Why do I read last?

Why? Why is it that the last thing I get to on my mental list each day is read?

And we're talking the ultimate last thing: after laundry, and housekeeping, and kid activities, and baking, and organizing, and gardening, and meals, and... and... and...

And everything else that would be done if the day had more than a measly 24 hours to its name.

Oh, sure, I read newspaper articles and Internet blogs, but I'm talking about books.

Fiction. Stories. Transport-me-to-another-realm epic tales. Literary fiction. YA lit. Classics. Zombie apocalypse thrillers. Smut. Anything.

Why is reading—one of my favourite pastimes in this ever-loving world—dead last?

Which means, if you're keeping score: it doesn't happen. (Gasp!)

I know, right? I'm a reader for crying out loud!

Hell, right now I'm even blogging during a rare kid-free moment instead of reading. (And as we can clearly tell that doesn't happen very often nowadays, either.)

This needs to change. My Kindle currently holds 78 unread books, and my To Read list is umpteen kilometres long (which is really long, for my metrically-challenged friends, trust).

And it's summer.

Summer. The historically relaxed time of year, when one can take the time to lounge, sleepy-eyed under an atrociously floppy hat and the unforgiving glare of the sun, and read.

So. I'm making myself a pledge to read this summer.

I will unplug. I will sit. I will—despite maintaining a schedule chock full of daycare charges—pretend I am on vacation. I will put up my feet. Keeping dishes, laundry, and lack-of-ants a priority, I will pretend our house is a cottage and maintain a minimal level of housework.

I. Will. Read.

(Wish me luck.)