We woke up that morning as usual, with just enough time to get dressed, grab breakfast, and get out the door to meet the school bus promptly at 7:45 am. J1 was in the second grade, while J2 had just started kindergarten, both at the same school.
As the time drew closer to get on the bus, a sense of undeniable dread began to fill me. It got worse and worse as we went along. The school bus arrived and as I went to kiss the two J's goodbye, a sense of doom struck me so hard I told the driver to go on without them.
By now, it was 8:00 am, and the three of us went home, I called in sick to work, and then we all went to bed. We never even turned the TV on. This all was very strange behavior for us, for two reasons.
First, it was still very early in the school year, and it was way too soon to keep the J's home for any reason. J2 was just getting comfortable being a big boy and I knew keeping his routine was crucial. J1 had finally gotten used to going to bed early after a summer of no sleep boundaries. It was just so very odd that I would do this, and I even knew it at the time.
Second, we almost always turned on the TV when we get home, like it was lighting our home fire. For the J's to miss an opportunity to watch cartoon's was unheard of. They just followed me upstairs, got in my bed, and we all fell into a deep,deep sleep.
Somewhere around noonish, we were still sleeping. The phone had started ringing a few hours before, and I begrudgingly answered it, finally. It was Gail.
"Do you have your TV on?" she asked.
"Nope, we stayed home and are just now waking up"
"You should turn on the TV, the World Trade Center just blew up" she said.
On September 11, 2001, I was safe and sound with my babies, up in the bed. So there you have it.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Why Can't You Ever Remember the Good Times?
The things that my mother and I discuss are all about what's new in entertainment, political scandal, and whatever is the popular culture of the day. We both adore magazines, especially The National Enquirer, which we refer to as the "rag magazine". We like to chill and order pizza. We like almost all the same stuff.
Straying from these topics is never good. Occasionally, one of us will make the mistake of bringing up some personal topic that is actually based in reality, or as we like to call it, "the past". Never-ever a good idea, but it does happen. When this happens, the conversations become surreal and yet to us, perfectly reasonable.
Last week, I received the following voice mail:
"Paula? This is your mother. How are you feeling? I know you've been angry with me, and I'm sorry. Why can't we remember the good things. Like when you were in the hospital and you wanted me to come be with you, and I brought Hershey bars and magazines and stayed with you all night. Those were wonderful times we had together."
She filtered out the part where I wanted her there in case I died. Only my mother would remember that night as a slumber party. Well, compared to the Holocaust, ("well, at least we're not in a concentration camp!"), I guess those were some great family times.
Straying from these topics is never good. Occasionally, one of us will make the mistake of bringing up some personal topic that is actually based in reality, or as we like to call it, "the past". Never-ever a good idea, but it does happen. When this happens, the conversations become surreal and yet to us, perfectly reasonable.
Last week, I received the following voice mail:
"Paula? This is your mother. How are you feeling? I know you've been angry with me, and I'm sorry. Why can't we remember the good things. Like when you were in the hospital and you wanted me to come be with you, and I brought Hershey bars and magazines and stayed with you all night. Those were wonderful times we had together."
She filtered out the part where I wanted her there in case I died. Only my mother would remember that night as a slumber party. Well, compared to the Holocaust, ("well, at least we're not in a concentration camp!"), I guess those were some great family times.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dreaming, Drinking, and Driving
One night, when I was fifteen, I had the most vivid dream about riding in a car. Most of my friends started driving before I did, so it wasn't unusual for me to dream about riding in their cars.
The odd thing about this particular dream was that instead of sitting in the front passengers seat, I was sitting in the back set behind the driver. Trisha was driving, and I could see she was going to hit a telephone pole. So I put my knee's against the back of the front seat, wedged my back against the back seat, and covered my face with my hands.
From that night on, I couldn't get this stupid dream off my mind. For months after, I became absolutely phobic about riding in cars. Whenever I was forced to ride in a car, I would torture myself with flashes of violet car crashes.
One night, I went with three girl friends to the drive-in movie. Trisha was not one of them. Mary, the driver, was drinking Bacardi and Coke that night.
The odd thing about this particular dream was that instead of sitting in the front passengers seat, I was sitting in the back set behind the driver. Trisha was driving, and I could see she was going to hit a telephone pole. So I put my knee's against the back of the front seat, wedged my back against the back seat, and covered my face with my hands.
From that night on, I couldn't get this stupid dream off my mind. For months after, I became absolutely phobic about riding in cars. Whenever I was forced to ride in a car, I would torture myself with flashes of violet car crashes.
One night, I went with three girl friends to the drive-in movie. Trisha was not one of them. Mary, the driver, was drinking Bacardi and Coke that night.
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