My father was one of the smartest
men I’ve ever known. Oddly, he very rarely read. Being an avid reader myself, I
never fully understood his aversion to the activity. So one day, I asked him.
“Once you have kids, you just don’t
have the time,” he responded with a shrug.
I couldn’t wrap my
literature-addicted mind around his statement. What would life be like without
Charlotte Bronte, Louisa May Alcott and Nathaniel Hawthorne?
Twenty-five years later, I found
out.
Honestly, I don’t even know how it
happened. I got married, had kids, and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t even
stay awake long enough to get through an Us Weekly. This tidbit came to my
attention on a recent library outing with my kids. I looked up from the Curious
George book I was reading to my son, and suddenly had a renewed awareness of
the stacks of big-people books. On impulse, I grabbed a novel with a
captivating cover, and before I knew it, the book was in a pile with Max &
Ruby DVDs and a collection of Clifford stories.
That night, excited about reuniting
with a beloved pastime, I settled happily into bed to begin my new book. As I perused the first few pages, I
smiled contentedly.
Forty-five minutes later, I woke up
with my glasses under my chin and the book lying haphazardly next to me. I
picked it up and placed it fondly on the nightstand. I realized this reading
gig might be a lengthier process than it used to be. But unwilling to part with
it again, I decided I would take it one sleepy night at a time.
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