Twelve years ago, I had trouble remembering my mom's birthday. I know. Bad daughter, right? I just always seemed to think it was the 14th. Then It happened. Everything of course changed, and I'll never forget my mom's birthday again.
That Sept. 11, I was a newbie newspaper reporter still living at home with my parents. I worked a lot of late nights. Anyone in the newspaper biz can relate. That particular, night, however, I was supposed to be home by dinnertime to celebrate my mom's birthday.
You know what happened. And of course, while a lot of people at normal jobs rushed home to hug their children or spend time with family, I couldn't. I was a reporter. It was one of the busiest and most emotional days in my short newsroom career. (I only worked in the newsroom for five years.)
I eventually left work well past dinnertime. Spent from a hectic, trying day. Feeling much like everyone else in America---worrying about friends I knew living in NYC, and shocked that such horrific events could happen in our country. I drove home listening tearfully to the president's address on the car radio. Almost everyone else in America was undoubtedly doing the same.
Then, we somehow celebrated Mom's birthday. Quiet. Somber. Different. Changed.