So I’ve been reading the first three pages of Charles Williams’ Descent into Hell over and over for the last three weeks. I’m not trying to memorize it or anything, I just forget that I’ve read it already and pick back up at the beginning and then never get farther than the first chapter. Except for last night when I finished the chapter at 10:45 at night and had to read the entire first half of The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass to be able to go to sleep. And then I had weird dreams anyway. This is why I Don’t Read. If I’m going to read a new book it has to be during the day. But who really has time to sit down during the day to read something.
I mean, I do sit down six or a hundred times a day to feed the Enormous Baby who can nurse for up to an hour. This, according to so many blogs, ought to be an ideal time “pray”, “read the Bible”, “blog with one hand”, and “read books”.
“Make the best use of your time,” I read yesterday from an advice giving “Mommy Blogger” who has just had her fifth child and has it all figured out.
“Make dinner early in the day” opined a brilliant mother of two.
“Pretend to be an amputee and train yourself to do important tasks with one hand.”
Why am I reading this?! I shout silently to myself. Why am I not reading an actual book?
So I got a book. I sat down. I juggled baby and book. I stared blankly at the page and dozed off, waking up briefly to scream hysterically at Marigold who would really and truly love to kick Enormous Baby in Enormous Head.
Whatever. I don’t have to read books to be an interesting person. I have the internet.
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