The One With the Play-Doh

Had a conversation with Elder Son this afternoon that evolved from Play-Doh into the anxiety I felt as a mother when the boys were young.

I told Elder Son that I regret things I said and did when I was anxious. 

"I don't remember any of that," he said.

He went on to tell me that he and Younger Son had had a similar conversation. They each felt bad for the way they used to treat each other. But neither one remembered anything the other had done, only the things they'd done themselves.

It was a lovely and forgiving conversation that started with Play-Doh.

(Note: Apologies to you, reader. I jotted this down quickly just to remember it. It has no finesse or style. My intent is to revisit and flesh the story out better.)