A Letter to my Mailman

Dear Mr. Mailman,
Today started out so wonderfully. My daughter woke up early, but instead of demanding breakfast, she crawled in bed with me to snuggle. She’s four, and as you might imagine, impromptu snuggle time is a delicacy in our home. We had a chiropractor appointment for my son this morning, so we spent time getting everyone ready for that. I, having lost some weight recently, was able to wear a cute pink pinstriped button shirt I haven’t worn in over two years. It fit, and I was so happy! Really, it was such a great morning. Everyone was cooperating and moving along. We made it to the appointment a few minutes early, even, and there were some friends of ours (we share the same chiropractor) there, which made for an impromptu visit, and it was quite pleasant. I love little surprises like that, don’t you? My son’s appointment went well, and since we were so close to the “nice” Wal Mart, I thought we would just poke down there to get some paint for my son’s room. My son is 10 weeks old, and we’ve been meaning to paint his room for a long time now, but it’s been hard to get out and about (he couldn’t ride in a car seat until six weeks old, and leaving the house is like trying to herd cats by first putting them in a bath of water. With a dog). Anyway, we made it to Wal Mart. This is where our day started to take a turn.
I carried the car seat in and held my daughter’s hand, and was trying to efficiently and safely get them both situated in a cart. An employee came out through the entrance door, not looking, and shoved a cart in our general direction. I think she caught me out of the corner of her eye, at which point she turned and half-heartedly tried to stop the cart, but was unsuccessful, as it rammed into the cart in which I had just placed my children, and gave my son a bit of a hard-rock ride, so to speak, in his car seat. She apologized (kind of) and told me how cute my son was. He is cute, but her lack of attention and courtesy was not. I can’t imagine it did his chiropractic adjustment any bit of good to then be rammed into by a shopping cart. We brushed past her to avoid a physical mama-bear-protection confrontation, and headed back to the paint department. I knew it would just be a quick errand, since I knew the colors I wanted, the sheen I wanted, and we could just have them mixed and be on our way. Once we picked our color swatches, there was no one at the counter to help us. Another employee summoned someone over their radio, and an older gentleman came to help us, though I found him not very enthused to do so. I told him the sheen and amounts I would need of each color, and he told me it would be “about ten minutes”. Thirty minutes later, I asked if we could take our paint yet. He was just finishing up. In the meantime, I had to feed and burp my son so he would stop screaming in the store. His sister was telling everyone within earshot we were going to paint his room, and that he was her baby brother. She also told a few passers-by that her baby sister had died. It was a tender and memorable experience, though her sentiments were lost on the people she was sharing her life story with. It both filled and broke this mama’s heart. I know you have no way of knowing this, Mr. Mailman, but her baby sister did die. Last April. I was pregnant with her, and for unknown reasons, she was stillborn. Having her baby brother here with us is a big deal, and painting his room is a bit of a victory for us.
We finally got our paint and checked out, where Little Miss was sharing with the woman behind us in line, that if she had to paint her room, she would use dark pink and dark purple, and her new room was upstairs so we were going to wait to paint it and were going to paint her brother’s room first. It was a lengthy four-year-old conversation, but the woman was very kid-friendly and listened intently to each little detail my daughter shared with her.
When we left Wal Mart, my son started screaming. Very, very loudly, and incessantly. I have a hearing loss, but I assure you, this made my ears hurt with the volume and tenacity behind his cries. We drove the several miles home accompanied by his very vocal protests. I drove past you, actually, as I turned down our street to go home. I was expecting a package, so was glad to see you were already starting distribution on our street. Once we got inside, I comforted my son, who had a gigantic burp that was apparently the culprit behind his screaming fit the entire ride home. The problem was, this gigantic burp was “loaded”. Curdled spit up went all over the sleeve and shoulder of my cute pink shirt I was wearing, and it became quite uncomfortable quite quickly. Wearing clothing soaked with curdled milk is…well…gross. I had to take my shirt off once I got him settled down. These days, I’m always wearing a nursing camisole. They’re comfortable, they’re convenient, and I love them. They’re not the most modest attire items, however, so I always wear shirts over them. Unless said shirts get spat up on.
I heard you knock on the door, and I knew that our package had arrived. I checked out my bedroom window and watched you drive away. The last time you delivered a package to my door, I had to use my baby as a “cover” and hold him strategically in front of me, so I could retrieve my water-processed decaf coffee beans you were delivering. Remember, you told me they made your truck smell so good, and I laughed, but tried not to move, because I hadn’t been able to put a shirt on over my camisole before you arrived? Today, even though I was scantily clad in my risque nursing camisole, I knew I could safely and discreetly retrieve our package from the front step, since I had just watched you drive away. I opened the front door, and there was the package, right where they usually are left when we receive them. I bent down to pick it up and knew my camisole was most likely exposing “the girls” for all the world to see, but I also knew that all the world was nowhere nearby. That’s when I looked up and saw you walking up my next door neighbor’s driveway, and you smiled and waved at me.
Dear Mr. Mailman, I usually get dressed – all the way – every day. I’m sorry that the last – the only – two times you’ve had to interact with me, that hasn’t been the case. I hereby solemnly swear I will not open my door ever again unless I am appropriately attired. 
Val (Embarrassed) Kleppen

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