One day last week, I read a book.
If you know me, you will not think this unusual.
Once I learned to read, somewhere around the age of four, I began to devour books. Long books, short books, fiction, non-fiction, books I had never heard of, books I had read a million times before... Thousands and thousands of books. When I was a single girl living on my own, it was nothing for me to read a book (or two) every single day.
When I was working, I always kept a book (and later, my nook) in my car so I could read for a few minutes before going into work. If it was a particularly good book, I would occasionally read for a few minutes after work, too, before going to pick the kids up from the sitter.
When I was working, I spent my days with books. Talking about them. Moving piles of them around. Anxiously awaiting them. Pulling them fresh from the publisher's box and getting a little excited every time a box stamped "New Releases" came in the door.
Then I quit my job to be a stay at home Mama. As the boys started getting a little older and needing a little more of my time (Mama! Come pway wif me! Mama! I spilled! Mama! I peed! Mama! Mama!) my reading became more relegated to a few minutes before bed, and I might sneak in a chapter (or two) while eating breakfast.
And then, even that seemed to be a challenge. After all, I had quit my job so I could be a better Mama, and it just wouldn't do to sit around reading books all day, right? So I still read, but not regularly, and not with any real passion. I was just reading books to pass the time, and because it was a habit.
And then one day last week, I grabbed my nook as I sat down to breakfast. I started reading a new book, one from an author I don't normally read in a genre I don't particularly care for. I had heard about it somewhere - a magazine? a blog? - and thought it looked vaguely interesting. I was no more than a few pages in when it clicked. This was not just a book. This was A BOOK. So I read through breakfast. I threw the dishes in the sink, turned on the tv for cj, and sat down on the couch. And I read. And read. And read. At some point I got up and put some snacks out in little bowls (kinda like you would for a puppy) so cj would have something to eat, and I read some more. At one point, cj got bored and fell asleep on the couch, and still I read.
I did remember to get zj off the bus. But I took my nook to the bus stop and read as I walked there and as I walked home.
We ate leftovers for dinner that night.
Because I was busy reading.
At some point I lifted myself from the fog enough to realize that I probably should feel guilty for ignoring my family, but strangely, I didn't. So I read some more.
800 or so pages and 25 hours later, I finished my book. And it felt... right. THIS was what I had been missing.
This book wasn't some great literary masterpiece. It was just an interesting book that caught my attention in just that right way and just the right time. It had been a long time since that had happened for me.
One day last week, I read a book. And I just might might do it again this week.