The boy. And his books. My twelve-year-old is the one I have to strip search at night, because he’ll hide his Kindle somewhere in his bed and try to read way after lights out. He’s mastered the art of “ask for forgiveness, not permission” when it comes to downloading books. I’ll wake in the morning to find an Amazon receipt in my in-box for a late-night download of the second book in the Red Rising Trilogy or Treasure Island. I always chide him, but he knows books are my weakness and he’ll never get in trouble for it.
He’s also addicted to the paper version as well, which I appreciate. But the boy cannot contain them. He has a big bookshelf, but it’s brimming over, so the books are piled everywhere. It makes me crazy the way he crams books every which way. How can he find anything?
But then, of course, I have massive book shelves, yet my to-read pile is threatening to overtake the bedroom. Like mother, like son.