Ada Calhoun, the editor of this here Web site, recently wrote an essay about how she traveled to Washington, D.C. -- with child in tow -- to see the inauguration of President Barack Obama. Despite the warnings about huge crowds, frigid temperatures, Port-a-Potty heinosity and an overall uncomfortable environment for kids, she made the journey anyway and has no regrets about doing so. 
"I've never experienced anything like being in a crowd of almost two
million silent, rapt people, nor will I probably ever again," she writes. "I looked
down at my son, sitting on my lap under a sleeping bag, staring at the
Jumbotron, hypnotized by Obama's face and voice, and the speech hit
home in a way it might not have had I been unencumbered."
I read that piece, and felt moved by it. And then I felt incredibly, incredibly guilty.
I live in Bethesda, Md., just outside of D.C. And after debating about whether to bring my young son to the National Mall to witness history, I decided not to. I am still not sure if it was the right move.
Of course, I had my reasons. For starters, I needed to get some work done on Inauguration Day, and, as part of that work, also was expected to be downtown by 6 p.m., in a floor-length dress, to cover one of the evening's many balls. I feared that if I got stuck in some sort of post-swearing-in melee, I'd never be able to get home, change clothes and report for duty on time.
Then there was the issue of bringing my little boy, who is almost two. Since strollers were banned from the Mall, I couldn't trot him around in one of those. And the notion of dragging him by the hand or carrying him all day, potentially for hours on end in the bitter cold, did not sound fun.
And let's not forget that here in the Washington area, we had been hearing for weeks on local newcasts that Inauguration Day would be a disaster of unprecedented proportions. Six million people flooding the streets of D.C.! Hours of waiting to get on the Metro! The broadcast reporters don't usually get this panicked unless something really serious -- like snow -- is headed for Washington.
I know: Excuses, excuses. But I had made up my mind. And then I started spending time at some pre-inaugural events in D.C. during the days leading up to The Big Day. And I began to question that decision. As Ada notes, there was an undeniable feeling of excitement in the city, the unmistakeable aura of history unfolding around us, even before anyone started traipsing toward the U.S. Capitol. Could I forgive myself, I wondered, if I missed this important moment -- and deprived my son of missing it -- when it was happening in my own backyard?
On Jan. 19, I asked my husband this very same question: Do you think we should go? He immediately voted no. He thought it would be too hard with our wiggleworm of a son. And since we both were able to work from home that day -- a day our son also could spend in daycare, giving us the freedom to actually get some things accomplished without interruption -- my husband said he really wanted to take advantage of that and just watch the inauguration on TV together, as a couple, in our warm, uncrowded house.
So that's what we did. Meanwhile, our son watched Obama put his hand on the Bible at an inauguration party that was held at his daycare center. The moment came. The moment went. And that was that.
Given all the horror stories about people who got trapped in the Third Street Tunnel, or waited for hours and couldn't even get on to the Mall, it may have been the right decision. But when I read stories like Ada's, I can't help but think that moments like this only happen once and that we need to embrace them. Not only that, but we need to embrace them with our children by our sides, so they can start to understand what the term "shared history" really means.
I'm not going to spend a lot of time fretting over the whole thing. What's done is done. All I can do, really, is be thankful that I was able to play a small part in the overall inaugural weekend, and be thankful, too, that my son and his fellow toddlers got to see it on TV. And I can try to learn a lesson from my regret so that the next time a major event is about to transpire, instead of saying, "Nah, we can't," maybe I'll be more likely to say: "Yes. We can."
