Grey.

Two Ibuprofen were desperately utilized, fingers and wrists swearing off cotton indefinitely.  An unhealthy yearning for animal fiber remains.  Ultimately, I do love it.  Bamboo lends softness and shine, the cotton will keep me cool.  It is finished.

I thought I knew the plan. I thought it was all laid out, black, white.

But, as with most patterns I follow (I use the term follow rather loosely) I had to improvise a bit. 

My stitch count is tighter, figure it out. 

My waist is shorter, figure it out.

Don't want the hip as wide, figure it out. 

Seldom is life black and white.  Grey rules most days.  Grey makes me use my head.  Grey allows, even encourages creative license.  Grey causes me to reach out to others, not relying solely on my own limited understanding.

One day my kids won't think I'm the ogre that wouldn't just do it all for them.  Making them search for the lost who-knows-what, when I alone am privy to the location.  Having them get their own snack because they can, not because I want to finish one more row.  Suffering consequences out of love not spite.  Embedding deep in their beings not only the ability but the drive to simply figure it out.   Whatever it has been thrown at them. 

Spring arrives.  Shoulders bare.  Umbrella's raise. Grey never looked so beautiful.