I finished a book last night. The last book I read was the third of the C. S. Lewis's science fiction trilogy, That Hideous Strength. (I'd read the first 2 over about 2 years's time.) I got the good vs. evil point, but many things went over my head. Maybe he got his heavenly body roles mixed up. But I've often felt that I feel stupider with each child I have, although they are worth it. It was probably just me. That was about two years ago. This weekend I read John Irving's The Fourth Hand. It was good enough to stay and see the end but not the first of his I would recommend.
I spent a lot of time on it to get through it before the library wants it back. I enjoyed the quiet, mostly while Seth and Arwen were napping and Savannah played video games with Daddy. But I can't imagine doing that very often. I feel guilty having spent that time reading. It's like I sunk down into my own world so far that I just didn't want to be bothered. I'm left feeling like I'd rather use that time to write my own words, although not as crafty as Irving's, I'll be much happier and can come and go when the kiddies need me.
