My kids act like my love of reading is an affront to them specifically. As if I enjoy reading purely to irritate them. Do you know how many times I'd wished my mother had sent me to my room to read when I'd pissed her off?
Let me set the stage for ya. The 2nd Hunger Games movie is on and Aidan is watching. Cinna appears on screen and I whimper a little because, well... if you know, you KNOW. Aidan looks over at me and says, 'what?'
What? Oh my god, kid, I'll tell you WHAT!
They do carry half of my DNA, correct? I mean, that's how it works, right? So why... no, HOW IN THE EVER LOVING HELL do they both hate to read??? I just find it wholly unfair. I don't begrudge them their father's affinity for math despite my reaching for a mug of broken glass and seltzer water to gurgle when I think about it. They complain about being bored when there is an entire Happy Potter library at their disposal, yet balk at the suggestion that reading might actually entertain them.
God, I can't even comprehend the bull-headedness so securely centered in my sons. I'd be remiss to mention that I, myself, am not stubborn or contrary in any way and therefore have obviously no culpability in that particular aspect of their personality. Just ask my husband...