We're a family of readers, some would say voracious readers. We love books, bookstores, curling up with nice books. We love the library, we always borrow too many books and almost always renew them. We sometimes buy books just for the cover knowing full well we may never read them. We love book catalogs and websites about books. Patrick and I are always reading something and always know what we want to read next.
We read to our babies in the womb, not for the benefits to them but because it was an excuse to get lost in the treasures of our childhood. We could not wait to start on bedtime stories with Sabrina. There's a picture of her, age 3 days being read to in Patrick's arms. CC, lucky girl, just fell right into our reading routines and has the attention span of a preschooler when it comes to listening to stories. We buy our girls too many books and read to them past bedtime too often.
We belong to a kind of informal family bookclub where my mom, my sister and I often read the same books at the same time, then pass them on to our husbands.
We have given boxes and boxes of books to libraries and still our shelves are bowed and our attic (I know, books should not be in the attic) is filled with books.
But for the last months, I have not been reading. Yes, there have been magazines, blogs, the news online, the occasional parenting or how-to book, and certainly lots of children's books. But the novels, the books of short stories, even the ones by my favorite authors, remain stacked on my night table, untouched. Some wait unfinished, and will probably have to be started from the beginning because I can no longer remember what they're about. But reading is part of who I am, and it's important to me that my children know this and see me reading, not just to them, but to myself, for myself.
So after finishing this post, I'm off to bed at what is super early for me these days--9-ish. I don't yet know what I'll be reading next, but I do know it's already on my night table.