A Few Words on Babies

It seems like only yesterday that I was traipsing off to my first week of college, moving into my dorm, exercising all my new-found freedom by spending too much money and taking up smoking, eating too much. And waking up to the alarm on my clock radio one morning, thinking it must have been a joke, to hear the dj announce in somber terms that two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center.

It doesn't seem like it's been ten years. I can't summon up much to say on the subject that won't sound cliched, and in truth I'm not sure an anniversary like this doesn't really deserve a moment of silence instead of more words.

I will say this -- of all the memorials and tv specials that have been on in the last several days, it has been my fate to only catch the ones which center around parents remembering children who died on that day. First responders, flight attendants, passengers, workers in the buildings.

Not to mention all the men and women of the military who have died since then, battling to make sure it never happened again.

All of them were somebody's baby.

I had promised myself I would start working on getting Baby Violet to put herself to sleep in her bassinet this weekend. I think I'll put it off until next week. I'd rather rock my baby to sleep in my arms, and smell her hair, and feel her chubby little legs and diaper booty, and sway with her in the darkness.