I’m happy to report that whatever my brain was doing when it went walkabout for all those months (those many months when I couldn’t read books because I couldn’t focus on them) seems to have worked itself out. The brain is back, baby.
Well, sort of.
This morning I prepped Jack’s meds before he woke. I made hash browns and bacon (Jack says the word “bacon” now, and requests it daily. I oblige because he speaks his request!), as well as toast and eggs. I mentally patted myself on the shoulder. “Good job, you. You’re mothering like a pro.”
But after the boys got on the bus (long after), I saw Jack’s meds sitting there on the counter. I forgot to give them to him. Jack doesn’t function without meds. I was still in my pajamas, my hair a smashed thing. Jeff agreed to take the meds to the school. I questioned my ability to raise children.
Before running errands with Truman, I first had to talk him down from an emotional precipice where he wailed and screamed about not having wifi in the car because he wanted to watch youtube kids, yo. Wah! That took some time, but with a little finesse on my part, we were on our way.
The errands took longer than I planned. My quick stop for groceries became a major shop. I need to learn that when you have oodles of boys around, including teens, there is never a “quick trip to the store.” You always need a piled-high cart. The end.
We were late for Truman’s first day of preschool and I hadn’t fed him lunch. I pulled a fun-sized Hershey bar and a handful of Wheat Thins from the grocery bags and told him to snarf it up. I am an inspiration.
He arrived 15 minutes late for school and asked where all the friends were. “Well,” I thought, “They are sitting at circle time well-fed and well-groomed because their mothers had it together.” Truman had chocolate smudges on his pants and shirt. I wiped the chocolate smears from his mouth and took First Day of School pics all alone outside the preschool. There is no interference from other kids when you show up late and the place is a ghost town. Silver linings.
But. This tale of questionable parenting is merely a side note to this post’s initial purpose, which is that I am once again able to read books. Huzzah!
I inhaled Counting by Sevens by Holly Goldberg Sloan, which I straight up loved. It’s a young adult tale of a misfit girl named Willow whose life falls utterly apart. The way it begins to mend is a beautiful thing. The characters in this book were delightful. It felt so real to me.
I’m obsessed with colonial America (and any period piece, frankly) so I enjoyed Flight of the Sparrow by Amy Belden Brown. It’s a novel based on a true account of Mary Rowlandson of the Massachusetts Bay Colony who was kidnapped by Native Americans in the 17th century. A lovely read, filled with difficult people and situations and ideas, but which mirrors the complexities of life.
Perhaps it is because my heritage is English, that I have my deep-seated fascination with all things British and its history. Who knows. But I will never get enough Brit lit. I died over Wolf Hall. I adored The Last Kingdom. Ditto, The Buried Giant, Hild, and Katharine. Thus, I am now reading about the Wars of the Roses, circa Henry VI. I just finished Stormbird by Conn Igullden and I’m looking forward to Margaret of Anjou next. I’m really glad I have hot showers and anti anxiety meds and a free land to live in, but man, England in its early centuries captivates me.
I picked up A Memory of Violets by Hazel Gaynor, from the Costco book table, and while it feels a little Hallmark-special to me and hence a tad saccharine and predictable, I can’t say it’s unpleasant. It’s about impoverished flower sellers in London in the late 19th century, a la Eliza Doolittle/Pymalion. But less Audrey Hepburn and more time-hopping with physical disabilities thrown into the mix. I’m not far in yet, so I can’t say much more.
Books are an old, dear friend.
I’m so glad we are back together.