you've got mail

when we were house hunting, the way i'd describe what kind of location i desired was always the same: i wanted our children to be able to go get the mail from the mailbox. in other words, i wanted to be able send out my young children to the end of our driveway without being concerned for one second about their safety. i immediately ruled out almost all of the houses we saw because i just wasn't convinced they weren't on a quiet enough street. truth be told, there really aren't that many lots like the one we have, nestled at the very end of a long cul-de-sac, where the only cars we see are those of our neighbors. the house itself certainly needs work (we are on a first-name basis with our electrician, plumber, and handyman) but as far as location goes, we couldn't ask for anything more. i had no way of knowing that the aforementioned mailbox would become such a part of our daily lives, however. our mailman usually arrives here in the middle of susanna's afternoon nap, so we're almost always at home, allowing liam to take on the role of Mailman Monitor. he watches in anticipation from the window, and as soon as he sees the mail truck making its way down the street, he shoves his feet into whatever shoes happen to be nearby and races out the door. it doesn't matter if it's freezing outside and he doesn't have on socks. he doesn't care if it's pouring down rain. in less than fifteen seconds, he's at the end of the driveway, waiting to say hello to our postman and eager for any letters or packages coming his way. it's his job, and he accepts his position with pride. i often wonder if all of this, in a generation's time, will be a thing of the past. it surprises me that we still operate with a system that relies on human eyes to read often illegible handwriting, and that uses real live people who drive from house to house to deliver it all. the postal service seems out of sync with the rest of our impersonal, technology-driven culture. at the risk of sounding like an old woman waxing poetic about years gone by, i actually still remember the days of having a milkman. i remember opening up our back door in the morning to retrieve the glass milk jugs that had just been delivered, as the Pine State truck pulled away from our house and ambled on down its route. my mind is especially adept at conjuring up these images on the days when i'm wrangling both kids, who are stuffed into winter coats, out of their carseats so we can dash into the grocery for another gallon of organic 2%. i hope that the whole concept of a postman won't seem as incomprehensible to the next generation as the milkman must seem to my children today. getting the mail -- the daily ritual, the sense of responsibility assumed by my four-year old, the banter back and forth between him and our mailman -- is truly one of the highlights of our afternoons.