“Where do you find the time to read books?”
I get that a lot from friends I invite out to book club. The truth? At the expense of my family. The number of Dora the Explorer episodes watched goes up by 60%, dinner is reduced to something prepackaged and frozen, and heaps and piles of unfolded, un-put away but clean laundry threaten to overtake the master bedroom, when I get into a good book.
Right now I am reading the “Percy Jackson” series. I know, they’re kid books. But I wanted to read what my kids are reading, plus I wanted to see what all the hullabaloo was about. 100 pages later, I was sucked in. It was all I could do to make cup-o-noodle soup and PB&J’s for dinner last night. (A big hit, by the way.)
This has happened more than once. The Twilight series. Harry Potters 1-7. My Dan Brown kick. A single book isn’t so bad. A day or two of dirty laundry piling up is no big deal. It’s the series. It’s my inability to say, “I’ll just read for 30 minutes and then back to my to-do list.” I just can’t stop and the page turning goes on for days.
We show up 30 minutes early for after school pick-up just so I can read in the car. Bedtime either becomes way too early or way too late because I was too enraptured to tuck them in and was just waiting for them to pass out on the couch. They fend for themselves in the kitchen and no book is worth that mess. But I’m too busy reading to remember that! Basically, the household follows the law of entropy: if mom doesn’t output energy, the system collapses.
So I’m going to close Mr. Jackson in the middle of the chapter and read to Luke and Dean now.
I would love nothing better than for them to catch this pandemic reading bug too.