My No Good, Crazy Insane Slightly Traumatic Evening

Yesterday evening was insane. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. We have a new baby and my body is going through a healing process right after a harrowing 36-hour labor followed by a c-section. So with that in mind let me set the stage.

It’s late evening, around 7pm. After the end of a long day where we had taken the baby to his first pediatrician appointment (anxiety ridden for both parents) we were finally relaxing. Around 7:30 I started feeling really cold and shivers started. I’d had several low-grade fevers in the hospital and it was starting again… this time though I’d already taken my 800mg motrin and was still really too early to take any other pain management meds (like percocets). The problem is that when I get low grade fevers these days the shivers are violent. My teeth chatter and my whole body shakes and it feels pretty nuts.

On top of this I had been constipated for days. Iron supplements due to low hemoglobin levels in the hospital paired with pain pills had left my bowels in a state of disarray. I’d been taking stool softeners to know avail and as I sat that shaking uncontrollably I realized… I needed to poop! This is usually such a good thing. But as I sat down on the toilet while shaking violently from a completely unrelated fever I realized it was not a good thing. Pooping after five days of not is usually good. Pooping after five days on iron supplements that make your feces like rocks? Hurts like hell.

Over the course of the next hour or so I proceeded to give birth to the largest and hardest three turds of my life. I was screaming in the bathroom at times and, understandably, it was starting to upset Wee Steven who doesn’t like to go too long without seeing mommy but hearing her scream meant he needed to cry too and my husband couldn’t fix his cry or my screams and then shit got really crazy. I’m shaking violently on the toilet, trying to poop and my kid cries which means my boobs, which are full of milk at this point, start leaking profusely. I take off my shirt because its leaving stains and its so much that its running down my body on the toilet while I’m screaming and shaking violently.

So I ask Tate to get my breast pump. Pump and baby in hand I walk him through how to set it up while the baby screams and I scream and I leak and I shake on the toilet. It was insane. So he gets it done and I start pumping which immediately makes me so thirsty so I want to kill someone (happens every time). So I’m thirsty, shaking, screaming while trying to poop bricks and pumping on the toilet while my baby cries and my husband gets me a cup of water. And then suddenly, I’ve pumped enough, the final turd comes out and my shaking, while still violent, calms enough that I can stand up.

Tate is stressed, baby is confused and scared and my body feels like I just went through a second labor. Taking that dump was as painful as parts of my labor. I didn’t think it was possible to compare that pain to anything else in reality but I was wrong. At this point I feed the baby, he calms down and we try and decompress. My incision is aching from the pushing I was doing and I’m overwhelmed. My shaking is getting worse and I take my temperature and it sits at 99.6 which is just enough to make me miserable but not enough to make me scared until I check it again 30 minutes later and its gone up to 100 even. So I call the midwife call service and wait for a call back.

Steven had eaten (but often likes to do this several times in a row but I was hopeful he was full) so I began treating my nipples. You see, they’d started having some pain and the pediatrician had written me a script for some magical nipple cream. So I soaked my nips first, put on some cream and then realized Steven was getting fussy like he wanted to eat again. So I texted my lactation consultant to see if was safe to feed him after just putting it on and he starts screaming. Tate tries to calm him down to no avail and then I get a text back saying its fine (keep in mind… all this time I’m still shaking violently). So as Tate is handing off baby my midwife is calling me back so I shove baby back in Tate’s arms who is still screaming and I’m still shaking with cream all over my nipples half naked on the couch… and pick up the phone.

I lose it. Immediately. Just start crying. Can barely tell her whats wrong. She asks me a few questions and then tells me to go ahead with the Percocet and to make sure I take my next motrin right on time and hangs up. Tate brings baby back, baby is on boob and quiet and then the husband is instructed to get me cold water, medication and a wash cloth because the baby has popped off said boob and started crying again because the boob obviously tastes funny. The washcloth comes, all while shaking, and wipe off the nipple and get Steven quiet and eating again, the cold water comes and I take my pill and within about 20 minutes the shaking stops, the baby is fed and my nipples are still sore. My fever went back down to 99 even and I just sat there slightly traumatized. Now, after 10pm, the baby nursed forever, the meds kicked in and I realized… this was the end of our full day at home. Awesome.

I'm a Foot

I am a foot. This is a weird thing to say but let me explain. Everyone is good at different stuff. Some people are good at leading, some good at challenging and others good at doing the work in the background. There’s some verses in the bible that talk about us all being part of the body. Some of us are eyes or lips or hands or feet. Well, I know that I am a foot.

I am foot for a host of reasons but it’s important to know that it has taken thousands of dollars of therapy, tons of stepwork in my recovery community and SO many tears to realize it. I came to seminary ahead of the game in this respect. I knew, without a doubt, that I am a foot. I may not know what I want to be when I’m done (preacher, chaplain or Phd student) but I know that whatever I decide to do it will be done in the fashion of the foot. After all, I am a foot!

In my opinion a foot does many things. A foot takes the body where it needs to go. Sometimes it takes the body where it wants to go. For the most part though it takes the body somewhere. Sometimes the foot stomps and makes noise and sometimes it tiptoes. Depending on the culture the foot may need lots of protection like socks and shoes or snowboots or it may just need a nice light sandal. Feet can stink; they can be seen as annoying and a little gross. And if the foot is hurting the entire body will be completely aware of that shit because they body won’t tend to get very far.

This is because a foot, while often pushing the body to go to new and scary places, is still really sensitive. This is why it often needs socks and shoes and protection from the hard ground. I am all of these things- this is why I am a great foot and a terrible hand and an even worse set of eyes. I don’t look where I am going, I need protection almost constantly but I am really really talented at taking people to places they don’t want to go. I challenge the status quo, I move the body and when I try not too I just become restless and agitated. No one, I repeat, no one wants agitated feet.

I’ve been challenged by a few professors both in undergrad and graduate school to be more like a hand. You see, hands are socially acceptable and they’re good at making points and people can see them and not feel weirded out by them. Hands are really good for convincing people, in nice ways, to do what the hand thinks they should and not make people uncomfortable doing it. Hands and feet usually need to work together to really get the body moving. I tend to work well with hands and it is when I’m working with hands that I get the body to move better. If hands are reaching out then it makes it easy for the feet to simply move the body in the same direction.

The problem though is that professors and administration of schools and churches and recovery meetings would prefer me to be a hand. I am not a hand. I’m not so good with caring if I’m socially acceptable, I don’t really have an affinity for playing good politics and don’t particularly care if people (on the whole) really even like me- as long as they respect me. As a foot, the caress and gentle touch aren’t really my forte- kicking doors down or pushing the body to jog just a little further? That I am good at. It is why I’m a very good foot and a very awful hand. As opposed to a lot of people who are still trying to figure out what part they play in the body, I have known for a long time now exactly what I am.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot to learn. It doesn’t mean I don’t need to be challenged and it doesn’t mean that I’m not willing to allow myself, as a foot, to grow or change my shoes. It does mean though, that I will not be hand and I won’t be a mouth and I won’t be anything else that people ask me to be. Because, if you haven’t figured it out already, I am a foot.

I’m good at marching and I’m good at taking the body to war. I’m good at stomping and creating attention for what the body should do next. I’m great at dancing and moving the body in a way that is incredible and that can do great things but I am better, always better at these things when I work with the hands and the knees and the rest of the body. It is so important for me to be a foot. Sometimes I kinda hate it though. The foot is often so far away from the rest of the body and it’s annoying to be the thing that gets things moving- sometimes I just want to be a long for the ride.

But the ride gets boring and before long I put my feet back on the ground because it is what I know how to do and I do it well. The rest of the body sometimes gets annoyed with me; they’d rather linger a little bit longer or they’d rather not go to places that seem a bit scary or different or new. But as a foot, this is what I do and this is how I know how to live and this is where my talent lies. So the next time a boss, professor or friend tries to get me to be a hand I’m going to do my best and remind them that I am and always will be a foot.

Pregger Indentity Crisis of Liberal Feminist Academic

Being a liberal, fulltime student and part time worker and pregnant woman has me in a bit of a conundrum. I want to love being pregnant and hold onto my feminist ideals. I want to be able to love my career and love being pregnant. I want to have this child but I don’t want this child to become the best thing in my life. I want it to be ONE of the best things but not the best things.

I don’t want to love my kid more than my husband. I don’t want to love this kid more than my own joys of life- like studying ancient language and how culture influences relgion. I mean, my kid will be the cutest on the planet and will challenge me in some amazing new ways but that kid will never be an ancient foreign language. 

So anyway, I’ve been dealing with a huge identity crisis as my bump extends.  My culture tells me my kid should be the most important thing in my life, possibly, that my child should be my biggest accomplishment. Yet, for me, I don’t want it to be. I want to get a Phd and teach and be a badass academic and do some pretty amazing stuff- but I don’t want my child or children to become my focus. I want them to be IN focus but not my focus.

It’s hard to explain because I feel like I’ll have this onslaught of crazy judgment from other mothers out there. Or other mothers who do make their children their focus will feel judged by me. But I don’t judge them- I get why kids become the focus and why this is all-important for some. That’s all well and good and awesome but it is not my jam.

I like being pregnant now that I don’t have insane hormones and bladder infections. I kind of love being a woman and creating life and I’m really looking forward to homebirth and being a badass holistic mama. It’s gonna be incredible. I’m also glad that I’ll have the summer off with the behbeh and that I’m part of an astounding community where a small nanny share is possible and I can breastfeed the kid as long as I want or need to. I’m also glad that after three months I can go back to school and study and be close to baby and balance all my foci.  I want to concentrate on my relationship with my husband, my new role as a mom and my joy of academics.

When I look back at the last three years I seem so effin’ domesticated.  We bought a house, got married and got knocked up (one each year for the last three) and it overwhelms my liberal sensibilities. I have evened the score by moving my husband and myself out of the country, renting out the house, starting graduate school and convincing my crunchy redneck of a man that a homebirth would be a good idea.

Sometimes I find myself resisting being all googly over baby clothes and being home with baby for a few months, as though enjoying these things means I’m less of a liberal or less of a feminist for loving those things. I know, I know- that’s not rational but there’s very little about being pregnant that is rational (hormones much?). So I’m going through the motions, being okay with my need to rearrange furniture and giving myself a break. I’m allowed to be goooogly over baby and I’m allowed to be a liberal academic at the same time. These things are not mutually exclusive and it doesn’t make me less of a mom or less of a career minded mom. I can have both worlds, I just gotta find the balance in those worlds… it’ll take some time.

Lovin' Ain't Easy

Falling in love wasn’t an easy process for me. There are a thousand reasons why but I want to be clear. Falling in love isn’t easy for me. It is painful and it means thinking about someone else other than myself and it means letting someone near to the places inside of me that are still so raw and hurt that I don’t even like to look at them. Loving someone meant giving up always being in control and having to be gentle with their feelings as I made changes in my own life. This is not something I am skilled with. At all.

I don’t think I have my soul mate but I have a damn good mate. This is because I don’t believe in soul mates. I don’t think we were “meant” for each other but I think we have grown into meaningful relationship. I never understood being “meant” for someone anyway. I don’t know that God had him picked out for me but I do believe God helped me pick someone worth having. I just don’t think that this is how God interacts with the creation. I could keep going with these but you get the general idea.

The warm fuzzies of a new relationship are addicting to me. Like having that first snort of cocaine after not having it for months on end. It is fucking gorgeous. The problem is that when that warm fuzzy wears off and I’m left with a hairy man who has a hard time communicating emotions when he’s tired and he’s tired all the time because he works a lot. Yeah, that’s the problem. I mean, what do I do with a hairy, grumpy tired man who happens to love me? What do you DO with that?

Most of the time I still don’t know. I feed him and give him his space while still trying to get a snuggle in I suppose. Perhaps that’s what falling in love for me really is: finding the balance between the warm fuzzies and the frustratingly annoying hairs that stick to the linoleum floor of the bathroom. It’s knowing that while we often have little in common we have the ability to talk for hours on end on occasion and are very good at sleeping in the same bed without annoying the other too much. He doesn’t snore. This is one of the biggest reasons why we worked out I think.

Also he knows how to put me in my place. I always thought I’d want a man who supported me in whatever crazy venture I decided on but I realize now if I’d gotten that kind of man I’d fallen out of love because he’d be a pushover. Instead I needed a man who knows how to put up a fight. I needed an alpha to match my alpha. This, sometimes, can cause a shit ton of conflict because we’re both jockeying to be in charge. It means that, at times, I’ve wanted to run because I don’t feel like he has my back. It means, at times, he’s wanted to run because he thinks I’m out of my mind. I am sometimes out of my mind.

Once, when I was treating him like crap he responded, “Hannah, you’re being a dick to me right now and it is not okay.” This was the first time I realized I was gonna marry him. You see, for me, falling in love is not roses and sweetness and feather pillows. Love, for me, is scraped knees and tears and hugs and saying what I need to say even if I am afraid. I needed to know that he would put me in my place once in a while. I needed to know that he would question my crazy ideas and make me play the tape through. I needed someone who would be willing to follow me anywhere as long as I was willing to fight for it- even if it meant fighting my partner a little bit too.

Falling in love has been a consistent process that has taken persistence and an unrelenting commitment to forgetting all the Disney movies I grew up on. It has meant loads of therapy, writing and talking to friends. It has meant learning how to make the bed everyday even though I hate doing it. It means being willing to pick up the house when I’d rather be blogging or napping or watching tv.  It has meant pushing him to be okay with the occasional mess or dishes not being in the dishwasher. It has meant snuggling up on the couch on Sunday mornings and delaying the inevitable house clean up process but still having the clean up process even though I’d rather not.

I want people to understand. I have cried a lot in the process of falling in love. I have also hyperventilated a few times and had at least three panic attacks. He has also made me laugh a thousand times over, has moved us twice and has held me while I sobbed over the decision to give up my dog, buried my brother and lost two of our unborn children.  He is not the epitome of an emotionally sound person but he is the most stable, caring and consistent man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. He can converse with me over religious theory and practical applications of 12-step recovery and not blink an eye but he wears work boots to the job every day. It is So. Damn. Sexy.

Getting to the point where I am comfortable and content in our relationship has meant almost breaking up at least twice. It has meant seriously considering the realization that we might not be able to find a middle ground. I believe that considering that possibility is the reason why we were capable of deciding that we would work it out. You see, I’m ultra liberal and he’s a swing voter. I’ve lived in 2 states and 1 other country in the past seven years and I’ve only just got him to move out of the county where he’s resided for the past 10. So yea, we’re different. Our differences are good and awesome and so very frustrating when I realize he supported yet another Republican candidate.

I’m really really really glad we’re different. I’m glad that we both like Six Flags and CBS Sunday Mornings but he’s totally okay with me taking the bus to Philly without him for a week and I’m totally okay with his insatiable desire to do service work for the 12-step community we participate in. Being different is good. Sometimes annoying but mostly good. But also highly annoying.

That being said, the whole process has been frustratingly overwhelming at times and is nothing like what I thought it would be. I still struggle with letting go of Disney movies and the concept of what long term love really looks like. I’m really so glad he’s mine and I’m really glad I’m just southern enough that I took his name and just me enough that I will forever get tattoos whether he likes it or not. That, after all, is what falling in love is all about. 

Trash Talkin' Reminds me of J-Dog.

Let me tell you about James. Let me start by saying I don’t know a whole lot about James.  I know that James is from South Philly originally. He lived in south philly when living in south Philly was closer to a death sentence for a young black man than it was a neighborhood. But that is where James grew up, in South Philly.  I know that James is a Muslim and currently works at a Christian seminary in the refectory (otherwise know as the dining hall) in Decatur, GA.  I know that James is hilarious and talks more trash than any other man I know. I know James is very good at loving people and doesn’t want people to know how good he is at doing it.

James doesn’t really do anything politically correct. He says words that many might find offensive, he calls out the black vs white culture on campus and makes fun of the students who can read big texts books but would rather die than wash the dishes.  He’s also the campus mascot for many of the student’s children who absolutely love him.  They always want to see James, probably because he bribes their love with slices of cheese and cookies but also with gentle hugs and lets them help with adult jobs like cleaning up and doing those dishes a few of the seminarians think they’re too good to do. 

And the trash he talks… oh the trash! From Phillies/Braves talks to our following the dress code in the kitchen to how we should be working harder, he is endless in his trash talking. He calls me “sorry” because I apologize all the time and makes fun of the girls who are too politically correct for him. James is consistent in his trash talking. James is also just consistent in general. He has worked at Columbia for over a decade. He has watched classes of seminarians come and go and he’s seen professors retire (some willingly and some in shame) and knows the secrets of the walls that he walks into every weekday.

His consistency isn’t the only thing that makes James so endearing. It’s also how he shows care for those that are assigned the refectory for our work-study.  James knows which students are gluten free or vegetarian and set out certain foods for them and he lets me know what processed foods have soy in them. When I got into a theological debate with a peer and I upset him, James took his side but then told privately later that I’d “totally won” that conversation.  You see, James has a way of caring while making it look like he doesn’t care that is absolutely astounding. He doesn’t bring attention to it and probably doesn’t want the attention either. 

Funny how the Muslim black guy serving the (largely) white Christian crowd often is the most Jesus-like. James serves the children and makes them feel special, he doesn’t take shit from us students but he also makes sure we always have what we need. He has a servant heart but he certainly doesn’t mind speaking his mind or cracking jokes or having a foul mouth once in a while.

I focus on James but he’s not the only one. The entire refectory staff is effing amazing. Will, the manager, works his ass off while making sure all our hours are logged… especially for students like me who ALWAYS forget to log hours. There’s also Darlene, the morning cook who dances to music on the top 40 from the moment she gets there to the minute she leaves. She is joyful (no other word for it really) and lovely. She is kind and wonderful and sensitive. If you happen to go through the line and don’t say hello to her you libel to hurt her feelings. 

Our staff in the refectory probably goes unnoticed by the vast majority of students who don’t work there or don’t eat there. I’m not sure if the professors and administration have ever had the pleasure of sitting down and talking to James or Darlene or Will. Maybe they have, regardless these people have made me feel a part of this community as much as any other student or professor. They have taught me SO much about the campus and the students and how to serve.

I want to care for people like James does. I want to care for them without bringing attention to the fact that I care for them. I want to love them without making it obvious or pointing out my love. I want to talk shit while comforting a fellow student and letting the other know they did a good job. I want to call out my peers for not following the rules but still allowing them the pleasure of knowing I have their back. I want to serve with contentment and consistency and I want do it well.

James saves some of the best food for the end of the year so that the students aren’t left with bad tastes in their mouth when summer comes around. I know that James wants them to remember the refectory as the place where tummies are fed and happy memories of community are created. He’d never say it. Maybe he’ll read this and think that I’ve just read WAY to much into his actions and he’ll be embarrassed and talk all kinds of shit about it and tell me I’m just some sappy white girl who thinks she’s from Philly that spends way too much money on tattoos and an education that won’t get me anywhere. 

That’s just his way though. Everyone who knows James knows how much he loves us. From making sure we have food to eat to taking sides and letting us know he has our back James is the most Christ-like man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a very long time. I’m grateful that I had the pleasure of meeting him and I’m really grateful I’ll be working with him again come fall semester.

Why I'm Against The Death Penalty

My brother was murdered.  Many people know this. Many don’t.  Just over a decade ago my brother and one of his closest friends were brutally murdered. It was not quick. It was horrible and gruesome and disgusting.  The case was strait up out of CSI or Law & Order or something.  I need to make this clear. It was planned, pre-meditated and carried out from beginning to end with all the precision they could muster.

I am thankful every day that the amount of precision they could muster was very little. Authorities caught them relatively quickly and all but one took a plea deal that allowed them to be eligible for parole in 50 years or so. The other, the ringleader, went to trial and went to prison for life.  The jury convicted in less than 30 minutes. It was a horrible time in my life. I wished they’d all die. I hated them; I wanted them to suffer. I was pissed that the state didn’t go after the death penalty but I took solace in the fact that prisoners in Texas die faster in the general population than they do on death row. In that, I found great comfort.

It has taken over a decade (and a lot of therapy) to get to the point of relinquishing my hate.  It has taken me this amount of time to realize their value as humans on this planet and the realization that they are human and have feelings and emotions and are worthy of God’s love.  Now, don’t get it twisted, I don’t want them out of prison. I suppose in many ways I haven’t even forgiven them and don’t particularly feel inclined too. Yet, given the option, I would not put them to death. Not now, not ever. 

You see, death is such a permanent thing. We are such impermanent beings. And in that way, making permanent decisions doesn’t sit well with me. Despite my feelings when I was younger, I realize now that I believe the death penalty to be inhumane. Beyond that, I believe that if I choose retribution over justice or revenge over acceptance then I have lost my way as a Christian.  If I choose an eye for an eye instead of turning the other cheek than I have allowed myself to be ruled by an old law that is absent of love instead of remaining present in Jesus’ assurance. 

The majority of those that read this will know John 3:16 but it is John 3:17 that rings true for me.  It states, “For God did not send his son into the world to condemn the world but to save it.” If I am to be a follower of Christ’s teachings then I cannot, in good conscience, condemn these men to death. So I accept that they suck. I applaud my justice system. I encourage those around me to step away from words like “he deserves to suffer” and “well that’s karma for you asshole” because that man who was put to death may have been awful, but he was human. Since he was human he was worthy of God’s love and because he was worthy of that love he is worthy of acceptance and justice.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “but this IS justice.” I disagree.  Justice is a human ideal with human application.  When we choose to make permanent decisions on impermanent beings we have stepped out justice and into the shoes of God.

There’s all that and then there’s the realization if Jesus was alive today I don’t think He’d like it either.

Captain America... A Review (with no spoilers)

Captain America was effing good. For many reasons. First, it had no qualms with the realization that it was a character based action movie. Yet, despite a rather short and flat plot line it did an amazing job of giving depth to the Black Widow and making Captain America seem more human. This, all while giving an intensity to evil that even the comics struggled with.

I liked that there was a strong female presence. Annoyed that Cap had to save her ass a few times and even more excited that the movie wasn’t completely white washed. There were two, count ‘em, TWO black guys that were kick ass, strong characters of moral fiber. I didn’t realize Hollywood was capable but I’m really glad they proved me wrong. Gone was the token black character and ushered in was leadership and excellence from two wonderful black actors.

Fury’s role was great but Falcon’s (Sam Wilson) was even better. The movie did a great job of introducing him into the Marvel landscape and did a good job of communicating the type of relationship him and the Cap had. He did a fantastic job, made the part look easy and was fantastic.

It was one of the best movies I have seen in a while. It did a good job of demonstrating patriotism without it looking cult-like. Had enough humor to offset the violence and made me want to be a part of the team.  If you’re wondering if you should see it. You should.

Also, there are TWO clips at the end. Stay for both.