la_rainette | As seen from Europe...

We had the girls baptized together.

I clearly remember that the priest who was to baptize them (an old friend of the family, he's known me since I was 8) had to cancel at the last minute. So we had to go with the local priest, which in itself wouldn't have been a problem if said priest hadn't insisted on the girls wearing white.

Goodness.

We had bought their clothes already. Tadpole was, er, in white, yes, but with bright blue apples. And we'd bought Froglet a beautiful, bright pink dress. So we ran and ran and ran through the shops, desperately trying to find white dresses that wouldn't be over-laced and hugely expensive, not to mention fiercely under-sized (Tadpole was a chubby 6-month-old, and Froglet a tall and leggy 2 1/2 year old.) We finally found lovely white summer dresses on sale, size 6-years for Froglet, 2-years for Tadpole, so that they wouldn't appear as skimpy summer minis (which they were), but medium-length, decent baptismal robes.

I also remember that day as the day I finally fully understood why it is babies are baptized before they can walk. Froglet ran away every other minute, and we had to chase her down the aisle. And then the priest lit the baptismal candle, and Froglet's whole face lit up, hey, giant birthday candle! I know what to do with those! And she tried to blow it. I still have that photo of Husband with a hand on her mouth, and her godfather desperately trying to make sure the candle wouldn't go out, and everyone else just laughing...

We'd been asked to say a little something that we would have prepared ourselves, and I'd been in charge of that. To me, what I wanted to say was obvious: Froglet's real name is Olivia, you see, and Tadpole is Irene. Olivia, "I hold the Olive in my hand", and Irene, which means peace in Greek. Hey, I knew what I wanted to say.

I remember speaking about peace, and how much it meant to me that my girls had been lucky enough to be born in a peaceful world, and that I would do my best for the world to remain so. My parents grew up during WW II, in Europe. They are people who remember that French toast is not a fancy breakfast dish, but a way to make even the stalest bread edible - in France, we call it pain perdu, lost bread. I have never seen anyone in my family throw away bread - they cannot do it, they still remember how scarce it was when they were little. Anyway.

The day was hot, and beautiful, and lunch was delicious and we had too much to eat, too much to drink, and a lot of fun.

It was August 31st, 2001. 10 days later, the world as I had wanted it for my girls ceased to exist.

Oh, I remember where I was: I was at home, the girls were napping. It was 3:00pm in Europe. Husband called, and told me to turn on the news channel. I did.

What sticks with me to this day is how incredibly naive I was at the time. When Husband called, he had only heard that a plane had collided with the World Trade Center. By the time I turned on my TV, the second plane had hit.

I remember thinking, Wow, look at that! What a strange coincidence.

And then the world went in dream-mode for a while, you know, the dream-like quality things have that shouldn't be happening but still happen. And I wondered where I would go, where I could hide, to protect my children. (Wait til you have children, I swear it is the first thing you think about. I know how selfish it sounds. But I'm not trying to convey any deep thoughts tonight, I am merely recording the events the way they appeared to me. We were not directly concerned, but don't you believe we didn't cry bitter tears too.)

Last year, I was at Centerville when the Big Blackout hit Toronto. And in every face, beyond the expected annoyance, I could read the fear: What is happening? Are we under attack? It was the first thought that came to my mind, too. We've changed that much.

I've changed that much. Beyond that, I have no idea.