It happens every year. I wake up and start moving and then think about what day it is. I recall clearly what I was wearing, the sunshine outside, the un-belief etched on every face I saw.
I talk with my kids about what happened that day. The day when terrorists crashed planes into buildings and hundreds of innocent people died. The day when a plane full of average Joe's became heros and died in a field. The day when our nation was shocked but mobilized to do everything we could to care for our own. Every year. But apparently I'm a little misty eyed and vague.
Sarah Grace was looking at a book, apparently outdated, and asked what the Twin Towers were.
I wasn't even married yet. My kids were just a part of the hopes I had for the future of my life. I didn't know the power of a Mother's love or the sweet curves of their faces.
My kids have never seen the a New York skyline that includes the Twin Towers. They've never lived in a time when our fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers weren't serving our country by inhabiting a land that hates us. They've never known a country that didn't acknowledge September 11 with flags at half mast.
This is their normal. It's not a change to them. It's simply what they've always known.
I know that the stories I share with them are about as meaningful to them as stories of Pearl Harbor were to me. It's just history.
But I know. I remember. And I'll do my part by sharing with my children my memories of my normal before 9/11. It's part of my duty as a parent.