There are memories I have of my childhood that are extremely clear in my mind—the times of playing catch with my father, of playing dolls with my friends, or the first time my mom taught me how to use the stove. Not all the memories are good, but nevertheless, they are clear.
There are other memories that are not as clear; these are generally places where I got into trouble with my sisters (said tongue-in-cheek), or where I might have been too small to fully comprehend what I seeing or hearing. My husband and I often laugh at how much we saw but did not fully understand until now—as adults—our perspective is totally different.
Then there is a different set of memories—painful memories. In some cases, divine intervention blocked them totally from my mind—at least until I had children of my own.