastern accent named Yash. (BTW Does that rhyme with Josh or Rash?)
Me: I need to mail these.
Yash: All 3?
Me: No, just these two.
Yash: You don't want to mail this one?
Me: No, I just want to pay for that one.
Yash: Okay. Do you want insurance? Confirmation? Tracking? (By this point I didn't care)
The Boy: Squeeeeal!!!
Me: Sigh. No, no, yes. And could you throw this away?
Yash (looks at my strangely): You want to throw away the packing envelope?
Me: Yes, I couldn't use it.
Yash (raises eyebrows): You don't want to just return it to the shelf?
The Boy: Squeeeeeal!
Me: No.....He spit up in it.
Yash looked at me like I just said I was trying to mail the Ebola virus. He did not appreciate my plight. He charged me for the postage and all three envelopes and I turned to leave. I reached in my purse for my keys. I checked Yash's counter. They were nowhere. What if I mailed my keys? I went back to the self service counter and saw that they were there. I said excuse me to the customer at the counter, and grabbed my keys as she gave me a "you're so unorganized look." If she only knew. It was then that I decided that the term "going postal" has nothing at all to do with disgruntled postal workers, but is most likely a reference to the elevated stress level induced when trying to navigate the post office with a baby in tow: "Mid Morning Mommy Mail Mania" just doesn't roll of the tongue quite as well.
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