Fold My Laundry Please

     I woke up early on the morning of September 11th.  I got my breakfast ready and turned on NPR just like I always did.  I was 6 months pregnant with my first child and was happily feeling the little kicks and hiccups from inside me, not really listening to the radio, just letting it play on in the background.

     Suddenly it dawned on me that the voices sounded kind of panicked.  I started paying attention to the words and heard two men saying things like, "Did you see that!?!?!" and "If you’re near a TV, please turn it on!"  I remember feeling kind of confused that experienced radio guys would be so vague in their descriptions about what they were seeing.  I got up and turned on the television to see what the commotion was.  I was a little annoyed that they hadn’t told us what channel the fuss was on, but I figured that I would flip channels until I found something that might merit the reaction I was hearing.

     I needn’t have worried, it was on every single channel.  Images of a burning building, smoke and ash, panic-stricken people running through the streets, a nearly constant replay of film of a plane swerving into the World Trade Center.  I watched in shock, thinking it must have been some terrible accident, not really understanding the sheer numbers of people that were in the building yet.  I realized I had left the radio on and I noticed that the two men were crying, nearly wailing.  I left the radio on.  Then the phone rang.  It was my husband.  He was in the Air Force at the time and he and his fellow crew members were sitting inside around the television.  "Did you hear about what happened?  Turn on the TV!"  He said he’d call me later, there were several other people waiting to use the phone. 

     That’s when the magnitude of what was happening hit me.  I crumpled down to the ground and started crying; the two men on the radio were still weeping and the television was now showing pictures of the Pentagon and a plane wreck in Pennsylvania.  A report was being given about a group of parents trying to find out if their children at a daycare center nearby were still alive.  A little while later, the tale of a brave group of daycare workers and their flight from the building with all of the children was told.  It was the first of many examples of heroism to be discussed from that day.  And still I cried.  I cried so long and so hard that I started having contractions.  They weren’t very close together, but they were definitely regular.  I laid down on the couch and tried to make myself calm down.  Eventually, I had to turn the television off.

     The next few days were filled with constant news coverage.  Revelations about the organization and the men who pulled off the attack were given.  The story of a heroic group of passengers that refused to let a group of terrorists turn them into a weapon of mass destruction was told.  The nation exploded in red, white, and blue.  People turned to religion again.  Our economy took a momentary dive and it became our civic duty to make large purchases.  (The terrorists thought they could kill American capitalism…the flurry of buying that took place after the attacks proves otherwise.  Alan Greenspan is a genius!)  You couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a television on and tuned to the news.  Already, people were wearing T-shirts glorifying the New York Fire Department, Port Authority, and Police Department.  My husband stopped at the grocery store on his way home from the base, still wearing his uniform.  People stepped out of line to let him go first.  Others applauded as he walked by.  Me, my heart nearly stopped with the realization that we were at war and my husband could be called away at a moment’s notice.

     A lot has happened since then.  We still haven’t found Osama Bin Laden, but we keep searching.  Someday the wounds will heal and maybe we’ll even be able to talk about that day without welling up with tears.  Until then, we’ll keep our flags on display and we’ll continue to celebrate our nation with pride.