The morning Dear Boy was born I finished the sci-fi book of Lovely Husband's I'd been reading. Lovely Husband was still sprawled out in the darkness of the bedroom and I chomped through the last two chapters, curled into the arm of the couch in our sunny loungeroom. When I stood up to unfurl, to stretch, to wander into the kitchen to find some breakfast, my waters broke.
And just like that, the reading stopped.
Seven weeks later, after the hurdy-gurdy and dizzyingly mental early days of Dear Boys life, I found books again. The books I'd received for Christmas had sat undisturbed and a parcel arrived from The Book Depository (free postage, hooray!) with the latest of an urban horror series that was finally being published with a cover that matched my paperback set.
So reading was reborn, over the top of Dear Boy's head while he fed, one hand holding bottle to chomping little mouth, the other trying awkwardly to hold the book and turn the page at the same time.
Oh, how I missed it. Welcome home.