My kids are really going to start wondering what is wrong with their mother. My eyes have welled up with tears and I've stifled more sobs in the last 36 hours than I have in a long time.
I've got to stop reading, listening, watching... 9/11, 9/11, 9/11.
But the tears come not just from sadness over the terrible loss of human life on that day. They also come from a frustration that the power of decency and respect and caring that in the end took the day away from those terrorists has disappeared. It has receded to such an extent that those who run our country call each other names and refuse to compromise and cooperate. They spout off vitriol for the benefit of the 24-hour news cycle and leave the rest of us wondering whether we'll ever be able to pay our mortgage or send our kids to college or hold down a job.
I hope that this week-end will remind those elected to serve that their job is not about them... it's about us. It's about the people of this country-- not about getting re-elected or making the CEO of X Corporation richer. It's about the people who helped each other get through that awful day and the many thereafter and who refused to let the terrorists keep them down...
I always cry when I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
A parent of 4....
Accepts that a certain level of chaos is inevitable, that dirt builds character (or characters, as the case may be), and having a child with high self-esteem is overrated.
Is an over-committed volunteer—there are just not enough hours in the day to be PTA president, room mom, scout leader, religious education teacher or coach for each child—and tends to get bitter when the parents of 1 or 2 don’t pitch in.
Understands that each child will get the attention he or she needs, not necessarily the attention he or she wants.
Does NOT make meals to please individual palates; rather the parent makes meals to feed the children. And, yes, sometimes spaghetti sauce is a vegetable.
Enjoys having other people’s children over to play, but is not interested in having them stay… particularly when those children have just one additional sibling and somehow their parent(s) is(are) too busy to pick them up on time.
Would welcome parents of one or two asking, just once, if all his/her kids can come to their house to play; rather than asking if both siblings can come to our house since the second sibling should have something to do, too.
Insists that the family’s schedule is what counts, more than the schedule of any individual member of the family.
Knows that when he or she is gone, the children will thank them for their siblings.
Is an over-committed volunteer—there are just not enough hours in the day to be PTA president, room mom, scout leader, religious education teacher or coach for each child—and tends to get bitter when the parents of 1 or 2 don’t pitch in.
Understands that each child will get the attention he or she needs, not necessarily the attention he or she wants.
Does NOT make meals to please individual palates; rather the parent makes meals to feed the children. And, yes, sometimes spaghetti sauce is a vegetable.
Enjoys having other people’s children over to play, but is not interested in having them stay… particularly when those children have just one additional sibling and somehow their parent(s) is(are) too busy to pick them up on time.
Would welcome parents of one or two asking, just once, if all his/her kids can come to their house to play; rather than asking if both siblings can come to our house since the second sibling should have something to do, too.
Insists that the family’s schedule is what counts, more than the schedule of any individual member of the family.
Knows that when he or she is gone, the children will thank them for their siblings.
Sometimes you just don't want to remember....
Sunday marks the 10th Anniversary of the September 11 attacks.
There are memorials, tributes, forecasts, analyses-- so many things people are doing to remember the day. I can't watch or listen to them.
I don't really want to remember it at all.
I don't think I had experienced real fear in my life before that day. By the time I and my colleagues had a grip on what was happening, that fear had become anxiety over what would happen next... an anxiety which lingered for a long time.
A college classmate died that day. Many acquaintances walked and ran as they escaped the dust cloud rushing through the cavernous downtown streets after the towers collapsed. The smell in the City was awful. The pictures of victims lined the exterior walls of the hospital around the corner from the office, victims whose families searched for them in vain.
But thankfully no one I knew intimately was physically harmed.
However I was harmed... in a less physical way. I felt-- and continue to feel-- fear. When the pictures of the smoking towers appear on TV or the audio from radio or TV broadcasts from that day are replayed, the anxiety comes back. It's the heart-racing, body-shaking, sick-from-the-bottom-of-my-stomach kind of anxiety which I would rather not have to experience again.
I never went down to ground zero in the weeks following the attacks. I don't have much interest in visiting the memorial-- or the new Freedom Tower.
I don't know if I ever will.
There are memorials, tributes, forecasts, analyses-- so many things people are doing to remember the day. I can't watch or listen to them.
I don't really want to remember it at all.
I don't think I had experienced real fear in my life before that day. By the time I and my colleagues had a grip on what was happening, that fear had become anxiety over what would happen next... an anxiety which lingered for a long time.
A college classmate died that day. Many acquaintances walked and ran as they escaped the dust cloud rushing through the cavernous downtown streets after the towers collapsed. The smell in the City was awful. The pictures of victims lined the exterior walls of the hospital around the corner from the office, victims whose families searched for them in vain.
But thankfully no one I knew intimately was physically harmed.
However I was harmed... in a less physical way. I felt-- and continue to feel-- fear. When the pictures of the smoking towers appear on TV or the audio from radio or TV broadcasts from that day are replayed, the anxiety comes back. It's the heart-racing, body-shaking, sick-from-the-bottom-of-my-stomach kind of anxiety which I would rather not have to experience again.
I never went down to ground zero in the weeks following the attacks. I don't have much interest in visiting the memorial-- or the new Freedom Tower.
I don't know if I ever will.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)