Their Normal

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Sarah Grace was looking at a book, apparently outdated, and asked what the Twin Towers were.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.