Let’s be clear about one thing, purling is not nearly as fun as knitting.  The inventors of knitting must have figured this out long ago; otherwise they would have called it purling and it wouldn't be nearly as popular.  It’s a very clever advertising technique.  They just tell you about the fun stuff and then, after you get into it, you realize this other part exists but by then it's too late.  You’re already hooked.  And it works.  How many of us knit?  OK.  Raise your hand if your favorite part is purling.  See.  There you go. Lots of things are like this.  Kids for instance.  They are just the cutest, cuddliest, most eat them up kind of wonderful things when they are small. You want to spend all of your time with them, watching them, touching them, smelling them,  listening to them... you just can’t get enough of them.  And then they grow.

And grow and grow and grow until one day they are bigger and louder and smellier than you ever could have imagined and they make noise.  Lots of noise.  Noise that you should only expect to hear in the fourth quarter of a Warriors – Lakers game at the Arco Arena.  Deafening noise.  Noise that can only be classified as pollution.  Noise so loud you can’t even hear yourself think.

All I wanted was a little quiet.  Just a little, eensie, weensie, bit of quiet so I could read the material I was supposed to be lecturing on this coming week in class.  Call me ridiculous but I can’t help but think that my students would benefit from me being just the slightest bit prepared this week for class.  I am, after all, supposed to explain things to them in pithy, clever, exciting sorts of ways.  And in order to do that, I had to read the material.

“Go outside,” I encouraged them.

“Mom, it’s raining.”

“Yes, and?  A little water never hurt anyone.”

“What about the Wicked Witch?”

“Good point. Go outside anyway.  I’ll take complete responsibility if you melt into a puddle on the driveway.”

15 minutes later they were back.

“We’re hungry.”

Of course.

“Make yourself some macaroni and cheese.  Only do it quietly, I’m trying to read.”

Who was I kidding?  Why is it necessary to beat box your way through macaroni and cheese? Did we need to hold the audition for Stomp in my kitchen?  I locked myself in my bedroom.

5 minutes later there was a knock on the door.

“Mom, can I watch TV?”

Great, more noise.

“No,” I said.

“There’s nothing to do.”

Of course not.

“Go play ping pong in the garage,” I said, in a voice that could best be described as slightly annoyed. “ Take out a board game.  Read a book.  Do something creative.  Learn how to knit.  Just leave me alone.  I have to read.”

“What are you reading about?” the younger one asked, feeling bad by now and trying to make amends.

“Memory.”  I replied, ironically.   Unfortunately, after 2 hours of trying to get through the stuff, I couldn’t remember a blessed thing.