I don't know about you, but when I was in college, there was nothing more exciting than seeing a flash of pink peeking through the little window in your PO box.
The slip that meant: YOU HAVE A PACKAGE.
It meant a brown paper box with Mom's neat handwriting on it and stamps clustered in the corner was waiting for you behind the counter. It would be filled with homemade treats, a clever note, a forgotten special something. The goodies would be shared, of course, but the feeling of being unexpectedly touched by home was a magically selfish thrill. Everyone else at the post office would look on enviously, waiting for their own miracle package slip to appear.
Of course, that was a long time ago. Before Amazon Prime and drone deliveries. Before FedEx. Before email and Skype and the Internet. Before parents and kids could text and talk with unlimited minutes any old time they wanted to. Times have seriously changed.
I'm all for convenience, but when a faceless company sent a brochure touting their "automated care package delivery service" as my son headed for college, my heart broke just a little.
I shredded the damn flyer and started baking. No kid of mine was going to get a pre-made box of corporate crap. He was going to get a good, old fashioned, Mom-turned-on-the-oven-and-then-went-to-the-actual-post-office-so-I-could-get-a pink-slip-in-the-mailbox kind of day.
Of course, he got an email instead of a pink slip. And I got the idea for Mom in the Mail. Because even in this era of insta-everything, there is still something wonderful about getting a box full of treats, baked by hand and packaged with care by a real Mom.