Sometimes I get to thinking about reading. And me. And really, why do I read so much? And, why does that sometimes make me feel silly? For example, when someone asks me about my hobbies, I uh, list some more socially-acceptable ones like “cooking, hiking . . . ” and then tag on “and reading” at the end. If I were being completely honest, I should list reading at the beginning.
I think some of it has to do with comments I often hear – “Oh, I like reading, but I just can’t seem to find the time.” Hmm. I think that makes me feel like only lame, un-busy people read. Ha. I read. And I make time for it. If I don’t give myself sufficient reading time over a long period of time, I get grouchy.
I read because I want to relax.
Be by myself, but be around characters and people and new places and new thoughts.
Hear someone’s story.
Put my life into the broader picture.
A lot of my reading right now has to do with reading the same 5 board books over and over and over again to my little boy.
Josiah does a lot of reading too. (This is how I caught them a couple of months ago when Josiah was supposed to be putting David in bed.)