As part of my thrilling and glamorous job here at the magazine, I have to deal with the post office on a fairly regular basis. I'm either ordering from the post office, trying to figure out why the post person didn't get your magazine to you, or in some cases figuring out why the post person left your magazine with a complete stranger.
Whatever the particular postal duty, I have one that I absolutely hate… going to the post office. I'm not sure if I coincidentally happen to be handling my postage needs at precisely the same time as every other wackadoodle in Tarrant County or if I'm just lucky.
Most every visit I've made to the post office has been slightly odd, but this particular one was an absolute grey-hair sprouting experience. Seriously, I'm going to need some form of therapy to get over what I think of as “the incident.”
I stopped in at the Post Office to mail something on my lunch break. I mosey in and get in line behind a woman and her 2- or 3-year-old child. For some odd reason, I really zone in on kids and animals. They're the first thing I notice when I'm in public. My husband says I notice them because I'm overprotective. I think I notice them because I'm observant and comparatively-speaking adults are boring and I don't like them nearly as much as kids and animals.
Anyway, I'm standing in line and I'm watching the small child in front of me. I notice he has something in his hand that he's playing with but can't really tell what it is. I'm half watching him play and half daydreaming about throwing myself on the floor and faking a seizure to get the line moving. After deciding that a pretend seizure probably wouldn't help the line situation, I start watching the little fellow who has now moved directly in front of me. He's still playing with something; suddenly I notice what it is and snap right out of my vegetative state. IT'S A PENNY! Fear runs down my spine. I’m fairly certain that his mother has no idea he has the penny and I’ll even go out on a limb and bet he found it on the floor.
Anyone who has been around a small child for more than 10 minutes knows they put everything in their mouths. Now I’m paralyzed. Do I say something? Some people don’t take kindly to a stranger’s suggestions about their kid, especially when that suggestion implies they are not in fact Parent of the Year. I’m trying to help, but what if she has PMS? What if she’s just grouchy? I could possibly end up rolling around on the dirty floor in a hair-pulling catfight. Just as I decide to be brave and speak up, POP in his mouth it goes. YAHHHHHHH.! Now what? What if I tell the mother that little Jr. just put a penny in his mouth and she’s one of those spaz moms that freaks out? That will in turn scare the kid; he’ll start crying and definitely choke on the penny. Ugh! I have no idea how to Heimlich anything. Hey, what if this little nugget is her 18th kid and she would simply turn and say “Spit it out Tyler.” That would be the ideal situation. Then again I can’t assume that mom will take things so casually.
While I'm standing there having an internal meltdown trying to figure out how to tell Mom and figure out how she might react and feeling the pressure because, after all, the penny is already in the kid's mouth, and odds are pretty good the next step is going to be to swallow it, Mom notices Little Sparky has something in his mouth. The good thing here is all the pressure is off me to say anything. The bad thing is Mom freaks out. She grabs mini guy by each arm and screams “What is in your mouth!” Little dude sucks in his breath to let out a loud cry, sucks in the penny and is now starting to gasp. Mom, without missing a beat, grabs him, flips him upside down, and performs some sort of odd half Karate chop half Ninja maneuver that I've never seen in my almost 45 years on this planet. Fortunately Mom's ninja skills worked like a charm and out flew the slobbery penny. WHEW!
Incidentally, I can't finish this blog because I have no idea what happened after that. I left immediately. I figured my car was probably a better place to pass out than the post office floor.
