Read 'Em and Weep
Motherhood changes everything, especially reading habits.
by Amanda Ward
November 29, 2007
Before my boys were born, I used to read a few hours a day. Some days, I read for six hours, some days just for two. I read every night before I went to bed. If I didn't have a book, I read a shampoo bottle. If there was nothing available with words in a language I understood (English, Swahili, some French and Spanish), I wouldn't be able to sleep. I went to great lengths to make sure I was never in this situation, packing three or four books for a weekend trip, two books for the night, and one book whenever I left the house, in case I was caught in traffic or a doctor's office. My husband tried to limit me, citing luggage so heavy it strained his back, but he is a geologist, and sometimes packs rocks.
When I was pregnant with my first son, I stockpiled books for the nursery. While other moms washed brand new onsies in Dreft and pored over stroller specifications, I placed War and Peace next to my nursing glider. No, I'm serious. I really did. I thought that with time to nurse, I would finally get through Tolstoy's classic. I almost hoped for a baby who didn't sleep — I would read all damn night! (I thought child care involved being awake, albeit reading, while the baby squirmed and gurgled next to me.) I figured that time to read meant books consumed. It seemed like a simple equation.
But I hadn't taken one thing into account: my brain.
When my water broke, I headed to the hospital with a perfect bag of thunderstorm CDs and ginger shampoo, stopping"For quite some time I liked mysteries about animals who solved crimes." first at the public library so I wouldn't begin motherhood with overdue books. The next hellish day-and-a-half does not need to be outlined, except to say that Pitocin is the work of the devil and my son was perfect.
But the old me was gone. I remember standing in the hospital shower a few hours after labor and thinking, "The person I used to be thought I would care about ginger shampoo."
When I sat down to read, seeking familiar solace, the words seemed to swim in front of my eyes. I would read a few sentences, then have to go back and re-read. The joyful process of scanning my eyes across the page and stories blooming in my mind was short-circuited. Technically, I was reading. The book was open and I was looking at it. But I was thinking about nursing, the shape of my son's tiny skull.
Lots of mothers I spoke to found that they had no attention span after childbirth. Marritt Ingram, author of Inconsolable, says, "I read young adult fiction for a while. I think the first book I finished was Hatchet." Hatchet, it must be noted, is the story of a boy who, following a plane crash in the Canadian wilderness, must learn to survive with only a hatchet and his own wits. Sounds like a metaphor for motherhood to me, though my own experience might more aptly be called Chardonnay.
Another mother told me, "I couldn't read fiction again for ages. When I did return to books, my tastes had REALLY changed. Good-bye, literary fiction, hello 'cozies.' I think the first fiction book I read after the baby was The Number One Ladies Detective Agency. For quite some time I liked mysteries about animals who solved crimes."
Animals who solved crimes. Enough said.
©2007 Amanda Ward and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Amanda Eyre Ward's new novel, Forgive Me, will be published in paperback in January 2008. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her family. Visit amandaward.com. |
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