This post is brought to you by two (!) napping children

***To start, you may want to be aware that this isn't really about my children. It's about books and other boring stuff and my strange thoughts about them. It's perfectly okay to skip this and wait on another post about the little ones if you'd like. You won't hurt my feelings. I promise.***

Another day, another post! (Note: I started writing this on Tuesday, and it's now Thursday and I'm still not finished. Oh well.) I'm on a real roll! And it's all because we now have a mandatory quiet hour after lunch, during Laura's nap, in which Will is restricted to his room, and to activities like looking at books and doing other quiet things with his door closed. We're only on our second day but I'm liking having a few minutes to myself again. Yesterday, he actually fell asleep and slept for an hour or so (he was sitting on the couch waiting on us to get up yesterday morning when I came downstairs so who knows how long he'd been awake, and this was shortly before 6:30) and I remembered again just how much I took for granted his nap-taking days. How I miss them. I felt like a new woman after his siesta and my own hour to do as I pleased. It was pure luxury.

(In any case, now it's Wednesday and he's currently testing the "quiet time" limits as I type, tiptoeing over to the door and opening it a crack before racing back to his bed and his reading. If only he could get paid for limit-testing. We'd be independently wealthy for sure.)

Anyway, I've been feeling like I'm physically able to detect my brain atrophying from lack of use in recent weeks. Vacation is good for relaxing, yes, but doesn't really seem to be good for brain-related endeavors, like thinking about books and reading. I recently waxed lyrical about my Kindle in commenting on my friend Lucy's post about getting an e-reader but Laura and I went to the quaint little library's used book sale while we were in Michigan and I bought no less than seven books for something like $12. I don't know if it's because I've been reading mostly on my Kindle since I got it in December (minus the brief and heartbreaking interlude when I shattered its screen and then I just sucked it up and replaced it since I was already hooked on it), but I have really been enjoying the pleasures of holding an actual book in my hands, turning the pages, placing bookmarks, laying it down on the nightstand with a satisfying little thud.

I swore I'd hate any kind of e-reader from the first time I ever heard of one. So dehumanizing, so devoid of the sensory pleasures of reading. But also so convenient, so quick, so portable, so easy. And so I was won over. I still love it, don't get me wrong, but I also know that I'll never, ever be able to turn my back completely on the good old-fashioned book, the kind with actual pages.

But now that I'm trying to work my way through the stack of books that I bought while we were gone, I'm realizing just what a strange bird I am reading-wise. I will be the first to admit that I'm a literary weirdo. I very rarely like the same books that most people just love, I guess because I'm expecting to be completely blown away based on everyone else's reviews and I'm usually underwhelmed or totally uninterested and/or baffled by the general enthusiasm level. (For instance, I loathed, absolutely LOATHED, The Da Vinvci Code. It seemed like it was written to be a completely implausible action movie even as a mere book before even the possibility of it being made into one, from the few chapters that I read.) In short, I'm picky about what I read mainly because reading time is kind of at a premium these days. If it's not really, really good within the first 20 or so pages (harsh, I know), I abandon it and don't look back for the most part. My philosophy is that there are so many good options out there that it's a shame to waste reading time on mediocre books. (I just reread this and am totally aware that I could come across as kind of insufferable.)

Now, let me be clear about something because I don't want anyone to get any ideas about my ideas about myself (was that confusing?). Never, ever, ever would I consider myself to be a writer. I write this silly little blog for my family and friends with no aspirations for it beyond letting you guys see pictures and read about the kids. I am kind of uncomfortable with the idea of lots and lots of strangers reading about my family and our life, not because it makes me fear for our safety or anything, but mainly because I just find if vaguely unsettling in general, a little strange. All that to say that I don't ever hope to make a living off of this "writing" that I do here. (However, I must also note here that I do absolutely consider the authors of other, better blogs to be writers in the truest sense of the word. I fully support advertising on these blogs and the fact that their authors should be compensated for their time and efforts. I'm also not intending to say that these people are somehow negligent by putting their families and innermost thoughts out there to be, quite bravely I might add, judged by strangers. Different strokes for different folks and all that, you know.)

That was a long-winded way of saying what I'm getting ready to write. While I'm incredibly picky about what I read (and don't read), I don't for one second want anyone to think that I believe that I'm somehow uniquely qualified to judge a writer and his or her work. (I did major in English and there was never a single second that I even considered any other major. I don't think, though, that this makes me any more or less able to read critically and discuss and critique and/or otherwise evaluate books than anyone else on the planet.) Any book, whether it be breathtaking or horrifyingly bad, took crazy amounts of time, effort, and love. It took perseverance, and dedication, and the ability to focus on one project for a singularly long enough period of time to see it through from mere idea to written tome. I admire anyone who has written any book. Period.

However, I'm having some real trouble here lately sticking with books. I get a few pages in and realize that (a) I'm totally uninterested, (b) I really don't like the characters, (c) my mind is wandering, or (d) a combination of any of the above. I finished the (Kindle version) of Bel Canto (Lucy's recommendation, and it was really, really good--I don't say that often) and then finished up a few days ago with an easy (but definitely entertaining) read: A Year in Provence. Since I'd read two whole good books in a row, I guess I was feeling a little cocky about my ability to suss out the good from the bad and jumped right into Life of Pi (I'm way behind, I know, but it was a used book sale find) thinking I'd really like it. Wrong. A few pages in, my mind started to wander and I knew I wouldn't make it through it. I really wanted to like it. I just couldn't. Maybe some other time, I guess. I've heard such good things about it, but then again, that doesn't seem to matter much in my case.

So I've moved on to alternating looking at the new IKEA catalog, which arrived yesterday, and Geraldine Brooks' March, which is starting out to be good in a harrowing, pain-inducing Civil War kind of way. Hopefully I'll be able to make it through, although I'm beginning to think that my attention span is getting shorter the older I get. And that's a scary thought.

I'll just go ahead and apologize for my snottiness book-wise. I don't mean to offend anyone if you happened to like The Da Vinci Code or anything. You know, different strokes . . . Thanks for bearing with my long-winded and completely unnecessary explanation of my reading life. I kind of miss talking to others about books and reading. Curious George and Richard Scarry aren't always the most satisfying reads out there.