I didn't watch the quazi-documentary The Path to 9/11 airing on network TV. I had avoided watching commemorative specials on the terrorist attacks. I tuned in to CNN.com this morning for only a glimpse of its 5-year-anniversary coverage before turning my mind on the day's tasks at hand.
Then it happened. While sitting down to eat a bite of lunch, I clicked one headline and began to read. "Children of 9/11 old enough to ask about Daddy." It reveals what life has been like for dozens of children born to Sept. 11 widows in the months following the attacks. They never knew their daddies. They were born during one of the most tumultuous times in our nation's history. The whole world changed, people said. Nothing would ever be the same, we all noted.
I broke down sobbing at my desk. Not only because I was so gripped by the stories of these families and what they went through, but because I recalled the feelings I had in the days after 9/11/01. I remember thinking twice about wanting to have children. How could I bring up my kids in such a frightening world? No amount of care could shelter them from the kind of gut-wrenching pain that was suffered on that day.
A little over two years after the attacks, I gave birth to my son -- my sunshine, my little Henry Theo. I wasn't going to let "them" take away all the hopes and dreams I had for my future and my family. I imagine him growing taller, going to kindergarten and middle school and high school, sending him to college and worrying every moment of every day about whether he's protected and safe and happy. I think about what he'll be, where he'll go, who he'll meet.
I certainly can't imagine going through all these milestones of birth and beyond without my baby's father. Especially if he were to have been taken from me in such a heinous way. These 9/11 widows who gave birth after the attacks -- they have endured far, far more than anyone should ever have to. They lost so much. We all lost so much that day.
I think I've been trying to forget. Put it in the back of my mind. Stayed busy doing other things. Because thinking about it, really thinking about what it all means, hurts. Too much. It's all a tangle of fear, anger, sadness, apprehension, despair. I've felt restless the past week, melancholy and anxious, and I thought it was due to my upcoming final days at work and starting my new freelance venture. I've been more worried about Henry and how he's feeling, how he's being treated at school, and I just chalked it up to our many distractions of the moment.
But reading that story about the children made me realize I'm still deeply affected by what happened, and it made me remember why we should never forget that day. Even when it might seem easier to avoid looking back.
I would encourage you to read the entire story here.
If you do nothing more, read this...
Then it happened. While sitting down to eat a bite of lunch, I clicked one headline and began to read. "Children of 9/11 old enough to ask about Daddy." It reveals what life has been like for dozens of children born to Sept. 11 widows in the months following the attacks. They never knew their daddies. They were born during one of the most tumultuous times in our nation's history. The whole world changed, people said. Nothing would ever be the same, we all noted.
I broke down sobbing at my desk. Not only because I was so gripped by the stories of these families and what they went through, but because I recalled the feelings I had in the days after 9/11/01. I remember thinking twice about wanting to have children. How could I bring up my kids in such a frightening world? No amount of care could shelter them from the kind of gut-wrenching pain that was suffered on that day.
A little over two years after the attacks, I gave birth to my son -- my sunshine, my little Henry Theo. I wasn't going to let "them" take away all the hopes and dreams I had for my future and my family. I imagine him growing taller, going to kindergarten and middle school and high school, sending him to college and worrying every moment of every day about whether he's protected and safe and happy. I think about what he'll be, where he'll go, who he'll meet.
I certainly can't imagine going through all these milestones of birth and beyond without my baby's father. Especially if he were to have been taken from me in such a heinous way. These 9/11 widows who gave birth after the attacks -- they have endured far, far more than anyone should ever have to. They lost so much. We all lost so much that day.
I think I've been trying to forget. Put it in the back of my mind. Stayed busy doing other things. Because thinking about it, really thinking about what it all means, hurts. Too much. It's all a tangle of fear, anger, sadness, apprehension, despair. I've felt restless the past week, melancholy and anxious, and I thought it was due to my upcoming final days at work and starting my new freelance venture. I've been more worried about Henry and how he's feeling, how he's being treated at school, and I just chalked it up to our many distractions of the moment.
But reading that story about the children made me realize I'm still deeply affected by what happened, and it made me remember why we should never forget that day. Even when it might seem easier to avoid looking back.
I would encourage you to read the entire story here.
If you do nothing more, read this...
Four-year-old Gabriel Jacobs inherited his dad's sandy hair, long nose and blue eyes. The day they buried what was left of his father -- a piece of rib, part of a thigh bone, a bit of one arm -- the boy released a balloon into the air, then turned that familiar face skyward to make sure his daddy caught it.
This is how a son reaches out to the father he never met. Ariel Jacobs died in the World Trade Center attack six days before his only child was born.
Gabi's mother, Jenna Jacobs-Dick says: "When he sends a balloon up to the sky and he finally sees the tiny dot of the balloon go through the clouds, he says, 'OK, the balloon found the doorway to heaven, I think he has it now.'"
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