Lobbying for a Hobby

Last weekend, when Eric was home on an 18-hour layover (i.e., he laid down over here between more interesting events), he spoke longingly about his desire to have a consuming passion.  It surprised me, considering all the disparate and quirky interests he has--from politics to horror movies.

Maybe his interests aren't so disparate after all . . . .

Regardless, he spoke with fondness about the folks he knows who are obsessed with something.  I reminded him that being around people with such a singular focus can be a drag, especially if that focus is, say, macrame or brown foods.

Secretly, though, I started to doubt my parenting style, one in which I have sought to raise generalists, rather than specialists.  It's possible I've been a bit too obsessed about that outcome.

But it's not as though Eric hasn't had his own obsessions, beginning with "The Lion King."  My god, I don't know what Disney put in those celluloid waters, but something tarry and dark wedged its way into my young son's brain.  There even came a point when I pondered canceling my subscription to National Geographic, in hopes that all lions--even Nala and Simba--would just die off and go away.

Last weekend, Eric got a super-8 movie camera in the mail, thanks to a high bid on eBay.  He thought that maybe this media relic would become the object of his affection, and I kind of got what he meant.  Two of my brothers had super-8 cameras, which meant that I spent many a happy childhood weekend re-enacting scenes from "Superman" and "Kung Fu."  Their filmmaking pursuits pulled in kids from every corner of the neighborhood, each one of us getting a delicious taste of my brothers' obsessions.

I, too, have had my laser-like loves, from swimming pools to Scrabble, bacon to beer (both the making and consumption of), I know what it's like to fall in love with something.  And both Mark and I have felt like falling in love with something again.   That's why, 15 years after having sold our first beer-making kit, we bought another one last week.

Mark bought me my first beer kit for my 30th birthday and I had five or six great years with that thing, loving the experimental nature of the beast, the way the malt bubbled up, dangerously close to the lip of our steaming pot, the way the yeast smelled, burping itself from the containers where magic--or mishap--was being made.  The only reason I gave it all up was because of my children.  With two young kids in the house, suddenly it seemed unreasonable to have to wait 5 weeks for a cold one.

But my kids are all grown up now.  Which means I'm free to fall in love again with an old hobby.  And, to that, I say "cheers!"