I pile the stack of books on the counter with a thud and smile at the librarian as I hand her my library card.
“No kids today?” She asks.
“No. Just me.” I say.
“Now, I have to ask you,” she says, in her rich European accent, “you have the three little boys, yes?”
“Yes.” I won’t pass this comment on to the noisy boys, who are ten and would take great offense at being called little.
“My dear,” she asks as she scans Wednesday Wars by Gary Schmidt, “when you do have time to read all of these?”
Good question. When do I have time to read? I mumble something about after the kids go to bed, but I think of it throughout the evening. The simple answer is that I prefer a good book to just about anything on television, but the truth is: I can’t not read. Words are part of who I am. And who I’m becoming.
How do I have time to read?
How do I not have time?