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. I'm pretty sure orange slices do for kids what beers do for adults.

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.

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.

I am not a regular listener (or viewer) of yours, but a recording of one of your recent shows was brought to my attention this week. On Monday, you responded to a recent monologue by Lawrence O’Donnell and discussed your views on Planned Parenthood. The recording is available here.

Mr. Beck, I do not know you personally. I don’t know what it’s like to deal with the tragedy of losing your mother at a young age, not to mention alcoholism, drug abuse, divorce or spiritual awakening. I can’t imagine what it’s like to raise four children, one of whom suffers from a physical disability. I have never contemplated suicide, and I can’t imagine what depths of sadness and suffering you must have experienced to do so. Perhaps even more than once.

But even though I don’t know what you’ve been through, even though I may not see eye-to-eye with you on political issues, I try to have compassion. I try to pause before passing judgement, taking into account that you are in a different place than I am, making different decisions. And even if I disagree with your opinions, I understand that you must have your own reasons for forming them.

Compassion is part of what makes us human. When people forget how to empathize, good people get hurt. Their life savings is destroyed when the market collapses because people on Wall Street were only thinking of themselves. Their family is separated because their country’s leader believes that some of his people are worth less than others. They receive poor treatment at a hospital when their routine surgery goes awry, because the nurses and care providers are just punching the clock instead of caring for patients.

Considering how outspoken you were about the lack of compassion you encountered at the hospital a few years ago, I was appalled to hear your reaction to Lawrence O’Donnell’s reading of a letter from his friend who has taken advantage of the amazing services offered by Planned Parenthood. I understand that you are pro-life. I understand that you do not want the government to fund Planned Parenthood. I understand that you dislike Mr. O’Donnell. But I cannot understand your inability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes for even one moment.

As Mr. O’Donnell’s friend mentions, women are strongly encouraged to get routine exams annually. These exams not only help care providers identify cancer (cervical, breast, and others) in its early stages – when it is more likely to be curable – they also help identify women who may be sick without knowing it. It is possible for a man or a woman who has only had one sexual partner in his or her whole life to be carrying something unknowingly. Having multiple partners during your lifetime is not unheard of, even among your friends, family and supporters. Even you, Mr. Beck, have had children with more than one woman.

So imagine that you are a woman in a long-term, monogamous relationship who needs annual exams, but you aren’t able to pay for them. Perhaps you are unemployed, like nearly 10% of Americans, and therefore do not have health insurance. Perhaps you are a college student, like myself, with a student insurance plan that does not cover annual exams. Perhaps you are lucky enough to be employed, but cannot afford to purchase health insurance because your rates are much higher due to a pre-existing condition, such as the Cerebral Palsy from which your daughter suffers, Mr. Beck. Imagine, for a moment, that you aren’t able to go to the same hospital the president of GE does, because you can’t afford it. And then imagine Planned Parenthood steps forward and tells you that your health and well-being are their priority, and they will treat you regardless of your ability to pay.

Imagine that you are a woman who suffers from ovarian cysts or migraines that are kept at bay by daily hormones known as “birth control pills.” You do not take the pills to prevent pregnancy, but you must pay $70 per month to fill your prescription. The cost of an annual exam pales in comparison with your monthly prescription refill costs.  And your doctor won’t renew your prescription unless you get an exam every year.

And then imagine that, during your visit to Planned Parenthood for your exam, you learn that they will also provide your medication. All they ask is that you pay what you can. Your health and well-being is important to them.

Now imagine that you are online at work or school or the public library one day, and you find a link to a recorded radio show in which a man you’ve never met calls you a hooker. He says that the only people who depend on Planned Parenthood’s services are prostitutes. He tells you to stop spending money on birth control pills and just use condoms instead. He tells you to stop killing babies. He says that you have internet access, so you should be able to pay for your medical care.

And then imagine, Mr. Beck, that you do a quick internet search and find out that this man has spoken out against the new law passed that prohibits health insurance companies from discriminating on the basis of pre-existing conditions.  That he’s against the public option for people who don’t have the coverage they need.  And then you find a video of that same man a few years ago, talking intimately to a camera about “The real meaning of compassion.”

Just for a moment, try putting aside all of your political messaging and imagine how that might feel.

Only then, Mr. Beck, will you know the real meaning of compassion.

Sincerely,
M

I don’t believe I have all the information about the new TSA body scanners, although I have read quite a few articles on the subject in the last few days.  I’m not usually the type of person to worry about things like BPA-free water bottles, high-tension power lines or anything else that might somehow make me sick without my knowledge…  I guess I just figure there are so many things to worry about in this world that we can’t all worry about everything.  (And apparently, I have chosen to worry about spiders and logging trucks).  However, of all government agencies, I think the TSA would be the least likely to be concerned with my personal well-being, especially when sacrificing it could in some way make them feel “safer” or look tougher.

Of the handful of articles and posts I’ve read, this one was the most interesting to me because, although the author notes that he does not specialize in radiation, he is a Ph.D. student who is clearly used to thinking scientifically and doing research the rest of us might not think to do (or even know how to do).  He itemizes every juncture at which the TSA has failed to conduct thorough safety trials or utilize critical thinking.  I highly recommend reading it, even though it’s long.

What this post showed me, assuming it’s all factual, is that there are enough unanswered questions to make me want to opt out of these scanners the next time I fly (if I’m even subjected to them).  Although having a TSA employee pat me down is not an exciting option either, I think there is less potential risk.

It is worth noting, however, that other people who may have been traumatized in some sexual way (which I have not) might find both of these options (the scanner and the pat down) horrifying for different reasons.  I can’t even imagine how difficult that experience would be for them.

In some ways, I also feel bad for the people employed by the TSA who have to perform these scans and searches.  Although I’m sure some of them are just grown-up hall monitors on a power trip, I’m sure lots of them are people who just desperately need a paycheck and wish they weren’t the face of the organization that’s implementing these rules.  These shirts and underwear are kind of funny, but they’re sending the message to the wrong people.  I bet lots of the TSA personnel are even less excited about these new regulations than the people buying those shirts.

The other thing is that you can’t out-think terrorists.  No matter what you do, they will work harder and try crazier things to bypass your systems, if they really want to.  People who want to endanger others MORE than they value their own life and safety are absolutely terrifying for that reason.  I’m not saying that there will be another successful terrorist attack or that there won’t… I’m just saying that this constant search for the terrorist-proof system is fruitless and only stirs up more anger and fear, which is exactly what we don’t need.

As you can see, I haven’t exactly organized my thoughts on the matter, nor am I ever sure I’m getting accurate information, but it’s frustrating to feel this new system has been implemented before proper testing and without concern for the peaceful, innocent individuals it affects.

I am grateful for:

The people who started as my coworkers and became some of my closest friends.

Homemade whipped cream.

Flowers, all sorts.

Family members who know me so well, sometimes I don’t even have to use words to describe my feelings to them.

Baking.

Jeans that fit well.

Songs that cause me to sing out loud and stay in the car after I’ve already parked.

My “college friends” who I wasn’t friends with in college, but who mean the world to me.

Sunny days that make me feel like I’m glowing.

Christmas lights.

My boyfriend, whose love is always with me, even if he can’t be.

Craft projects.

Aunts, uncles, cousins and baby cousins.

Traditions, memories and sentimental values.

Galen’s family, who always make me feel welcome.

Ebenezer Ale.

Sudoku.

Boots with the fur.

The wonderful people in my life who are patient with me as I try to understand the uncertainty that surrounds me and try to remember not to judge others too harshly.

Although I understand where so much of the stereotypes and criticism of cheerleaders comes from, I still think this is an awesome concept.  Jezebel.com covered the topic, saying, “Science shouldn’t have to be sexed-up to make it an acceptable career choice for women, but hopefully the message girls take from the Science Cheerleaders is that your attractiveness is not a reflection on your intelligence.”  I agree with them, but as a girl who has always been good at math and science, I think there’s another important part to this message, which is that you can excel in “nerdy” subjects and still be girly.  You don’t have to be, obviously, but sometimes, as female nerds, we don’t realize we have a choice.  Sometimes in middle school and high school we feel pigeonholed.  Everyone is given a label (nerd, football player, cheerleader, druggie, hippie) and then expected to play their part.  It took me a long time to figure out that I could pick and choose from various stereotypes, INCLUDING the “girly” one without accepting the whole package.  There were a few years in college when I had acrylic nails and got them “done” regularly, not because I was a super girly-girl overly-concerned with my appearance, but because I wasn’t really girly and having fancy nails made me feel good and a little rebellious.  I liked that I could rock my naturally curly hair and hooded sweatshirts every day but still have some feminine touches like manicures and matching accessories that made me feel good.  To this day, I sort of like the way people react when I tell them I majored in math.  I like defying their stereotypes.  And I really wish someone had told me when I was thirteen that I could spend time on my hair and dance and do neurology research, without having to choose.

Now I’m just hoping they start some sort of program for science professionals who want to be BlazerDancers.

Although I don’t know what it’s like to be a boy in middle school, I’ve often joked that when I have kids, I’m going to send them away during those years.  They’ll have to either live with their grandparents or go to boarding school or something, but I don’t think I can put up with middle school drama.

But recently I’ve been trying to think of things I could tell my (future, theoretical) children so that at least they wouldn’t be the offenders of awfulness at their school.  The other day, I thought maybe I could explain to them the theory of karma, but in the way I like to think of it, which is based on this lifetime.  I sort of think of it as a corollary of the “All the Popular Kids from High School are Fat and Unhappy at Your Ten-Year Reunion” theory.  Essentially, if you’re a jerk in life, you won’t be as lucky as those who are good, kind-hearted people.

I realized today, though, that there’s a flaw in this logic.  If you’re a good person, bad things can still happen to you.  Bad things are equally as likely to happen to everyone, regardless of the karma they’ve built up.  In the end, though, if you’ve been a good person you’ll have friends, family and people who are close to you by your side if (and when) those bad things happen.  If you’ve alienated all the people in your life, though, you’ll have to go through the sadness alone.  And there’s nothing worse than sadness in isolation.

So, to help me get through the tough times, I’m going to think of it that way.  Karma manifests itself as the people you love, by your side when you need them the most.

When I was cleaning today, I found a magazine my mom sent me months ago. I flipped through it and a couple clippings fell out. They must be at least 8 months old, because one of them was this obituary, cut out of the Missoula newspaper. My mom’s scribbled message at the top says, “This is the best obit I ever read! Too bad I didn’t know her.”

In case you don’t feel like reading the whole thing, here are some of my favorite parts:

“In an obituary, you generally give the timeline of a person’s life through a list of dates and geographic locations where they spent time. Grandma Fran represents the end of an era. She represents the end of a long cultural and family journey which begins in Ireland and ends in America and this type of ending must be marked with a large sound so that the descendants have the great comfort to remember who they are and where they came from and the ties that bind them. This type of death cannot be summed up in linear dates; it must be understood in the abstract chaos of the Irish.”

“She loved humor, blood relatives, canned food, the Democratic Party, and the sense that you’d better enjoy the moment due to the inevitability of bad luck showing its face. She detested the royal family, corporate greed and Republican dogma.”

“Grandma Fran had in her long life moments of great strength. She gathered the strength to leave her husband to protect her children during a period of time when women could not leave or support themselves.”

“Grandma Fran had in her long life moments of great blessing… Of all the blessings that she experienced in her long life, none were as important to her as her family.”

What an incredible woman.  I agree, mom – too bad we didn’t know her.

• Expects an award just for showing up
• Is incapable of hard work
• Is unwilling to put in long hours to gain the respect of coworkers and superiors
• Changes jobs every two years
• Is totally internet and tech-savvy
• Lives with their parents longer
• “Fails to launch” – puts off growing up as long as possible
• Wants to work to live, not live to work
• Doesn’t understand why they can’t wear flip-flops to work

Are these based on real-life examples?  Probably.  Are some of them true of me?  Of course.  (Some other day I’ll support the stereotype by ranting about my incredible hatred for office dress codes).  Are they all negative traits?  I don’t think so.  But they are, overall, negative.

And again, this past week, I was at a conference where generational marketing was the topic of discussion.  And again, I had to listen to a baby boomer tell me about how Generation Y has no brand loyalty and expects total transparency from organizations because they don’t trust them.  At least this time, the presenter acknowledged that some of this was due to age (for instance, how many twentysomethings can afford to be loyal donors or have any brand loyalty?).

But honestly, I’m a little tired of it.  I know for a fact there are kids my age who suffer from all of these traits, but we aren’t all like that. If you really want to know how we think, whether you’re in marketing, fundraising, education or whatever, here’s what you need to know:  (Obviously, these are generalizations and not necessarily true for all of us).

• Save your stamps.  We do everything online or via text.  If you want to reach us, use email, Facebook, Twitter, text message or some other form of communication.
• We expect lots of feedback.  It doesn’t all have to be positive, but it needs to be frequent.
• We want to be judged on the work we produce and not the way we produce it.  If we can do the same work in flip-flops and jeans as we can in a suit, then why spend money on an uncomfortable suit?
• We have always been told to do the things that make us happy.  We will not spontaneously forget this mantra when we turn 22 and graduate college.
• Contrary to what you might think, we are capable of hard work.  But we’d rather work just enough to live comfortably than work crazy hours so we can retire early.  Here I will admit – as a general rule, we have a hard time thinking long-term.

We don’t expect the world to mold to our expectations, but the bottom line is that everyone will need to bend a little now that we have three distinct generations in the workforce for the first time in many years.  Okay, fine.  We won’t wear jeans and hoodies to work, but in return, maybe we can work from home every once in a while.  If you are uncomfortable with social media and all things web 2.0, we can help you get your company online.

I know nobody’s perfect and I’m definitely guilty of expecting companies to understand my way of thinking, but I can’t help but wonder who the slackers are that started all the stereotypes I’ve encountered.  What’s particularly disheartening is that there were enough of them that they weren’t written off as outliers.

The other thing, though, is that I think our reactions are sometimes read incorrectly.  For instance, in my first job out of college at The Company, I had to work long hours and travel about a third of the time for not a whole lot of money, which wasn’t worth it to me.  Was this because I expected lots of money for 40 hours per week?  No.  It was because I wasn’t willing to give up my personal time (and my personal life) for a job.  I didn’t expect to be paid more, I just knew what my priorities were.

Has anyone else experienced this, either from my viewpoint or from the outside looking in?  Am I totally off here?

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

The email then asked you to write your life story in six words and pass it on. At the time I figured mine would be something like, “I can’t say no to fun.” or “Life is fantastic. I’m loving it.”  I didn’t think about it long before deleting the email.

However, just now, approximately five-to-seven years later, I decided what mine would be:

“I was going to, but then…”