When I’m Not Reading

Some of you may be wondering what I’m doing with my bountiful amounts of free time now that novels are no longer an option. Well, at least not for the next twenty-six days.

Naturally, some of my time is immediately taken up by moaning about not reading novels—at least during this initial period of withdrawal. Then, there is the inevitable mindless screen scrolling in an attempt to distract myself from my fiction-less existence. There is also nonfiction reading (a collection of letters from Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gentle and Lowly, a library book on watercolors). And there is the usual: laundry, dishes, homeschooling, school planning, bathroom wipe downs, sundry parenting.

And then (this is what you’ve been waiting for) there is the extra stuff that has suddenly become terribly engaging since it’s no longer distracting me from a plot I’d rather see brought to an end.

First, yesterday, I solved the Great Spice Cake Mystery. Littles had made spice cake for breakfast, and I’d carefully put away the leftovers in an air tight Tupperware so the Man and I could share a piece with tea for our At Home Date Night (they are hard to come by these days: spice cake makes them more exciting). Imagine my surprise, then, when I got up from the couch, after an hour’s worth of afternoon work, to find the container completely empty and crumbs trailing from the back door to the garage door (and back again via the sitting room carpet). After a full inquisition, the culprits ‘fessed up. The girls had lovingly shared a piece with a neighborhood friend and left the top off so that Trigger could gorge himself on what was left.

With such real life excitement and mystery, who needs novels? (Me, I need novels. If I say otherwise, I’m in denial.)

Then, I took the kids to the grocery store and had to work hard to convince my four year old that no, she did not actually need sushi. Having won the sushi battle, I caved when she asked for apple juice. But since I lost on the apple juice front, I had to hold my ground when Bruiser requested a box of pre-packaged crackers.

Almost as good as a war novel. And less gory. Except for the part when the back of my ankle gets rammed by the grocery cart. But, in the interest of honesty, that didn’t happen this week. Winning.

Then there is watching the World Series with the family. So exciting (read deafening) that I left the room after one home run. I never read sports novels (unless they’re about running) so obviously, I wasn’t feeling a need to replace them. The Man initially tried to convince me to stay and watch just in case I was the good luck charm that helped Soler hit it out of the park, but caved when I kept making snarky comments about All the Baseball Things.

I’ve also been listening to a lot of music lately. There’s my children tin whistle choiring (it’s a verb now, get over it) their way through “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. There’s all the Christmas recital music practice (with certain children butchering the rhythm so badly that I’m positive they’ve never heard a Christmas carol before—ever—in their life). And there’s Bruiser in the bathtub doing a credible imitation of Scuttle from The Little Mermaid while I desperately try to focus on writing.

And naturally, I’ve been running (this probably should’ve gone up with the World Series paragraph, but let’s be honest: running is way better than baseball and I’m saving the best for last). I’ve been going for long runs to try to sweat the novels out of my system faster. And short speedy runs while I try to break other people’s Strava records (because nothing says DISTRACTION in blinking neon lights like meaningless competition). And I’ve been playing chicken with the golf course coyotes. Today they won. The King of the Coyotes parked himself right in the middle of the path and said, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” and didn’t blink until I caved, slinking off through the greens with my tail between my legs. I was late getting home, but mostly I was embarrassed by the smug look that stupid coyote gave when I acknowledged defeat.

Other than that, it’s just the usual. Like thinking green beans belong on tacos and boiling my husband’s underwear in a misplaced hope that it would somehow shrink to the size I thought I’d ordered him. But you don’t want to hear about that.

Anyway, surely, all this is filling the void left behind in my life by novels!

…Nope. Not really. How are we only four days into this month? This is why I have only made the mistake of giving up novels for Lent once. Forty days, not counting Sundays, without fiction of any kind was the pits.

But friends, we will prevail. And this applies whether you’re in one boat—trying to survive personal withdrawals during No Something November—or in another boat—trying to survive the unintended consequences of someone else’s No Something November: a crabby wife, a scratchy-faced husband, you fill in the blank,

Say it with me: we will prevail! Unless, of course, someone leaves the top off of the second round of spice cake or we run into another supercilious coyote. Then all bets are off.