I Forgot Myself

I had this interesting conversation with a friend today. We were talking about hobbies. Sounds very craft glue and bedazzler, doesn't it? This could be a gross generalisation, but I'm willing to go out on a limb here - because that's where the best apples are. So here we go.

Importantly, we were talking about our distinct lack of hobbies. And the distinction between parents who have children - which parent retains their hobbies. Anyone? Anyone?

When I became a mother, my 'hobbies' took a backseat. They didn't die a slow and painful death, I didn't lament them, they're still there, in the background, in the shadows, but they're not a priority. If I get to do them, brilliant. If I don't get to do them, well it's a bummer, but they're still going to be there, when the smalls are not so small. It's not a biggie

But lately I've forgotten what my hobbies are, like they're a distant past. My current hobbies include:
- mopping the floor and watching it dry
- folding the washing as fast as I can
- deciphering what furry things are growing in the fridge
- negotiating with tantruming preschoolers before they throw themselves off the sofa
- remembering to respond to all the notes sent home with a Kindy kid

BC (before children) I liked:
- going to the markets and rifling through pre-loved clothes
- cooking/baking
- walking and walking and walking through the backstreets of Paddington
- writing poetry, and creaitng my own weekly e-zine called Random Poetics
- going to see live music. Real. Live. Music. Amazeballs.

I truly did have a life BC. I swear I did. I wasn't all kids and no play. I did have other interests. Honest! I used to know stuff!