|Naval gazing at its most literal|
Pretend you are at the post office. Your third trip to the PO of the day, fourth trip to the PO of the week, because the seemingly simple procedure of procuring a passport for your child has become the dingdang holiest of holies holy grail.
So you're already a bit crabby and hot and flat out resentful of the passport lady who feels the need to tell stories and chitchat about her relatives to the entire slow, unpaperworkcompleted, unheightmeasured family who is currently getting their passports procured. Even though it is apparent that you've been waiting for 45 minutes already with a bored eight year old and an antsy five year old in a completely barren, did I mention hot, PO.
And then your five year old looks at the (overweight) five year old from the other family, points at him, giggles, and says loudly,
At this point, going postal is indeed a fantasy but not a viable option.
What do you do then, mommas?
How would you handle that one?