Every so often, I visit a bookstore and buy an armful of books. Maybe there’s a sale going on. Maybe I have a coupon. Maybe I’ve found a hole in the wall with a great selection and simply can’t help myself. However it happens, I buy more than I can read before the next bookstore trip, or fortuitous garage sale or estate sale find (I’m always looking for books for my Etsy shop but, well, some of them don’t ever get listed).
These books pile up on me. Especially when I go through periods, like I have lately, of not reading. It just seems like there’s never enough time. And reading is so passive–if I’m going to do something during the day that takes attention away from my kids, it feels like it should be productive. In the evenings, I want to spend time with my husband. For some reason, he gets a little offended if I blow him off for a book. Go figure. I guess that’s what happens when you marry a non-bookworm.
But I always come back to reading. I have to make time for it–it’s a part of me. And if my kids don’t like me stealing a half an hour a day to read a book, well, they can lump it. (Seriously: there are times when they want me sitting near them but I’m not allowed to play, and if I take out a book or my phone or a notebook it’s tantrum time, baby. And/or they steal the thing that’s taking my attention and make me insane.) I’ve got to get back to those books. I will get back to them. Soon. I hope.
The Sensitive, Bookish Type 