Post Office Poop

I’m sending artwork my older child did in art class to various family members.  They love that shit.  A painting for Nonna (grandma in Italian), a painting for Auntie and a Christian-themed, finger-painted crab for “G.G” (Great Grandma). 

Except, I’m so crazed because I’m buying a new house and every detail of the new house is bogging down my brain cells that I screw up on one of the packages.  On my grandmother’s address I forget her apartment number on the package and I put “To: G.G.”   Instead of her actual fucking name.
Anyways, I’m at the post office trying to re-send the package when my 2-year old starts doing the poopy dance.  You know crossed legs, goose-bumps up and down her legs and then moaning.  So I go up to a post office employee and say, “My 2-year old really has to use a restroom. Are there any restrooms in this building she can use?”
Flatly, she says, “No ma’am, no public restrooms.”

I’m like, “Okay, but she’s two and she has to poop.”
Again, flatly, “Sorry ma’am.”

I’m two seconds away from telling this lady to fuck off.  I mean, have you ever been to the post office with a 2-year old who’s about to poop, a one year old who can’t walk and a boxed package?
Horrifying.

So I leave my package inside on a ledge and take the older one outside to the car (with little one on my hip)…thinking maybe I’ll slap a diaper on her and she’ll go in there.  As we’re walking to the car I realize – there’s no time for a diaper.
I find a side door to the post office that’s kinda hidden from the parking lot.  I pull down her pants and tell her to squat in the leaves (sadly this isn’t the first time I’ve asked her to do this).

The poop comes out and she yells, “I did it!”
I’m like okay, great can you shut it before I get arrested.

So I bring the kids back into the post office, I finish my business and leave.
And NO, I did not pick up the poop.

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