- Maurice Sendak

(Thanks to Kallyn for sharing!)

2. In 2003, I studied abroad in Ireland with about 30 other American students. I was one of four Megans in the group.

Also, I watched this episode of 30 Rock when I was visiting my friend Meghan in Arizona. We were sitting on the couch together, laughing during this scene.

Instead of turning into that person that thinks they’re busier than anyone else in the world has ever been, ever, I’ve been trying to turn this stress into something positive by being a compassionate listener when classmates of mine (or Galen’s) talk about their workloads and stress.  I try so hard not to complain when talking to classmates, friends, professors, family, or strangers I meet on the bus, but the bottom line is I want to complain all the time.  I waste time thinking about all the ways to quantify how busy I am. (This is what a degree in math will get you…)  I know it’s not helpful, but the other options (giving up on a social life, sleep, or Me Time) seem so much worse.

That said, the article made me think about the amount of time I spend doing things that don’t really help my situation (I’m looking at you, Facebook).  I decided to start tracking my time over the next week or two to see where it’s going when I’m not paying attention.

The article also included this suggestion, which I liked:

Instead of saying “I don’t have time” try saying “it’s not a priority,” and see how that feels. Often, that’s a perfectly adequate explanation. I have time to iron my sheets, I just don’t want to. But other things are harder. Try it: “I’m not going to edit your résumé, sweetie, because it’s not a priority.” “I don’t go to the doctor because my health is not a priority.” If these phrases don’t sit well, that’s the point. Changing our language reminds us that time is a choice. If we don’t like how we’re spending an hour, we can choose differently.

Yesterday, I went for a run.  I made running a priority, because I know it helps me focus and sleep better.  I only ran for about 15 or 20 minutes, but it was totally worth it.  Now it seems a little silly to say “I don’t have time for a 20-minute run,” so I’ll have to be honest with myself when it’s not a priority.  Is this life-changing? No.  But I just started a new quarter and I’m trying to be as organized and methodical as possible.  We’ll see how it goes…

The lyrics are available at YouTube. (Grownups – click on “Show More” under the video.)

The New Normal is living with Galen in an apartment with a great view of the Seattle skyline and very few reliable appliances.  It’s still being excited to see each other at the end of every day.  It’s being 3 hours away from friends, former coworkers, and Galen’s family.  It’s getting to know a new neighborhood and a new city, when I’m not in class, at work, studying or doing homework.  The New Normal is having four or five good friends in this city and feeling like that’s a lot to maintain.  It’s dreaming about having enough time to blog again. It’s taking Galen to the airport for a two-week study tour and realizing we haven’t been apart for this long since last summer, when it used to be Normal.  It’s getting to see my mom every other month when she’s here for work.  The New Normal is not knowing where to go for happy hour or brunch or good Thai food.  It’s waiting for the Sonics to come back to town and trying to have some allegiance to the Seahawks and Mariners.  It’s discovering new donut and ice cream shops, and trying something called “savory pies.”  The New Normal is explaining to people that most of my family and friends call me Mego.  It’s studying something I enjoy and find infinitely fascinating.  It’s having “clients” and trying to pretend I’m grown-up enough to be someone’s therapist.  It’s imagining what will happen after grad school and what the Next New Normal will be.

Welcome to the world, little man.  You are incredibly lucky to have such amazing parents, and you make an adorable R2D2.  Congrats, Weather and Chris!

UW Alert – Seattle: Armed Robbery Wells Fargo, 4100 Blk Univ. Ave. Suspect WM 40s med build 6 ft glasses beard stay clear of area

I immediately texted Galen:

Did you just rob our bank?

And his reply:

Can’t talk. Running. I regret nothing.

I met Michelle at work about four years ago, and we bonded in the way that only two strangers who grew up in Montana can.  Our friendship grew over food cart lunches, happy hours, and sarcastic emails.  After I met Galen, she was the first person at work I talked to about him, and then the first person to know a few weeks later when he asked me out.  She is one of the most honest and open friends I have, and I’ve always valued her opinions and insight.  However, she’s also the funniest chick I know, and I often worry I’m not funny enough to hang out with her.

One morning at work a few years ago, I went into her cubicle to chat with her about something, but was distracted by the sight of her devouring a breakfast sandwich in a way that made it clear she hadn’t eaten in weeks.  With her mouth full of eggs and sausage, she swore me to secrecy before confiding that she was pregnant and this was her second breakfast that day.  I was so excited I actually bounced up and down in my chair.

A few months later, Michelle came to work with the ultrasound showing she was going to have a baby boy.  We asked about baby names and she told us she and Eric had had their boy’s name picked out for a while.  At the time, she was reading Trinity, by Leon Uris, and we had previously talked about the book and also the great Irish names in it.  Months later, baby Seamus was born.

While she was on maternity leave, Michelle and I went for Sunday walks with Seamus regularly, which was wonderful.  I have lots of baby Seamus memories from that time, including how he liked to sleep in the carrier with his head tilted way back in a way that looked incredibly uncomfortable, how Michelle said he always behaved better in the car when she put Justin Timberlake on, and the time I was holding him and he peed on me through his diaper.  Michelle and Eric were awesome new parents and I admired their ability to roll with the punches and enjoy every second.  And laugh.  A lot.

Once, when Seamus was about a year old, Michelle was planning to attend a mutual friend’s birthday party at a pizza place near our houses.  She texted me to ask if I was interested in attending because she was looking for a “co-baby wrangler.”  I have never had so much fun watching a kid NOT eat pizza, nor have I ever left a pizza joint as exhausted.  We left a wake of destruction in our path, covered with napkins, plates, straws, and lots and lots of tiny cut-up pieces of pizza that Seamus had put on his tongue and then allowed to fall out onto the floor before doing the same thing again.  There is no possible way he consumed more calories than he burned that evening.  When he wasn’t licking pieces of pizza, I was toting Seamus around the restaurant, carrying him upside down, tickling him and trying to distract him from what he really wanted to do, which was get down on the ground and run away to explore.

The next time I saw Michelle, Eric and Seamus was at the Bridge to Brews 8k I ran last year.

Galen, me, Jess, Michelle and Seamus after the race. I'm pretty sure beer does for adults what orange slices do for kids.

Right after this photo was taken, I asked to hold Seamus.  He was happy in my arms for about 0.13 seconds, until I wouldn’t let him rip my hair out or eat my sunglasses, at which point he started kicking so I’d let him down.  Which I did.  And the moment his little shoes touched the ground, he was gone.  I chased him down in a crowd of people and then allowed him to run while I held on to the back of his overalls, since he was easily faster than I was when unrestricted.  Eventually I had to pick him up and carry him back to our family and friends, because it became clear he was never going to take us back there.

The very last time I saw Seamus was at lunch with Michelle and some other former coworkers last fall.  I had just quit my job to go back to school and Michelle had started a new job, so we got together with some of our old crew to catch up.  Seamus sat in his high-chair long enough to eat some food, and then Michelle and I chased him around the restaurant for a half hour.  I was sweaty and sore afterward from picking him up, chasing him, laughing and smiling.  He reminded me of an old toy car we used to have that would drive on the table in one direction until it came to the edge, then turn 45 degrees, drive straight, turn, etc. – only turning when required.  With Seamus, though, we were physically picking him up and turning him, since he was headed straight for a staircase or a wall and he didn’t want to stop for either of those things.  Then he’d just take off running again.

Exactly one year ago, just shy of his second birthday, Seamus was in his stroller as his dad pushed him across a crosswalk.  By absolutely no fault of their own, but because the world sucks sometimes and horrible things happen to good people, they were hit by a car.  Eric survived, but Seamus didn’t.

Since then, I have thought a lot about him, about their family, and about all the good and bad things this world has to offer.  I’ve written many of those thoughts down in the past few weeks, trying to find the ‘right’ thing to say on this blog.  Then Michelle asked everyone to share their memories of her son, and I realized that’s always where my mind ends up anyway.  These memories are what connects me to Seamus, Michelle and Eric, and they’re what I really wanted to share.  I am grateful that Seamus was part of my world, albeit briefly, and I wish every day for nothing but good things to come to his parents and their families for the rest of their lives.

Here’s our text history over the past couple weeks:

May 6

Mom: Lakers SUCK!

May 9

Mom: Is M Gasol related to P Gasol?

Me: Yes! Brothers!

Mom: M has his head in gear this game…unlike P yesterday

Me: M is also younger, better looking, and potentially more talented.  Plus he doesn’t play for LA.

Mom: Yup.  All good points.  But he is kinda tubby… I should talk!

Today, May 15

Mom: R u watching BB?

Me: Oh, thanks for reminding me!

Mom: Do you think Bosch is gay?

Me: No, although I never thought about it.  Why do you ask?

Mom: Weak chin.

1. I don’t know how I feel.

2. However you feel is the right way for you to feel.

I’ve read and heard so much from people whose emotions range from elation and pride to frustration and sadness – those who are standing just a little bit taller today and those who are mortified by that type of response.  I can see everyone’s point.  I can’t come up with any reason for these people not to feel the way they feel, whatever it may be.  Really moving, strong, emotional moments like this can stir up lots of feelings and we can’t possibly assume they’ll be the same for any two people.

I do know it’s hard for me to celebrate the death of another human being at the hands of my government, although it’s not difficult to rationalize this man’s assassination.  I understand that, after what he had done, our leaders were left with a situation in which there was no simple “right” answer.  I am almost positive that if any number of factors in my life were different, I would have been celebrating in the streets last night instead of monitoring the internet for more information or a good one-liner that might help me describe my emotions.

I’m grateful that (from what I’ve read) no Americans or Pakistani civillians were killed in the firefight.  We’ve lost too many already.

It’s hard for me to understand the meaning of the word “justice” in this situation.  If you define “justice” as the death of the man who has led his followers to kill thousands, then yes.  It’s perfect.  If you define it as somehow making up for the previous deeds done, there is no way.  But if this brings something – closure, peace, a welcome moment of reflection – to those who have lost a loved one, I am glad.

I’m trying to use this as an opportunity to remember times when I’ve been particularly proud of my country, my government, or my fellow citizens.  How I felt in the weeks and months following 9/11, for instance, before I started scoffing at American flag bumper stickers and lapel pins.  Or when Obama was elected in 2008, when I was proud to be part of something historic and meaningful, before I became disillusioned once more.  Or what it was like before the TSA and Koran burnings and ground zero “mosques.”

I’m trying to ride the wave of excitement in an effort to reclaim those feelings and maybe unite with everyone for a moment in our emotions, whatever they are.  ’Cause being proud to be an American feels so damn good.