Too much bleeping perspective

Throughout the day yesterday, I had all sorts of moments that normally make good blog rants: my office supplies all being delivered to my old cubicle, DH calling me to ask for the answers to the crossword puzzle when I am trying to get my notes done, people calling to follow up on whether I had touched based with the big boss about their questions (which they were coming to me for because he is out of the office) when I had already told them that I would talk to him when he came back in the office on Monday, finding out through a conversation with a co-worker that the reason I didn't get a particular job a number of years ago was because the person who recommended me for it was persona not grata in the department. And it's all so stupid. Because, please, what are office supplies and trivial phone calls and spazzy consultants when hundreds of people on the other side of the Atlantic are trying to determine whether their loved ones were on those trains and busses? And I remembered what it felt like to be shaken to the core about how easily our safe, everyday life can be turned upside down. DS1 was a baby when the planes hit the World Trade Center and Pentagon. I was active on an online message board full of women whose due dates were the same month mine was. Many of them were first time moms, and the discussion on the board centered around how scary it is to bring a child into a world where these things happen, how helpless we felt knowing that we were fully responsible for the well being of another human being, but that we were ill equipped to actually ensure that well being. I saw Beth express those kind of sentiments yesterday. The after-shocks of an attack like that resonate for a long, long time. I was pregnant with DS2, stuck in an all-day meeting at a local hotel, when the Washington area began that three-week roller coaster of worrying about the serial sniper. I remember seeing the meeting planner come in and slip a note to our moderator, who calmly informed us that a shooter was loose in the area and the hotel staff was requesting that we remain inside the building until further notice. At the break we checked the TV to find out details of the four shooting locations, and saw that our building was nestled right in the middle of the area already hit. I tried not to think about my connection to the sites as more hit the news over the course of the next 20+ days. The car dealership where I get the child seats installed. The gas station, still full on police cars and news vehicles when I passed it that first night, that is along my route back home. The apartment complex, barely a mile from my mom's house, where one of the victims lived. The shopping center with the Honey-Baked Ham store that caters some of my meetings. The elementary school, five minutes away from the school DH was teaching at the day of the attack. DD was just old enough to be aware that something was wrong, that it wasn't OK for the kids to go outside for recess. Some of the kids knew more, that someone was shooting innocent people, and no one knew quite why. And I tried to hide my head in the sand so I could avoid trying to find the words to explain it. We were on our first day of vacation last year when the news was showing Hurricaine Charley and what he had done to parts of Florida. My mom kept trying to figure out why Ponte Verda sounded so familiar to her, whether it was just one of the Florida towns she had seen on applications when she was in the flood insurance business. "No, mom. That's where Angie lives now." "Oh my God! Is she OK? Have you called Andrea yet? Aren't Angie's parents in that area too? Did they make it out?" I hadn't called my friend yet, I didn't have her Florida number committed to memory, but I had planned to do so as soon as I returned to our apartment. She said her mom was fine, she was staying with Andrea, that her grandparents were at the shelter, and the damage was relatively minor (a broken window, some roofing damage, and a boatload of debris in the yard.) Needless to say, I dealt with the reduced beach time we faced as a result of the rain. DH has called me a number of times in the past few weeks, mentioning that the kids are driving him nuts. Then I read the stories of the missing children and I thank my lucky stars that my kids are under my roof, even if DS1 ends up spending an entire day in time out. anyway. My point, such that it is, is that there are always going to be people who are facing way more than I am. Does it mean that my life if perfect? Hell, no. But I can put my crap aside and try to appreciate that my life is pretty darned OK. Until the crazy in the world dies down a bit, and we're all back to normal.