Wednesday, June 20, 2012
One of the most thrilling developments in my life recently is the fact that I can once again check out library books. Adult library books. For myself. From the ADULT BOOK SECTION. You know, that other part of the library? Away from the picture books and shelves of Magic Treehouse?
Oh my. The luxurious delight.
I still don't have much time for pleasure reading; it seems like by the time I've cared for two children all day, done all the housecleaning, cooking, and laundry, run all the errands, and exercised, there's just not much (any?) time to curl up with a book before I fall asleep. (Heck, I still don't have time to shower half the time.) But there is a little. And every now and then these days, I come home from our regular visit to the public library with not just a heavy canvas bag full of the kiddos' books, but with a volume or two for myself.
This is beyond exciting. I mean, there really are no words. And if you are currently reading this with your mouth hanging open in confused disbelief, you must be a childless person. Because every fellow parent of small children--every fellow parent who loves to read, that is--knows exactly what I'm talking about. Oh, the moment your kids become old enough that you can actually browse the grown-up section for a few minutes--long enough to actually read the titles on the spines and skim the back covers? While they occupy themselves in the kid section? Alone?!? Even ten minutes of this feels like an eternity when it's been nearly a decade since you've done anything in the public library other than attend toddler storytime and read storybooks aloud in the toy corner. And I say this as someone who has truly loved--LOVED!--all these years of toddler storytime and the toy corner.
But there's still something thrilling about checking out books by someone other than Dr. Seuss.
Even if half the time I don't get them read by the time they're due back at the library.