“We have to stop meeting like this,” I whisper as I rest my head against the cool glass, watching him hurry down the front walk. “It’s already been three times this week. The neighbors will start to talk.” 

The midday sun cuts through the chill of the wintery air, glinting off the windshield of his truck as it roars to life and pulls away. I glance down at my hands, still holding the carefully chosen gift he gave me. “It’s perfect,” I think. 

Please don’t tell my husband. 

I sigh, a mixture of guilt and excitement humming in my chest as I click the front door shut. “This will be the last time,” I offer weakly to my nagging conscience. Daniel Tiger’s voice floats in from the living room, “Stop, think, and choo-oo-oose . . . ” 

“I can stop anytime,” I mutter, more for my benefit than that preachy tiger’s. 

But I know. Deep down in my soul, I know. 

He’ll be back. Maybe even tomorrow.

Because I’m expecting another box from Amazon—Christmas is coming!—and my delivery truck driver shows up on my doorstep basically every day from now until December 24th.

Please don’t tell my husband. 

I live for Target runs just as much as the next mom. I’m all about Small Business Saturday. I love to support local. 

But, I can’t lie—when the holiday season rolls around, I love my neighborhood delivery man a little bit more.

He brings me things I’ve shopped for from the comfort of my couch (while I may or may not have been wearing pants). He saves me from enduring the mall and its rabid deal-seekers. He’s stealthy—I often don’t even know he’s been here but for the tidy little package waiting on my doorstep in the evening. He’s efficient. He communicates well (thank you, online tracking updates). He never complains or demands snacks. 

For these few weeks every winter, he’s basically my dream guy. 

So . . . please don’t tell my husband?

Grab your “Here Comes Amazon” shirt here!

Carolyn Moore

Carolyn traded a career in local TV news for a gig as a stay-at-home mom, where the days are just as busy and the pay is only slightly worse. She lives in flyover country with her husband and four young kids, and occasionally writes about raising them at Assignment Mom