Reading is one of my great passions. And if postpartum depression has taught me anything, it’s this: I must make time for my passions.
I spend a lot of time reading picture books to my children. There are some amazing children’s books that I enjoy as much as Pippa — Dragons Love Tacos, The Bear and the Piano, anything and everything by Oliver Jeffers.
But I need more than children’s books. My brain craves ideas and thoughts and words that are bigger than poopy diapers and teething tablets.
To make sure I get the time to read, I have scattered books throughout the house like a squirrel hiding nuts all over the forest.
I only read one fiction book at a time. That book goes on my nightstand and migrates around the house throughout the day.
I like to read multiple nonfiction books at any given time. I can also always read a graphic novel in addition to a word-novel. The graphic novel does not get tangled in my head with the word-novel. But two word-novels mesh into a big confusing disaster.
I keep a nonfiction book in each bathroom. Sometimes I can convince Pippa to leave me alone so I can poop in peace. (Sometimes.)
There are a few nonfiction books and a backlog of magazines in a box on our kitchen table. I spend a lot of time at the kitchen table because Julian is a hobbit and constantly eating.
I want to scatter more books throughout the house. Put a graphic novel in the living room. Hide something in the nursery. Maybe a poetry in my car.
I used to love poetry but then my high school English teachers beat that out of me. Now that I’m a mom, poetry might be exactly what I need. A quick flash of beauty that I can read in a minute or less. Without all the pretentious analysis because really, I don’t care if the poem is in iambic pentameter or if the oak tree is symbolic of the patriarchy.
I just want to read.