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More Than Playdough

I keep telling myself I’ve got better things to do than to keep tabs on the rain.

Like, uh…stuff.

Which is why on Tuesday, I gathered my small posse in the kitchen and we made our own playdough.

I’d say it’s just playdough…but it’s not.  It’s the culmination of seven months of rain and the notion that they made this stuff themselves. 

It’s an hour of entertainment with the mess–ahem– in just one room.  It’s flattened, red circles clinging to the bottom of her socks.  And one red pancake on his sleeve.  It’s two minds and twenty fingers poking, pulling and tearing until–behold–an ice cream cone and a strawberry pie. 

It’s…

it’s her helping him.

And it’s them–drawn somehow closer by a lump of dough.

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