You are reading Good Night Moon and they are reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. You try to figure out what the plot is in their story but your mind drifts back to that darn balloon, cat, brush. You feel awkward. You were once well read, articulate, interesting and could talk for hours on the latest novel, fictions, and non-fictions. You used to have time for that until motherhood.
You remember the first time you read a real novel. The one that you stayed up until the sun came up reading. You remember wanting to be that character tearing through the pages so quickly it was a wonder you didn’t end up sliced with paper cuts. You know the sense of accomplishment you had seeing that book to the end. Then you wanted another one and another one until you had read every book that author penned or until your allowance was nil. You needed to see what happened next. You couldn’t stop until you knew. It was that moment that first book that piqued your interest that created a lifelong reader. It became your passion.Continue reading