That one time I got blood all over the post office

See also:  That time Steph made an ass of herself in front of a bunch of strangers.

I will admit, most of the time I psych myself out about really dumb things to only discover it's really not as bad as I thought (like going to a new grocery store with two kids under three.  I know.  I really over thought that one.)
And going to the post office with a two-year-old and a 10-month-old should have been one of those things, had I actually thought more about it.  In the past I hadn't been to keen on dragging them to the post office, but since we live in Roseville now, and said post office is walking distance from a park and a library, we make a fun little outing of it now.
I needed to mail a humidifier tank back to the manufacturer because I ordered the wrong box, and you would think with all of the Amazon Prime ordering my family does, we would have a box that would fit it, so I could just print up a postage slip and mail it from home.
But seeing that I like cute things, and the tank is shaped like a frog, of course it wouldn't fit any boxes we had.
So, I had to visit the dreaded post office.  Now, even before kids, I never really visited the post office a lot, nor had I mailed a ton of packages, so I didn't really know how it "worked."
I thought they would find a box for me and package up my froggy tank.
Nope.
When we rolled up to the post office, Jackson had been asleep for a few minutes.  Since he'd been fighting a nap for most of the morning, I decided I would wear him and put Lucy in the stroller.  You know, because I thought they would box up the tank.
Right away, it's super awkward because I have Lucy in the double stroller since we were planning to walk to the park afterwards, and the post office is tiny.  I mean, I could have pushed it into the post office and bowled over a few elderly patrons and some bubble wrap.
So awkward mom of the year I am, I see an employee in the lobby and meekly hold up my tank, saying I need to find a box for it.
The guy pretty much held my hand through the whole process.  I'm a 32-year-old woman who doesn't know how to mail a package.  They should really teach that in school.
After trying to fit it in several boxes, we finally found one.  The post office guy asks if I need tape, and I say yes.  I set the tape and my large box down on their tiny little table, and ask Lucy to hang onto the tank.
Watching me awkwardly fumble at folding the box (since I have a 23-pound sleeping baby strapped to my chest, which makes most things tricky) he offers to tape the bottom of the box for me.
I put the tank in the box, he hands me some bubble wrap, I stuff it in the box and give the extras to Lucy because she loves bubble wrap.  I know, plastic and a toddler, and all of those warnings about this not being a toy, but I'm right there, hello.
Being the person that I am (the can't ever ask for help person) I attempt to tape the box shut.
As I'm pulling the tape down to cut off a piece, my finger comes down on the jagged cutting blade and leaves what looks like a tiny little shark bite on my finger.
Being that it was my finger, though, of course it starts to profusely bleed.
All over the box, all over the table, all over the stroller, all over the floor.
Basically, I am just flinging blood all over the place everywhere I go.
I tell the poor, confused employee that I cut myself, not because I'm mad about it, but because I want him to know his post office lobby has basically become a haz mat scene.
He relocates me over to another counter so I can finish filling out my address sticker.
Now, I should pause here and say that the stares and whispers on the part of the other patrons had already started when I walked in with my enormous stroller and started taking up the post office dude's time.
The stares and whispers pretty much tripled as soon as the blood started flowing.  Some of them were of the sympathetic variety, but there were definitely some judgmental ones going.
As soon as my package was taped and ready, I had multiple offers to cut in line to the front.
But being that a) I wasn't sure how I would navigate my stroller to the front without taking anyone out and b) I already felt bad for making a spectacle, I headed to the back of the line.
Of course that was a mistake, because Lucy was done with her snack.
I had to endure hearing "Go to the park?" and "Turn around, turn around!" and "Get down, get down!" for the remaining ten minutes we were in the post office.
Props to the sympathetic lady behind me, who has a 3-year-old but was smart enough to visit the post office while he was in preschool.
The nice man in front of me, after offering to let Lucy hold his mail, offered again for me to go ahead of him, so I sighed and did it.
Next time, I'm going to Kinko's.
End scene.