Everybody remembers what they were doing that morning. This is my story:
Mikayla wasn’t in school yet and Brandon was scheduled for a blood transfusion in San Antonio, so I let everyone sleep in while I got Dallas off to school. I stopped to fill up the tank just as the news was breaking over the gas station radio. The clerk got a phone call to raise the price to $5/gallon. I was already sick to my stomach. Rushing home, I raced in the house and turned on the television just before the 2nd plane hit. There were all of these wild reports and so much speculation, each station reporting something different. My mom was in North Carolina visiting my sister and was supposed to fly back to Minnesota that morning. I was afraid to call, I didn’t want to hear any more bad news. I ran in my room, jumped on the bed and starting shaking Eric, “Baby, baby, wake up! We’re under attack!” He shot up in bed, confused, and reached for the mini-blinds, tearing them down in the process thinking our home was under attack. What a rude awakening. Everything after that was a blur. I called the school to see if I should pick up Dallas. The secretary hadn’t heard yet and I had to fill her in. My mom and sister got through to me on the phone line. Mom made me promise not to drive to San Antonio and I made her promise not to get on a plane. We were positive there were more attacks coming and we all said our good-byes in case they were our last. Me, Eric, and the kids all cuddled up and glued ourselves to the TV, horrified, terrified, crying, absorbing everything trying to understand. We never did and we never will.