Went to mom and dad's today. Took the kids. Had dinner. Played Chinese checkers. Had a good time.

Now we are home and, while I am unwinding and trying to get mentally geared up for Super Bowl XLVI and tomorrow morning, the kids have immediately upon arrival at home base, left things in a shambles and have gone outside to blow off some of their pent up energy. With the mild winter season we've been having, they have been itching for going running and for walks and sidewalk chalk, and I have just seen a blur go by the patio door that suggests that my son has gotten his bike down from the garage ceiling.

There is always something about these grey days, the over-abundance of grey skies, that puts me into a melancholy state of mind. I would prefer to just sit, with tea cup in hand and get lost in a good book. I would prefer, rather than admit how bored I am, to envelop myself into someone else's story. To hear and see what they are doing, smell what they are cooking, feel their solitude or their joy.

Yep. Nothing better than a good read.

I never really enjoyed reading when I was a child. It always seemed much more boring to read about someone else's doings rather than actually just doing. My sister was always reading it seemed. Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, The Hardy Boys and I'm sure many others.

My own love of stories didn't develop until after I'd had my first child. It was my intention to raise a well-developed child and everything I had ever heard about raising smart children pushed hard in the direction of books; picture books, easy-to-read books and reading books to your child. Every Scholastic book order that was sent home from school was a treasure trove of 26-page gold nuggets. I loved reading to my first born, probably much more so than she enjoyed listening to me.

Then I ordered the set of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie books. I was pregnant again when I began reading those books to myself. The discomfort I experienced at night kept me up well past bed-time, and I soon discovered that this was the perfect time to plunge into several chapters of another identity. After flying through the Little House books, I found a more childish story called Rabbits Rafferty by Gerald Dumas. It brimmed with exciting detail of a cute, miniature world of small animals. Now off to the races, I discovered John Grishom's King of Torte's and that was it. I was, without a doubt, in love with books, bookstores, book clubs, libraries.

My husband has learned, grudgingly, to live with my love of reading. He just comes to bed later than me, knowing that I will not willingly give him any attention until I've read my fill for the day. It's my daily get-away, my own personal reprieve from daily stress, my reward for putting in a full day.

So even though I've read it before (and have seen the movie(s)), I can't wait to feel Jane Eyre's reactions to Lowood and Fairfax and Rochester, etc. I thank my lucky stars for having found the Bronte's, Jane Austen, John Grishom, Daphne DuMaurier, Maggie O'Farrell, Robert Alexander, Penny Vincenzi, Nora Ephron, Frances Mayes, Wilkie Collins, and etc., and etc. I find it extremely difficult to fathom what I would ever, ever have done if I hadn't discovered my faithful love of stories. Scary to think about.

Good Night and Good Reading!