The other night, after I had tucked in the little girls and kissed Mitzi, who was already cuddled up under her covers, immersed in her reading, I found Cooper on his bedroom floor. Before him was spread out a few books and he had a thoughtful look on his face. I asked him what he was doing. “Trying to figure out what I want to read tonight,” he answered.
These were not new books — he’s been reading them in turn for about a week. But Cooper doesn’t always read the same book day after day — he jumps from one to the next, depending on his mood. And it doesn’t bother him, and he easily follows the characters even if he hasn’t seen them for a few days.
I’ve given up trying to understand or change his ways. But I don’t get it. Because I’m a exactly the opposite. No nibbling on books for me, no tasting them here or there. Nope. When I read, I binge.
If a book catches me on page one, I will do anything I can to read until it’s done, even if it means walking around the house with it clutched in my hands as I load the dishwasher or gather up dirty clothes for the wash. I stay up way too late, desperate to finish, because, if a book is that good I just can’t stand to go to sleep without knowing what happens.
Of course, I can’t do this all the time, and it takes every ounce of my adult sensibility to put the book down and get on with my day. But while I do all the things I have to, I steal glances at it when I walk through the room, and sometimes even pick it up to read another page or two. Just for a minute.
I was thinking about this today as I added another title to my library list. When will I be able to read all of these, and still do all the stuff I’m supposed to?
Too many books, too little time…
What kind of reader are you?