I want to like you. Really. I know you're just doing your job and you do it well and usually while smiling. Thank you for bringing us our mail.
Just, come on, find a way to bring our 171. Please? I really really don't want to resent you, but I kind of am. This yo-yo hope isn't working wonders for our relationship. Seeing your little truck come by, waiting until you're far enough down the road that you don't see me excitedly scurrying (yes, I totally scurry) to the mailbox, and having my hopes dashed every day for three weeks!
Okay, I know that three weeks ago was not a time when I should have been hoping to get that piece of mail, but I did anyway. It's just what I do. I hope a lot, but I don't hope very well. I'm sure this process will strengthen my hoping muscles. I may even be a beefcake hoper by the time we are leaving Uganda with baby A in tow. But I'm not there yet.
I know my attempts to space out our outgoing mail so that you have to stop by every day don't do anything except make more work for you. I'm sorry. I'm going to keep doing it, but I know I will be making your life slightly harder until you bring our 171. So come on, just put it in the little box, and I'll go right back to loving you, mister mailman.
The pink house on the right