On this Episode of Intervention...

I've always wanted to have a super cool hobby. Something that I'm pretty good at, keeps me from staring at the ceiling fan like a loon and generally occupies what little time I have left in the 24 hours I'm not feeding, cleaning, teaching, caring, folding, making, driving, playing, cooking, changing, wiping, bathing and all those other present participles I do. So, in reality a hobby I can spend about 3 minutes on per day.

In my pursuit of finding this super cool hobby, I've been a bit of a hobby collector. Is that a hobby?

I'll admit it. I'm standing up today in front of you and saying: Hi my name is The Mama and I'm a serial hobbyist. Of all the serial things one could be, I think I chose the best one.

As all good addicts do, I'm totally blaming my parents. I think my hobbying problem started as a child. I was involved in a lot of after school activities. And I was awesome at all of them. No, seriously. I was like some Super Kid with unmatched abilities and talents flowing out my awesome ass. Ballet? Awesome. Gymnastics? Awesome. Soccer? Awesome. Choir? Awesome. Drama? Awesome.

Oh how the mighty hath fallen. I was once great you know. Now I'm that pathetic lady living out her days recounting stories to anyone in earshot about that game winning goal in the U-10 league soccer championship. Go Guppies! Ever since I've been trying to feel that feeling again. My 9-year-old self kicks my 30-year-old self's ass at everything.

Tried ballet again. That lasted for 2 whole classes before I tore my calf muscle in the middle of a grand jete. Career ending injury. There was a disagreement between my head and body about my awesomeness. Body won.

I was mini-Martha Stewart for a half second while I was pregnant. I was craftin' the shit outta stuff. High on Modge Podge. Hot gluing hottie. Then I discovered Pinterest. That website broke my spirit. Well maybe it was partially Pinterest and partially my poor cutting skills. I've never been good at cutting in a straight line. Honest to God, check my report card. I actually failed cutting in kindergarten. It's my Achilles heel.

Thought I could take up drawing. Dreams of gallery openings flashed in my head. I have a hand. I have a fancy, ridiculously expensive charcoal pencil set and some paper. I can draw. Right? Wrong. Apparently drawing takes some talent and an "eye" for that crap...whatever that means.

I think I lost all my talent when I was 12. Maybe puberty hit and my talent just disappeared. Or went straight to my boobs.

You name it, I've tried it. Baking? Suck. Tennis? Suck. Kickboxing? Suck. Photography? Suck. Well, I'm still pretty convinced I could be the next Ansel Adams but my cheapo husband refuses to shell out the gajillions of dollars I need for a camera and won't let me turn our linen closet into a dark room. Something about the ever growing pile of useless hobbying tools in the garage.

I have convinced him to buy me a sewing machine so I can try my hand at quilting. I think that's just because he dreams of having a wife that will cook and sew for him instead of tell him to pick up pizza again and make sarcastic comments about him in her blog. Buuuut, he knew what he was marrying 6 years beforehand. Do not feel bad for him.

Jack of all trades? Addiction? ADHD? Maybe a bit of it all. Really there's not much I can do if I really did lose al my talent at age 12. I should just stick to what I know...blogging and drinking wine. On the bright side, if all that talent did go to my boobs-totally worth it for all the free drinks I've had. I may be talentless but I've had a damn good time.