Home time can create a monotony of chaos in my house. Laundry, meals, school work, yard work, cleaning, bill-paying, child-rearing, errand running, grocery shopping, argument mediating, tattle-telling, child beating (oh, did I say that? I meant "disciplining"), karate lessons, piano lessons, dance lessons, yelling, crying, complaining, whining . . . Most days my excitement level fluctuates between barely-awake and would-rather-be-sleeping.
But then the mail is delivered. I'm selfish about that trek to the mailbox. It's my time, my relished chore. It's something I look forward to for its potential to shake up my day.
Often the mail consists of no more than solicitations for charitable donations from the lady who used to live in this house and has been dead for 3+ years. Those, along with supermarket ads, fast food flyers, and old lady catalogs (enough with the Vermont Country Store and orthopedic shoes already) are standard fare. Sometimes there are bills and other annoyances - IRS audit notifications, and jury duty assignments that are better left in the mailbox.
But then there are days like today. Days rare enough I count this one as a first, but hopefully not a last. Days where my mailbox serves as a giver of simple excitement and pure pleasure. Days where my mailbox does more than just shake - it rocks.
$20 of free shopping, waiting for blissful discovery. I'm already scheduling some quality alone time for after Nate gets home.