5.14.2008

I admit defeat

Abby has defeated me today. She is so emotional (I have no idea who she got that from) and it is very tiring! This morning I went to the post office to mail Weston's box. I've been putting it off because I just knew it would be an ordeal. So, I pull up to the post office and it takes me about 10 minutes to get out the stroller, load Logan, load Abby, get purse, lock car, get box. Then I walk to the front door of the post office...this is the first part of this journey that I am dreading. It is not easy to kick open a door, push in the 10 foot long stroller, and balance a box on your head. It is very ungraceful, and this is where my humbling began. I'm clearly struggling to just physically enter the post office and there are about six women in line...none of them offered to help, none held the door, nothing. They just stood there inches from me and watched me struggle. Then the minute I finally get into line Abby starts up…kicking and yelling. What makes her do this? Does she sense that I’m already flustered and thinks to herself, “hmmm, how much more can my mom take?” So, I say, “Abby do you want to get out of the stroller?” Of course she does…I mean let’s throw another shrimp on the barbie! Let’s see if mom can maneuver the 60 pound stroller with one hand, balance the box on her head, hold her keys and wallet, hold the 30 pound writhing toddler, and clearly communicate that this box needs to go to Mongolia. “Yes, I said Mongolia!” (do they think I’m confused and that I made a mistake and the box just needs to go two cities over…no woman, I said MONGOLIA!” So, there I am in full sweat! I pull my large load to the counter and she tells me that I need step aside from her counter to complete a customs form. Is she kidding! Does she not see my struggle?? The custom form takes less than 30 seconds to complete, please lady…I’ll give you $1,000 dollars, please don’t make me leave your counter!! So, I push the stroller to the side and hold my now screaming, flailing two year old and grab a stupid customs form. She says to me “you can’t keep your stroller there…you need to move somewhere else.” Is she kidding me??? I purposefully went to a tiny post office hoping that there wouldn’t be a line. Now, I am literally in the middle of the 20x20 room with all six women still looking (very judgingly) at me. Still not one person has said, “it is okay honey, I’ve been there and you’re doing fine.” Nope, I’m being looked at as the bad mommy who can’t control her kids. Lovely. I step aside and complete the form and finally get the box shipped. I’m trying to pack up…and I guess just to add insult to inquiry the postal worker lady says…”well, I guess that little girl doesn’t know who’s boss” as I was walking away. I was defeated. I felt like a horrible mother. I knew the entire time I was in there that I was being judged by each pair of eyes. I put Abby in the car and got very close to her face and said, “That is unacceptable. That is naughty. You do not kick, scream, cry, etc!!” She looked at me and said “look mama, big truck!” Yep, there was a trash truck driving by at the same time as my life lesson was taking place. The trash truck won. I got in the car and called Jacqui—I started crying and we talked about the crappiness of toddlerhood. Then I went through Del Taco and got myself a big Root Beer…I felt that I had deserved it.

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