I am perpetually torn over how best to use the few golden hours of silence and freedom that are blessedly embedded into each day. I usually ensure that I am showered and dressed (no hair-do or make-up, though – those are now considered time-wasters in my newfound economy. Sorry, Jim!). And I used to manage to pick up the stray toys and blankets that were scattered in haste around the living room, make sure the dish washer is filled or emptied, and even tackle the Mt.Everest of laundry that seems to replenish itself on a daily basis. But alas, my meager allotment of quiet time now faces a ravenous literary hunger that threatens to consume every minute, without regard for housekeeping necessities.
I had read so much while I was on bedrest that afterward, I found myself in a book-bloated state. I had no desire to immerse myself in a book, let alone the time to do so. For the first few months after the girls were born, if I managed to find the time to sit still enough to read, I was sitting still enough to fall asleep. Sleeping took precedence over reading, no question. I suppose I had set such a rapid pace for book consumption while I was in the hospital – often a book per day, or every other day – that my mind simply needed a few months to recover. Now, my brain has finally kicked back into gear and I long for the mental stimulation that exceeds the recitation of “Brown Bear, Brown Bear†for the fifth time in a row. I even find myself sacrificing my beloved slumber in order to gulp down the last few pages of a novel.
I’m practicing the art of reading while holding a child (although not two children – that would probably render book-holding impossible), and I’ve even found that I can rock a fussy child and turn the pages of a book at the same time. It’s too bad that I didn’t take up a hands-free pastime, like movie watching. That would have been much less complicated to master. I can only hope that because the girls are often in my arms while I’m reading, that they develop a similar passion for literature. Rebecca already enjoys turning the pages for me, even though she often ends up skipping three-fourths of the book with each turn. Perhaps she’s hinting that it’s time to put the novel down and play. Or perhaps she’s simply trying to skip to the book’s final chapters in a precocious display of literary criticism. It could be that the girls will be graduating from “Brown Bear, Brown Bear†sooner than I thought!
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