Week 2 Theme

He had a sweet and innocent face, full of life and full of energy; I’d decided to take him to the YMCA again for their baby gymnastics. He was so small; very light weight, just a young little typhoon, two years, two months, two weeks old…to be exact.

When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.

The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.

I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.

My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.

Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.

It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.

With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.

On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.

By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.

As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.

I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.

On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”

Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.

My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.

More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.

While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.

My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.

He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.