“Get up.” I instructed, quite tersely, for the millionth time. My son and I stood outside the local post office in a battle of the wills. He wanted to go to “Nana’s house” while I simply wanted to accomplish a quick, easy errand.
From the moment we received the pink slip in the mail, I knew that the trip to retrieve the package was going to be hellish. Something about the post office sets my son off like nothing else. It could be the cranky employees who are known for being rude and mistreating customers, it could be the fact that his little internal sensor recognizes we parked in a thirty minute parking space (the time of which he was quickly taking up with his shenanigans), or perhaps he could sense my paper-thin patience wearing out. Whatever the reason, he was acting up something fierce…
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