I don't remember much about September 10,2001.
I have no written records from 2001. It would be another 3 years before I started blogging.
WERE people blogging in 2001? I don't remember it....
There's not much about I remember about an ordinary day like Monday, September 10, 2001.
I have to think about it,reconstruct it.
I was 39, not looking forward to my 40th birthday in November. I was finally settling into my new work location, but still desperately missing my old library.
The Man was working where he is now, but he hadn't been promoted. His job involved a great deal of outdoor work and it kept his weight down. I think it was good for him emotionally as well--I don't remember him being as moody or angry as I think he is now.
SC had just started 1st grade. I don't even remember her teacher's name, just that SC liked 1st grade except for the fact that they didn't have rest time like in kindergarten and she missed it. She had a best friend, who had recently moved from a different part of the neighborhood and now lived so close that they could run back and forth from one house to another.
JR was 2, still in home daycare. Saida, her wonderful daycare provider and her family were, like SC's former daycare provider, from Afghanistan. That meant they were Muslims and that during Ramadan the Man frequently was asked to join them in their post-fast meal, and that's about all their being Muslim went any more than my parents being Jewish or my in-laws being Catholic did. Their family was like family to us--when Saida went on vacation, her sister-in-law would take care of JR at her house and her daughters treated her like their baby sister. They were warm, loving people and I was glad to have them in our life.
I know that we'd just come back from Chincoteague, from our first week at the house that I think of as "our" house. I'd had my hands full with JR on the beach--she all but danced on the sand and loved the water. SC had become fearful in the pool--she'd lost swimming the year before after breaking her leg--but she loved the beach. We'd flown kites, eaten ice cream and seafood and loved it all.
I know I must have dropped SC at school that Monday, brought JR to Saida and driven to work. I know that I would have spent the day at work, then headed home. The Man would have picked up the girls. I would have made them dinner, maybe given them baths.
JR would have nestled on my shoulder as I sung to her before she went to bed. She loved a Cajun lullaby from Michael Doucet's "Le Hoogie Boogie" album, all about little hens settling down in various spots, so sweetly so that mon bebe faire dodo--my baby goes to sleep dans les bras ta mama in her mother's arms.
Clutching "Baby", her doll, she would have settled in her crib and slept soundly all night.
I would have probably read with SC. She could read very well on her own, but still loved sharing picture books with me and I think that's the year we read "The Trumpet of the Swan" and "Betsy-Tacy" together.
She had a big white metal daybed then, loaded with her stuffed animals and the afghan that I'd crocheted her as a baby, and it would have been a relief to see her get into it and go to sleep easily, after years of nighttime struggles.
I'd have settled in with the cats and a book or perhaps the TV. We didn't have Netflix then, of course. We didn't have laptop computers. Just a single desktop that took up a big cabinet in our bedroom. The Man often spent hours on it at night, which drove me crazy because it kept me awake.
But sooner or later, I'd have fallen asleep, probably with a cat curled against my feet. It was an ordinary day in September, and all I expected the next day was another such ordinary day.
It wasn't until September 12 that I realized how precious that last, ordinary day had been.
How precious every ordinary day is.