Holly Hobbyless

So, I got dumped. By a 26 year old no less. And do you know why? The man asked me about my hobbies.  Full-blown panic attack. I spazzed. Told him we needed to break up. I mean, are you serious, what are my hobbies? What are my fucking hobbies?

If you're a mom then you know the answer to this. But let me explain to the others the hobbies of a single mother with two children under the age of four, who's going to school: I scrub crayons off the wall, I find the missing Polly Pocket dress in between cushions so my daughter stops crying, I pull my son off the dining room table (again), I take the phone call from their father saying he needs me to drop them off late and pick them up early, or maybe it's another guilt phone call about coming back home so the children have a "family", or maybe I'm cleaning up the food the kids threw on the floor and ground into the carpet, or maybe I'm just shaking my head because someone is screaming "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy". Jesus Christ, stop calling me that, I have a name, I have a name. It's, it's...

Stop. What the hell is my name and who am I now? Mom's, who are we now; when's the last time your heard your name?

No, I don't fucking scrapbook. I don't do photography, I don't knit, crochet, or macrame. My tennis racket is sitting in the car, waiting for me, but the babysitter is going to charge me $15 an hour. How about a good book? I'll read the first three sentences ten times before I fall asleep: David Beckham and I have some unfinished business to attend to.

Does hanging out with my friends count? Drinking wine? Dreaming up what I'd do if I won the lottery? (Hire a fucking nanny first thing!)

So his question, what are my hobbies, smacks me in the face. Raymond Carver said it best "What we talk about when we talk about love." So here we all are. What we talk about when we talk about hobbies. He might have asked me about my hobbies, but what he really wants to know is who I am, and what do I do, what is my life full of.

And I don't have an answer. Or do I? He ran away as fast as he could, but I started walking towards something that I almost didn't recognize. That thing, somewhere. I remember. That thing that I stopped doing so long ago. Why? It's been so long. When did I bury it? Where did you put yours?

I head to the basement. We all keep things in the basement. Holding onto the railing, I smell a late September morning, damp, full of wet dirt and green sky, so perfect it makes your heart hurt, and it's just laying there. Not even in a corner, on the floor in the middle of room.

I pick it up, dust covering the lid, and write my name on it.