I didn't go into the city today.

Oh, I meant to, that's what we do on Mondays, but I *really* didn't want to go on the boat, I *really* didn't want to be in Lower Manhattan, I *really* didn't want to walk past the WTC memorial in Battery Park, and I *really* couldn't dredge up the energy to do what I didn't want to do.

Instead, I baked. Ana helped me bake brownies (mmmm), and then she and the baby obliged me by napping while I made rolls. I need to get this kneading thing down pat - the rolls are okay, but not as good as they would be if I knew how to knead bread properly. Well, the only way to get better is by practice.

It turns out Lizziey didn't call me and yell at me incomprehensibly - most likely, Christopher Thomas Paul (sorry - it's just a really fun name to say! Try it!) called me, and I heard Liz yelling at one of the kids, probably the aforementioned Christopher Thomas Paul, no doubt telling him to stop calling people on her phone.

I'd say something about the occasion, I feel I should, but... I don't know, I don't even want to *think* of it. I can't help it, I mean - but I don't have to make it worse by writing about it, do I?

You know?

I did think of something to say.

The favorite exhibit at the SICM, by far, is the fire truck. They have a real firetruck kids can climb in and pretend to drive, a fire safety video looping all day long, firefighter coats and hats to change into, and a pole to slide down. It's great fun - the kids all love it.

And on the wall there's a sign. The exhibit is in memory of the husband of one of the people who work at the museum, who died, with much or all of his crew, on 9/11.

I have walked past that sign several times a week for over a year now, and I haven't given it much thought. Ana, of course, has no clue. She just thinks the exhibit is great fun, and it is.

But one day, she's going to have to know what happened in her own city. And whenever she finds out, I think we're going to have to explain a lot things to her - the memorial at Battery Park, the lights every year, and yes, the significance of that firetruck.

And I don't want to be the one to do it. She can't be a baby forever, but I don't want to be the one telling her that part of her babyhood was playing around on a firetruck in memory of a real person who died. She'll have to know one day, but she's not my kid. It doesn't have to be me.