Will I ever read again?

 

For two weeks I have been back at work after ten months looking after a new baby and a toddler, enjoying and being frustrated with all that entails.  When I walked into school, I was both apprehensive to be back and quite eager to get started, eager to return to a routine I have known for twelve years.  I unpacked my many copies of "Othello", my Beckett hoard, copies of "The Red Room", "Streetcar" and a lovely book of poetry called, “The Book of Luminous Things,” which I thought I might refer to with my Advanced English class, with whom I can indulge my penchant for great poetry inspiring great writing. 

I still went to my book group, once again only having read half of the prescribed text; I signed up to tutor and went to some exercise classes, knowing that it won’t be long before I find juggling it all, almost impossible.  I rearranged my “To Read” books onto a separate shelf and now I’m eying it with a real sense of guilt, or rather, they are eying me with a strong sense of indignation: “Thanks for saving us from Amazon’s dusty warehouse, but when were you thinking of cracking the spines?”  I have four novels by my side on the sofa, all of which are started, but unfinished.  I think I am biting off more than I can chew.  I suppose that this year is not the time to attempt Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time”?