Snow falling on cedars

It's been a year since I've read a book. More or less. Reference books about babies not counting. It's been strange, since I have always - always - had a book on the bedside table, so to speak.  Being a "reader" is important to me; it's one of the ways I identify myself. It's how I've spent so much of my time. It's the closest thing I have to a passion. When I found my mind wandering last summer, and my efforts to rein it in didn't work, I decided that I had to let it go. "This is what happens to you when you're pregnant," I told myself. "Just give it a few months. You'll be back."

Then Nils came, and any thoughts of reading flew out the window. And it wasn't even that I was so busy or tired (which I was, of course). I just didn't want to read. Everything sounded boring and complex, and I knew I would just start a book and put it down 40 pages later. Or, if something finally caught my interest, the whisper of the opening pages sent a voice in my head to scold me. "Hm. Reading, are you? Wow. Didn't know you had so much time on your hands. And I suppose there's nothing else you could be doing with that time. Hm."

It was all well and good enough. I busied myself with household and logistical tasks while Nils napped, and watched delicious television with Oliver in the evenings. I went to bed early when I could. "You'll be back," I told myself while I chopped vegetables or folded laundry. "Don't sweat it."

I'd be lying if I said it didn't gnaw at me though, a bit. Who was I now? Was I just a mom? Had I lost parts of myself forever? Would I ever be able to sit down again and think long, drawn-out thoughts? Would I ever want to? Would I stop learning now? Would I just live through my child?

Then I picked up a book one day. Snow Falling on Cedars, a novel I had started some time ago and tossed aside. "I'll just read it on the subway to and from work," I said. "Just a little bit here and there." I read on the subway, and it was good. Then one night Nils fell asleep, dinner was ready, the apartment was clean, and Oliver called to say he'd be home in about 45 minutes. 45 minutes to myself! 45 minutes in a quiet house while the light turned golden before fading out. I stretched out on the couch , and there I stayed until the key turned in the door.

I finished the book today.

I'm back!