This week Elliott, Harper, and I walked to the local library one afternoon. Ellie loves to go to the library; they have a caboose that she could spend hours in, a kitchen with lots of accessories, and more puzzles than she can handle. It’s heaven for a two-year-old; she loves it.
What I haven’t loved lately? Not having time to read. Recently, by the time I make it to bed , I just pass out. Gasp. Having two babes is hard work.
But while we were at the library, I picked up a book I though looked interesting, A Year on Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball.
I liked the premise: three friends, with families grown and husbands gone, buy an old, rundown mansion in the middle of nowhere in hopes of fixing it up. Their friendship is comforting and the trials and money troubles they go through is all-too familiar. It’s a good, easy, summer read. I would recommend it.
And I think it got me back in the swing of reading. Before kids, I could read two or three books a week in the summer (although it’s hard to remember that period in my life and to think of all the free time I had–I didn’t know how good I had it!). But it’s just gotten a lot harder to make time for it. I have other things that have to get done like laundry, emptying the dishwasher, picking up an endless barrage of toys, etc.
But I need to read again, for my sanity and because I love it. It makes me feel happier, more inspired, and more aware–seeing other people’s lives and struggles (real or made up) makes me more content with my life. But at the same time, it encourages me to try new things or go new places. And isn’t that the point of good literature? To inspire? To encourage?
I love literature.