I love to read. It's kind of a problem. I can't tolerate poorly written books. When I find one in my hands, I cast it off. There are too many good books out there, and far too little time. When I find a good book in my hands, I can't put it down. I neglect basic needs--like meals.
When I was a junior high and high school student, my mom let me skip school in favor of reading. I did it often, at least weekly, there at the end. That I managed to graduate is no wonder(I have a thing about meeting goals,) but I did have to calculate the attendance policy and work that into my ulterior education/truancy plan. I'm not sure what that says about me/my upbringing. Make of it what you will--I have no complaints!
I bought myself a much desired book for Christmas: The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. I didn't crack it immediately. It was my reward for finishing our bedroom. Also, I knew I would devour it, and then it would be over. I wanted to hold onto the anticipation.
I opened it this week. It was everything I'd hoped for, and more.
I took today off--much like my earlier days of skipping school. I sat at the dining room table in my pajamas until well after lunchtime. I set the girls up with math lessons. I assigned T to 20 min silent reading (C is also a bibliophile--she requires no assignments.) I took breaks to prepare easy foods for the kids--cut up apple with peanut butter, toast, that kind of thing. When D texted me to say he was coming home early, I got up and exchanged my pajama pants for yesterday's blue jeans.
T said "Mom! I didn't know you liked to read!" That floored me. While I read all the time, these days I seldom indulge in the kind of escapist fiction that can't be put down. It's not for lack of want, it's for lack of restraint.
It's occurred to me that my near teetotaler approach isn't really serving anyone.
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