I love, love, love getting packages in the mail. It’s not often we get them — well, I take that back. Matt orders books quite frequently and I order clothes for the kids, but when I think of packages, I think of gifts. Gifts that come in cardboard boxes with handwritten addresses and bent edges. Ones that are taped ever-so-cautiously — and that I open ever-so-carefully with the sharp edge of my kitchen scissors, anticipating what’s inside. What is it? What is it?
Today, when I arrived home from work, two unassuming packages were propped next to the front door. One, from Old Navy. (boring — but good, the 2-year-old is in desperate need of some new shorts). The other, a taped, Sharpie-addressed box from our new friends and business associates who came to visit last weekend. Huh, I pondered. I wonder what it could be?
I walked them through the door – along with my gym bag, my laptop bag, my breastpump and my purse – and let everything kind of fall to the counter from my aching shoulders. I dropped the mail, pushed over the bags and immediately got the scissors. And then…
I opened it.
It was beautiful. A dream box. Full of sweets and sticky notes and a Starbucks gift card. My eyes darted from note to note as Matt peered over my shoulder. “What’s that?” he asked. I read each note aloud.
Homemade cookies made from a passed-down recipe of an Italian Grandmother.
Gooey butter cookies, sticky to the touch.
I opened one of the bags and placed a sugar-sprinkled delicacy on a plate for my husband.
Now isn’t that a sweet surprise?