Yes, I've been knitting.
No, not as much as I normally do.
My head's been firmly buried in this book for the last three days. I finished it a little while ago, thanks to two happy little girls who mercifully kept themselves occupied all morning.
Until I had children I regularly lost myself in books, as the boxes and boxes of books in our basement will bear witness to. It was not unusual for me to go through two to three full-length novels/week. Back when I was a child I had teachers who refused to believe that I read as much as I did, and I was more often than not in trouble for reading too much. In college it became obvious that an English degree was the only thing that made sense for me - practical or not. Books were my joy, my escape, my entertainment, my everything...
I miss that part of myself deeply. Only rarely do I allow myself to sink back into my old bookish habits - mostly because it's almost difficult for me to function outside of the book when I'm truly enmeshed in its pages. I have a life, and children, and thus can't afford the luxury of that type of escape.
It's not all bad, though. I now only read the things I truly love, and freely allow myself to stop reading a book part way through if I decide I don't like it for some reason. That's rather freeing, and I find that I enjoy my infrequent book journeys all the more for it.
Now I can get back to knitting!
Oh...and spinning too....