It's been a rough couple of weeks around the underground household... and not just because mother nature is trying to kick our asses (Earthquake, hurricane, tornado, torrential rain, massive flooding... I'm just guessing here, but I think locusts are next... oh wait... maybe this counts.) or because it's my own personal emotional roller coaster time of year.

But it's also been due to the fact this week was spent leading up to today.  Preparing for it personally and professionally.  Trying to figure out how to commemorate an anniversary that no one really wants to remember.  I've come to think of this place - the District of Columbia - as my home, so when I think about the day we all lived through here ten years ago, I'm left without words.  It just feels too... personal. 

My children weren't around then.  They will never have the memory of watching it in real time and wondering what was coming next.  Much like I'll never have the memory of that day that lives in infamy on December 7th, they'll learn about it in history books and old farts like me will tell stories, but they'll never really 'get it' because, how could they?  It's not something even I can fully comprehend... that twenty-eight hundred people died all because they showed up for work on a Tuesday.  And frankly, it's okay with me if my children don't get it; I'd be more concerned if they did.

But what I do want them to understand and fully comprehend is that now, ten years later, I love their father as much as I did that day.  That I still believe that there is more love in the world than hate.  That there are more heroes than villains.  More good than evil.  I still believe in us.  The only difference is now I have hope because I have them.