My in-laws had just left for Rockport after a short visit and my husband was at work. I worked in the house, putting breakfast away, Andrew playing "Little People" and Emily napping in her bouncy seat. The "Today Show" was on TV in the living room of our split entry. The morning was good.
I was standing up, I don't remember exactly what I was doing, when the first plane hit and all cameras zoomed to the 2 World Trade Center towers.
The day was a blur. I watched TV, called loved ones, especially those I knew traveled and flew regularly. I picked up Julia at preschool, put her in the basement to play and watch a video, and at some point walked out the front door. Neighbors in our quiet cul-de-sac had gathered in the street, all of us dazed, all of us scared. The sky was noticeably quiet, for above our neighborhood we usually heard or saw planes on their way to land at Hanscom Air Force Base multiple times per day.
In the days and weeks later, we would learn of folks we knew who lost their lives that day, including a high school teacher of mine. We learned who Osama Bin Laden was and that some of the hijackers had stayed the night before at a Days Inn near where we lived when my husband was in grad school, a place I had driven by dozens if not hundreds of times.
For my family, this is the bigger story.
The day after 9/11/01, Julia drew a picture of what she described as a "plane crashing into a building". I still have that picture. The comments people make about "what a terrible birthday" we now realize will happen every year too often around her birthday. There's still a little gasp when someone asks when her birthday is after we answer.