Parcel and Prepositions

My mother is a woman of many, many gifts; assembling a kick-ass care package is one of them.

A slip of pink paper appeared last week in my pigeonhole (my mailbox in the faculty workroom, because, as you know, I'm a gainfully employed adult) notifying me of a "parcel."

I collected the box from the porter's office, took it to my flat, and left to coach rowing practice. I played it cool. Things like parcels seem better, after all, if you let them sit on your kitchen table gathering a little hard-earned dust and anticipation. Like a nice sauce, simmering low on the stove, marrying flavors. I thought, "maybe I won't even open it until tomorrow. Then it would be even more fun!"

Lies, all lies. When I returned from the river, I used used my teeth on the packaging tape. Thank you, sweet Jesus, that the metal coffee can inside hadn't set off the alarms and delayed delivery.

Inside I found exactly what I had longed for: instant grits, Cafe du Monde coffee, chocolate, and a few surprises in the form of clothing that my mom had picked out. Like I said, the woman has a gift. Right down to the thoughtfully composed card, which I displayed in my kitchen window.

The Parents and I even got to skype a few days later, talking for about two hours before I finally acknowledged that yes, it was one in the morning my time, and I should probably go to sleep if I wanted to remain sane for the children.

Speaking of the children, I have realized that teaching grammar is a great way to catch mistakes in one's own speech. I can't very well harp on their ending sentences with prepositions if I do it myself.


But don't despair, fellow recovering perfectionists. I justify the occasional grammatical gaff by just not caring.

Moral of the story: Praise the Lord and split my infinitive; the real coffee has arrived. Thanks, Mom and Dad.