In contrast, while I was reading and waiting for T. at school yesterday, I got into a conversation with a couple of girls waiting for one of the teachers. They asked what I was reading. I said it was the ninth book in a series and they were awed that I had read the other eight. They hate reading. I was depressed. I said, not very convincingly, that they have just not found the right book yet.
I admit that not liking to read is not bad in the sense that trying to blow up cats in mailboxes is bad. But I do get the same sense that I’m from some other planet than both those kinds of folks. And I do deeply appreciate my own kids.
Read to your bunnies, please.