9/11

I remember where I was.  I remember the day.  I won't forget, though my experience wasn't remarkable in the way that many people's stories are.

My children are too young to know what 9/11 is, both as an experience and as a school history lesson.  But as we drove to the library yesterday, straying from our usual route due to a road closure, we passed a field that is filled with American flags.  A local contractor and his family have annually assembled a memorial that includes over 3000 flags, and it is an impressive, awe inspiring sight.

I drove by this memorial as I had in years past, but this year from the back seat I heard, "Mommy, look at all the flags!  What is that for?"

I took in a deep breath.  I had been thinking this last week how I was to explain the significance and enormity of 9/11 to my children.  I knew that they were old enough for at least some explanation, although it was hard to know how much I could offer them.  I know, too, that they are at an age where most things go in one ear and out the other, so I didn't want to belabor something that they tuned out.

So from the front seat, I said this:

"10 years ago, some very bad men flew some big airplanes into some buildings in New York and those buildings fell down, and many many people died because of it.  And every year we remember what happened so that we can honor those people."

I stopped there, figuring if they asked questions I could answer them.  I turned around at the stop light and because Nate sits behind the passenger seat, I could see he was stifling a giggle.  I've learned he's a nervous giggler, and often he will laugh when you get hurt because he doesn't realize that you aren't playing around.  So I said, very seriously, "It's not funny, it's very serious, because it really happened."  He looked at me, with a bit of a shocked look on his face.  I could tell he was understanding me by then.

Julia sits behind the driver's seat, and because we weren't at a stop light any longer, and because she was quiet, I continued to drive.  Until Nate said, "Julia's crying."  I took a quick look in my mirror and saw she was quietly crying.  At that moment I felt awful for explaining it from the driver's seat of my car and not waiting for when we had gotten to the library.  I underestimated Julia's capacity for compassion, for understanding, even at five years old.  And in that moment I felt like I had failed her.

I reached around with my right hand and held her tiny hand in mine.  I asked her why she was crying.  She said, "It's so sad." I held back my own tears and told her it was ok, that we were very safe right there on the way to the library and that it was ok to be sad because it was a very sad thing.  We weren't far from the library by then, and I pulled quickly into the parking lot and hopped out of the car as fast as I could.  I opened her door and pulled her out of her seat as she wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.

"Shhhhh," I whispered into her hair.  "It's ok.  You're safe with me and we're all ok.  Ok?"

Over my shoulder she caught sight of the sculpture out in front of the library.  The tears melted away and she wriggled down from me and held my hand impatiently as we walked over to it.  It seemed all was forgotten.

I beat myself up mentally the whole rest of the night.  Wishing I'd talked to them somewhere other than a moving car, feeling like I'd completely underestimated how they might respond.  Wondering what they would take away from the conversation, if anything.

This morning, Heidi mentioned that Nate had asked her, "Did Mommy ever tell you the story of what happened in New York????"

As sweet as it was, I ached a little inside for the piece of innocence I had taken away from them yesterday.

The television is full of tributes today.  Commercials let us know that Budweiser and Verizon want us to remember.  The NFL does a tribute that includes "Taps" played by the Pentagon memorial site at the National Cemetery.  They don't realize we haven't forgotten.  It's not for us we have to remember.  My daughter climbs up in my lap and I remember for her.  My son hugs me and I remember for him.

I will remember for them, so they never have to remember anything like it.