A Trip to the Mailbox

When we moved, one thing we never thought about was the new location of our mailbox compared to where it was at our old house.

At the old place, the mailbox was attached to the house right outside the front door. Usually you could hear the mailman shut the lid after he put the mail in. All you had to do was open the front door, not even step all the way outside and get the mail.

At the new house things are a bit different. Our mailbox is not attached to our house, in fact it’s not even in our yard; It’s across the street in our neighbor’s yard. This makes getting the mail more of a chore and harder to remember than before.

Until recently.

I’m not sure whether it was my wife or myself that made this discovery, but recently we’ve each been volunteering to get the mail.


Because it’s peaceful.

It’s quiet.

The walk to the mailbox doesn’t involve crying, there’s no baby clinging to your leg and you don’t have to answer questions. It’s a brief respite from the chaos of being inside a house with three small children.

Earlier this week my wife poured herself a glass of wine for her trip to the mailbox.

I’ve been known to get “lost” on my way, roaming around the street for a few extra minutes.

There’s a famous quote that goes something like, “It’s the simple things in life that mean the most.” I’m not exactly sure a trip to the mailbox was what this person was talking about when they said this, but you never know.

That’s enough from me for the day, I should probably go check the mail.

Oh wait, it’s Sunday.

Oh well, I’ll go check it anyway.


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