Look, I consider myself an avid reader, or I used to be, before I had kids. I was an English major in college, I have piles of books I intend to read on most surfaces in my house, and on the rare occasions when I don’t have kids with me in the car, I listen to audio books. (Related: Holy shit, Gone Girl! Who knew?! Answer: everyone two years ago. No spoilers, please. Not even a third of the way through). Mama loves the heck out of the written word when she’s not butchering it with mixed pronouns and contractions. I will chalk that up to parental fatigue.
But when it’s 7:30 or 8pm and I’m strung out from a day of toddler lifting and mediating their arguments and playing and reading and singing and more lifting and tantrum-enduring and feeding and my kids hand me a long-ass book with blocks of text, by God, it makes me wish they were still reading those mind-numbing, repetitive board (bored?) books.
I LOVE their minds and their curiosities. But when we’re minutes from bedtime, minutes from my much-needed glass of almost anything with alcohol in it, well, this Little Engine…Cannot.