I’ve never been much of a book person.
Granted, over the past 6 years, I’ve read plenty of books. But most of those have been picture books, board books and, generally, anything impervious to teethmarks or drool. With a little Tikki Tikki Tembo thrown in there as well.
But the other kind of books? The ones with actual words targeted at audiences over the age of 8? I’ve never taken much to.
To my husband, the ex-literature teacher, this is baffling. There are few things he’d rather do than sit around and bury his nose in a book, or his Kindle.
So when the reading fever struck me earlier this week, I don’t think anyone was more shocked than he.
Or sad to see his Kindle go. And he knew it would be a while before he got it back.
Because I started reading The Hunger Games trilogy.
If you haven’t started reading the books yet, I highly recommend that you don’t. Because they are positively addicting. And that’s not necessarily a good thing.
Housework has been neglected.
We’ve gone out for dinner 3 of the past 4 nights.
I haven’t gone to bed before 1 am since I started reading the books.
I might be just a wee bit obsessed.
But here’s the thing I’ve discovered. Even if I let everything else slide around the house, there’s still the small matter of those two little munchkins that need me.
Kindergartners aren’t very sympathetic to I’LL-MAKE-YOU-BACON-AFTER-I-FINISH-CHAPTER-10’s. They want their breakfast now.
Toddlers don’t like it when you say, “I’ll come play with you after I find out who gets picked from District 12.” Hungry Hippos wait for no one.
And you really don’t earn brownie points with the husband when tell your son, “Go ask Daddy to change your diaper, honey. Momma needs to see whether Katniss makes it out of this one.”
I’ve discovered that it’s really, really hard to finish a book when you have kids.
The good news for my family is that I’m burning through the books at an alarmingly fast rate. After a couple days of reading, I’m on number three in the trilogy.
My husband, who’s already read the books, has been humoring me while I satisfy my obsession.
Secretly, I think the ex-professor in him is glad I’m finally reading an actual book. One that does not have pictures in it.
Or perhaps he knows that, at the rate I’m reading, the end is near. In another day or so, The Hunger Games will draw to a close. And he’ll have home-cooked meals, and semi-clean house once again.
And, if he’s lucky, he’ll also get his Kindle back.