Purl, Interrupted

"Mommy, can you open these paints for me?"

"Mama, can you get me a snack?"

"Mama, will you play tic-tac-toe with me?"

After dozens of questions just like these this afternoon while I was in the midst of starting a new knitting project—awkwardly, since it's only the third in my lifetime—I realized why women have for generations taken needles in hand. I suspect it's because it leaves you almost literally "tied up" and unable to respond to such requests.

With fingers and thumb twisted in yarn, there is a visual cue that says loud and clear, "Mommy is not available." At least that's what I'd like to think.

Knitting takes my mind to a place far removed from the one I occupy physically. When I knit, I enter a state much like the one my dad fell into while he was reading the paper. I used to have to call him by his first name to get his attention; my kids have resorted to shoving something—anything—in front of my pattern to get mine.

"As soon as I'm done with my row" has replaced "in a minute" in my parental lexicon.