If you’ve met me, friended me on Facebook, or know….pretty much anything about me, you know that I am a colossal, almost-to-the-point-of-annoying book nerd.
I’ve been reading rabidly since I learned how in the first grade. I was that kid – you know, the insufferably straight-laced one – whose primary source of conflict with my parents in middle and high school was reading past my bedtime – under the covers, with a flashlight. (I know – I’m a badass.)
It’s probably no surprise, then, that I read….a lot. All the time. Pretty much whenever I can get the chance….because if I’m NOT reading, you don’t want to be around me. (It’s not pleasant.) Reading makes me happier, more productive, and generally just a better person.
That said, in 2016, I read 80 books.
“You should write a book!”
“You are a FANTASTIC writer – I literally devoured every single word on every page of your website.”
“Can you write like every day, please?”
These are just a few of the comments that people have made to me over the last eight years on my blog.
Which, yeah, is flattering…in a way. But it also brings out a wild-eyed teeth-baring smile of frustration (usually with labored breathing) every time I hear something like it.
That was the due date for my son, Caedmon, who is now 17 months old.
It was also the due date for what would’ve been his baby brother or sister – due 2 years apart, to the day.
It was strange – as I drove to the pregnancy center to have my ultrasound tonight – my second scan, at 8.5 weeks – I was overwhelmed with the urge to…just pray.
So I did.