"Who?" Phoebe asked when she heard her parents talking (rather animatedly) about the death of Osama bin Laden. "Osama bin Laden," Andy said. "You know? The guy who made those two buildings come down? He's dead." To hear Andy oversimplify the most harrowing day in both of our lives like that made me think that maybe by now we should've talked about it with our kids a little more comprehensively. Because to express someone's death, out-of-context, with even the slightest hint of satisfaction has got to be confusing for a nine-year-old. I was four months pregnant with Phoebe when the towers came down. I spent the day tracking the news of my best friend's husband Michael, who worked on the 81st floor of the first tower to be struck. He survived by picturing his wife and six-month-old son living their lives without him, as he clawed around in darkness and rubble trying to escape.* How could we expect anyone (let alone a kid) to wrap their head around that one -- or any of the other far more traumatic details of the day for that matter? But at the same time, how can it possibly be that neither of my children have any visceral reaction when they walk by our favorite 1997 wedding photograph: Andy and me and all 142 attendees standing on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, the towers gleaming in the sun behind us like two honored guests themselves.
Tonight’s Dinner Table Topic: Osama bin Laden
Tonight’s Dinner Table Topic: Osama bin Laden
Tonight’s Dinner Table Topic: Osama bin Laden
"Who?" Phoebe asked when she heard her parents talking (rather animatedly) about the death of Osama bin Laden. "Osama bin Laden," Andy said. "You know? The guy who made those two buildings come down? He's dead." To hear Andy oversimplify the most harrowing day in both of our lives like that made me think that maybe by now we should've talked about it with our kids a little more comprehensively. Because to express someone's death, out-of-context, with even the slightest hint of satisfaction has got to be confusing for a nine-year-old. I was four months pregnant with Phoebe when the towers came down. I spent the day tracking the news of my best friend's husband Michael, who worked on the 81st floor of the first tower to be struck. He survived by picturing his wife and six-month-old son living their lives without him, as he clawed around in darkness and rubble trying to escape.* How could we expect anyone (let alone a kid) to wrap their head around that one -- or any of the other far more traumatic details of the day for that matter? But at the same time, how can it possibly be that neither of my children have any visceral reaction when they walk by our favorite 1997 wedding photograph: Andy and me and all 142 attendees standing on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, the towers gleaming in the sun behind us like two honored guests themselves.