I was raised in a home where Thanksgiving Day was the big kick-off for the holiday season. Mom and Grandma would spend the days leading up to it cooking and cleaning and it was always a feast of epic proportions...the high lite being Grandma's famous dressing. We would all fight over the corners that were just a little crispier than the center. The house would fill up with all of my favorite people in the entire world...aunts, uncles, cousins, and sometimes friends who didn't have a place to call home.
I knew on Thanksgiving, that the next five weeks were going to be pure bliss. My mom would transform our home into a Christmas wonderland and would include us in every possible holiday activity that a kid could dream up. Thanksgiving was the start of the ultimate holiday marathon and we loved every single minute of it. All these years later, my mom still prepares the most impressive feast and I am ultimately relieved that "torch" hasn't been passed down to me yet.
It wasn't until I had my own children that I realized how much a mother loves a child and why she does what she does. When I grasped the enormity of that kind of love, I took on a whole new appreciation for my mom. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to figure that out. But I know now and I want her to always be certain of how much I love her.
Mom, I will be forever grateful and thankful that you always work so hard to make this time of year so magical. Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year. I could fill a book with the memories you have helped to create. I love you. I am thankful.
p.s. Don't worry Daddy, I'll say something about you in my next holiday blog.
I remember that morning like it was yesterday. Eight months pregnant...packing a lunch for my 3 year old pre-schooler and watching the morning news. While spreading peanut butter on some bread, I was alarmed to hear Katie Couric reporting that the World Trade Center was on fire. I grabbed the remote control and raised the volume. Wait, what? A plane crashed into the tower. How awful. I said a quick prayer, grabbed some milk from the refrigerator, and glanced back at the television. Oh my God. Oh my God. A plane just flew into the second tower. I saw this happen on live television. It was at that moment I realized, along with the rest of the world, that this was not an accident. A faint "Mommy, what's that?". I turned and scooted him back to his room and said, "Baby, it's just a movie...go play with your trains." Oh my God.
As the events of that morning unfolded, the only thing I could think of was the horror...the absolute horror that the people on those planes must have felt. The feeling gripped me so tightly I had to remind myself to breath at times. Driving in the car, in the shower, laying in bed...all I could think of was the horror. That word stuck with me night and day. Horror. The horror of it all. The horror the victims must have felt in their last minutes. I cried for days. Sadness and fear had taken over.
Two weeks later, Steve hired a babysitter and gently coerced me out for a nice dinner. It was raining that night and I remember sitting in the car at a red light. Steve hadn't turned on the wipers yet and the rain seemed to be melting into the windshield. I turned to him and asked, "Things aren't ever going to be the same again are they?"...hoping he would say what I wanted to hear. He sat on that plea for a moment. Debating to save me or break my heart, I suppose. I think James Taylor was playing on the radio. He grabbed my hand, looked straight into me and said, "No. No they're not."
That night we crawled into bed and turned on the television...just in time to catch an interview of one of the widows of the 9/11 tragedy. Her husband had been on the plane that was en route to Washington. He called her from his cell phone and told her what was going on while she watched the events unfold on television, in "horror." I will never forget her as long as I live. They both knew he was going to die. It struck me that she was so composed and able to speak about the events of that day. She shared that they must have said "I love you "a thousand times" on that last phone call. A thousand times. And she was at peace because they both "knew" that they loved each other. As soon as she said that, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My fear was coming from that place of "what if." What if something happens and Steve doesn't know I love him? What if my three year old doesn't know how precious he is to me? What if my parents don't know how grateful I am for the sacrifices they made for me. What if my friends don't know how much I cherish them? What if, what if, what if?
My thoughts went back to earlier that night in the car...at the red light...James Taylor on the radio. And the song came to me...the lyrics..."but I always thought that I'd see you again...thought I'd see you one more time again." Fire and Rain. I cried into my pillow and pulled the crisp white Downy scented sheet over my head when the last thing I remember her saying was, "Leave nothing unsaid." Leave nothing unsaid. LEAVE NOTHING UNSAID. And with that I was free. Those three words scrambled the word "horror" from my thoughts. Me and my unborn baby slept soundly that night. No nightmares. No tears. Just sleep.
In the morning, I got out of bed, pulled out my list of phone numbers and emails...and went to work.
God bless all those who were lost that day and to all those who lost someone.
