The 9/11 Museum -- showing the reality of the day

     Time is fleeting.  It passes quickly, even though the difficult moments in life sometimes seem to last forever.  Once you get through them and look back, time feels different.  Sometimes it seems as if years were a minute, and other times years can feel like a lifetime.
     Recently I took a step into the past, nearly 13 years ago, to September 11, 2001.  I tried to distance myself from it while I was there -- but what happened on 9/11 many years ago affected my family and me so deeply it was impossible to pretend.

      It's hard to see the numbers "9-11" or think of the date without reflecting on such devastating loss of thousands.  It's significantly bigger than my own suffering.  It represents the suffering of 3000 families; the suffering of our nation, and the suffering of the more than 6500 military families who grieve their own losses as a  result of 9/11, not to mention the more than 50,000 soldiers who were wounded and 100,000 who continue the battle within themselves with PTSD.     
     As I descended seven floors underground into the just-opened 9/11 Museum, I felt strange.  I don't know how to describe exactly what the feeling was.  Eeriness comes to mind. My son Matthew and I shared the "odd" feeling.  We found seats toward the middle of the "Foundation Hall" and waited for the dedication ceremony to start.   To our left we stared at the massive slurry wall that remained intact -- the  only thing that made you realize you were underground.  Seated at the front were the President and First Lady; President and former Secretary Clinton; Governors Cuomo, Christie and Pataki; Mayors Giuliani and Greenberg; and God knows who else.  We listened as speakers, dignitaries, survivors and family members reminded us what made that day so devastating -- the loss of so much human life -- the destruction of families and how we rebuilt ourselves.  But we heard about heroism, too.  Stories that gave us hope.  The dedication was about tragedy, death, recovery, heroism, resilience, community and hope.  For once it wasn't about the speakers, or giving props to dignitaries.
     After the emotion-driven ceremony, we walked through the exhibits, saving the Memorial Hall for the next day to experience it with the girls. We didn't follow any path, rather we just meandered around, seeing things in no certain order.  We walked by a wall of a beautiful mixture of blue tiles, each one signifying the life of the  nearly 3000 who died, each one together creating a mosaic of the awesome blue sky that blanketed the Northeast that morning.  Across the tiles are the words "No day shall erase you from the moment of time."  Powerful.  The most meaningful words there.

     What I saw next I wasn't ready for.  After seeing the pre-9/11 World Trade Center in all its glory as a backdrop for countless Hollywood movies, and as a shopping, tourist and financial mecca, I entered the time warp and found myself back to September 11, 2001.
    This room is intended to educate the public, not traumatize those of us who live the horror of 9/11 every day.  The graphic nature of the exhibit is necessary for visitors to grasp the reality of the worst attack to hit American soil.  I felt sick in there; I found myself hyperventilating and rushed through, taking in only glimpses of its content.  I noticed the "early exit" door for people who found it too difficult to stay.  But I passed by it rather than through it, continuing on to the "post 9/11" exhibit.  This showed how the country banded together, casting aside prejudices and political party lines to support those most seriously affected. The exhibits also contain items from survivors as well as recovered personal affects from those who died -- watches, ID cards, money, a firefighter's helmet, shoes, photos. There were damaged firetrucks, an ambulance, a door of the medical examiner's car, massive columns of bent steel.

The next day we came back as a family.  I cautioned the girls onthe "day-of: room, but they chose to go through.  They seemed more interested than I think they thought they'd be.  In the "Memorial Room" we searched together for Jeff's picture among the 3000 plastered in organized, alphabetical rows on the wall, floor to ceiling.  His is toward the top,too high for me to see well.  We plugged his name into the electronic table that showed his pictures and a voice recording of me talking about Jeff and his love for his kids.  

     We passed by the shingled blue wall again and entered the room available only to families.  Here we can peer through a window into the "repository" where the unidentified and some identified remains are kept.  We left there not sure what to feel, and took the escalators back up to street level where the controversial museum store is.  People ask how I feel about the store -- I'm guilty of buying a Survivor Tree key chain and a little tray my daughter wanted.
     My overall opinion is the museum is well-done.  With more than 3000 families' points-of-view to consider, they could not have possibly pleased everyone.  But the museum I think will serve its purpose -- to educate current and future generations about 9/11, and encourage people to remember those who were killed.  The walk back into time is necessary to tell this unfortunately true story, that even now, often seems too surreal.

Celebrating motherhood

Today is a celebration of moms, and brings back the memories of the days we became moms.  Three times in my life I've been subjected to excruciating, gut-splitting pain.  And each time I chose to endure that pain, for some reason refusing an epidural or anything that would relieve the feeling of being turned inside out from my bellybutton.  I didn't scream; I didn't swear; and I didn't blame Jeff for "causing" the misery. Even the delivery nurse suggested i could let out a holler or two, and even as I heard some ear-rattling, haunting screams from adjacent rooms, I hardly uttered a word.  Just once when I was in labor with Matthew, I did ask Jeff to leave the room while he ate the cookies that I baked for him in anticipation of a long night.  The smell of them was more than I could tolerate.   From those three "episodes" of pain came beautiful little people -- a boy and 2 girls -- who've grown to be beautiful big people and my best handiwork.

Motherhood is the most powerful, life-changing thing that has ever happened to me, and I'm sure most moms would agree.  It's strange that moments after childbirth, when they put that little naked being on your chest, you forget the torture you just experienced.  Maybe it's the joy of motherhood that makes you forget -- that same joy that enables you to endure the worst moments.  Like when your kids are sad; when their hearts are broken; when they are sick and nothing you do makes them better; when they get so mad at you they say things they don't really mean but that hurt you anyway.  The joys of motherhood far outweigh the difficult moments.

For at least a few years motherhood lets you feel like the most important person in the world to someone.  Then the little someone grows up, and you wonder sometimes how important you are to them anymore -- until they surprise you with a simple hug, a random "i love you," a thank you, or a surprise letter (even if the letter was prompted by a school project) telling you how much you mean to them.  It's the little things that can make my heart melt.

Growing up the youngest of 12 kids, I had a lot of mother figures to learn from, and of course my own mom.  Each of us 12 has different memories of our mom when we were little -- probably because each of our relationships with her was unlike the others.  She's 92 now, and while her body remains mostly fit,  her mind fails consistently.  Instead of wondering when the time will come that she'll forget who I am, I try to remember when she looked forward to seeing me come home from college, often enticing me to make the 4-hour drive with a shopping trip and lunch at our favorite restaurant followed by ice cream.  Now she doesn't remember that she just saw me, often asks me what happened to Jeff, and doesn't remember how many kids I have, their names, or how old they are.  It's as frustrating to her as it is sad to us.

I'm grateful to my mom for showing me the right and wrong, the good and not-so-good parts of mothering, and to my sisters, especially the older ones who felt like a mom to me.  As crazy as it was growing up in our house, it has helped me become the mom that I am.  I definitely acknowledge my "failures," but I hope my kids learn from me what being a mom is all about. And I hope they realize they are the best part of my life.