I have lost my habit of reading. It’s not that I don’t read; I do. But habitually, I don’t anymore. I used to have at least a hundred books on the go (how on earth did I ever remember what was going on in those story lines?!) and now I sit and stare at walls when not running after thems chil’uns or making food.
I try. I miss books. I miss the fun of a good story. I recently (as in yesterday) started reading The Philosopher’s Stone again. I’ve had on my kindle a heavier book that seems to be taking fo-evah to read and which I’d like to write a bit about someday (all about kids and attachment and craziness that freaks me out and will likely freak you out too [if you have kids]. In a good way, though. I hope). But my habit is lost. I’m hoping that at some point I’ll be able to remaster the habit, but for now I just mourn the loss of it and make do with what I can where I’m at right now. And I’m okay with that. As long as I can be a little nostalgic about ‘that time in my life when…’ before getting back to washing dishes and breaking up scuffles.
Motherhood. It never is what you think it will be. But it is enough.