Behind the cut is the story of Lucas’s birth. I get nostalgic around his birthday every year. This is partly because when Lucas was born, our lives changed completely and miraculously, and partly because giving birth to him was the most empowering and out-of-this-world experiences of my entire life.

So, I’ve put the entire 3,500 word essay in this entry. Please don’t read it if you would rather not know the gory and intimate details of birth. Please don’t read it and be mad at me for grossing you out. Please be warned, in this story I don’t pull any punches.

I wrote this story in the summer of 2002 for inclusion in The Birth Center’s newsletter. But really, I wrote this story down for me, so that I would never forget it. It was damned good work I did that day.

Our Birth Story

It was only in retrospect that I realized my solitary 4 o’clock a.m. Sunday morning painting session in the nursery was the first sign that the baby was on its way. It was a great weekend. In those pre-dawn hours of April 28, I put the finishing touches on the underwater, coral reef mural that I was painting on two walls of the baby’s room. Later that same day, my husband, Ian, finished some carpentry and touching up the paint. We called it quits around 3:00 p.m., and stood back to admire our work. Finally, the nursery was done. We had reached 37 weeks of the pregnancy. My maternity leave was to begin the following day.

At 7:00 p.m. we were saying goodbye to my mother-in-law who had dropped by for a visit. I felt an unfamiliar wetness “downstairs,” but didn’t mention it. I just changed my panties. I called Ruth about an hour and a half later, after having changed my panties 5 more times. Fears of sudden incontinence gradually gave way to suspicions of a broken bag of waters, especially when a small sneeze resulted in a puddle on the kitchen chair. We were very excited and realized in a panic that all of the baby clothes and baby furniture we’d been given were all still in their baby-shower wrappings, unwashed. We started a load of baby laundry, just in case.

We met Ruth at The Birth Center at 9:00 p.m. and she confirmed it. Despite the fact that my baby’s official due date was two and a half weeks away, my water was broken and the baby’s birth was imminent. There was only one catch: no contractions.

We had a deadline now. Ideally the baby should be born within 48 hours of the bag of waters breaking. Ruth explained that I would be allowed up to 72 hours to deliver the baby at The Birth Center, but beyond that, we would have to go to UC Davis Medical Center to have labor induced. Still, we didn’t worry about that too much. We figured that we’d probably be calling Ruth by morning to tell her our labor had started. Just in case, though, we made a plan to meet at The Birth Center at 11:00 a.m. the next day to monitor the baby’s heart rate. Ruth sent us home with a tincture of blue-black cohash, an herb that has been traditionally used to stimulate labor.

So, we were back there the next morning, at 11:00, to hook up to the electronic fetal monitor for a non-stress test because there were still no contractions. The three of us watched the monitor and Ruth studied the strip of paper the machine emitted. The machine was tracking both the baby’s heart rate as well as uterine contractions. One zig-zaggy line on the paper was full of ups and downs and represented the heartbeat. Ruth said the accelerations were appropriate, but occasionally a little high. The other line on the paper was completely straight: no contractions at all.

We agreed to go home and continue using the blue-black cohash, which is really awful, by the way. Ruth wanted me to start a course of antibiotics too, because the ruptured amnio sack posed a risk of infection. Our plan was to rest and do some nipple stimulation to bring on the contractions.
So we waited…we walked and napped. We also put the new crib and the changing table together and washed more baby clothes. We did all the prescribed actions. Still nothing. It was a very anxious time.

We were back at The Birth Center on Tuesday morning, same time. By this point, Ian and I were getting worried: 40 hours had passed and still no contractions. The line on the paper strip representing uterine activity was disappointingly flat. I had a lazy uterus. Fortunately, the baby’s heartbeat was fine and well within the “safe” zone.

Ruth discussed with us the implications of the delay, and told us we should start thinking about a trip to UCD Med Center on Wednesday morning if labor didn’t start on its own soon. I asked her what kind of treatment we could expect there and didn’t really like the answer. It seems we would be something of a scandal, having waited so long to induce labor after my water broke. They’d want to keep the monitor on the whole time, and would administer a continuous drip of pitocin through an IV, so I could expect limited motion. It wasn’t the picture of the birth I wanted and had planned for all these months.

There were a few more home remedies we could try…castor oil in orange juice, and as an afterthought, Ruth suggested we could give her acupuncturist, Roxanne, a call. Maybe Roxanne could stimulate the onset of contractions with her needles. We went immediately to the drug store to buy castor oil and OJ. This was the most vile concoction I have ever swallowed in my life.

At 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday, April 30, I drove to the acupucturist’s office in Roseville. I told Ian to stay home, since I would just be lying on the table for hours with needles sticking in me. Pretty boring, or so I thought.

Roxanne inserted her needles into points that are specifically forbidden to use during pregnancy because they induce labor. But that’s why I was there. She also attached tiny electrodes to each of the needles and pumped continuous stream of electricity into those acupuncture points. Forty-five minutes after the treatment began I started having contractions. At first, I was afraid to believe that they were real, that it might finally be happening. I called my husband and told him to stand by. I wanted to stay with the needles a little longer to be sure that my labor had started. I also called Ruth and described the sensation I was feeling: a tightening in my upper abdomen that intensified and moved lower in my abdomen. The contractions were coming fairly quickly, like every five or six minutes (it was hard to be sure of the time because I was lying in a darkened room with ambient music playing and no clocks). Ruth told me to go home and wait until the contractions were coming quicker, and to call her whenever I needed to or when I thought we should go to The Birth Center.

Ian picked me up from Roxanne’s office at around 5:30 p.m. with the car completely packed for our trip to The Birth Center. He was disappointed when I explained that Ruth instructed us to go home and labor there for a while.

By this time, the horrible Castor oil potion I drank earlier in the day had done its slippery work and I was forced to make several hurried trips to the restroom. We then drove the 25 minutes home in traffic, with me trying not to clench my body at each ever quickening contraction.

At home I labored in our bedroom, eventually finding that sitting or lying on the bed was the least comfortable position to be in when the wave of pain washed through me. Rather, kneeling on the bed with my elbows resting on a huge pile of pillows was the most comfortable position to weather the contractions. I was a little frightened, but also joyful that the baby was finally coming, and much relieved that a trip to the Med Center and a hospital induction would be unnecessary.

We practiced some creative visualization in between contractions, though I don’t remember what we did; I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. The contractions were coming faster and more frequently now. More like every two or three minutes. It was getting harder and harder.

Ian called our families and a friend (Lisa) who was to act as the point of contact for our large circle of friends to let them know that I was finally in labor. They had all been praying for the onset of labor and a healthy delivery at The Birth Center. He came back to me between each of the four phone calls. The contractions that came while Ian was out of the room were very painful and I began to get more frightened.

Ian later suggested that I get in the shower for a while—that perhaps the warm water would help keep my body relaxed. It did, but I found it hard to stay standing and had to sit and squat on the tile floor. I stayed in the shower for a long time. Ian sat just outside the shower on the floor of the bathroom. He held my hand through the door and brought me cool water to drink. Later, Ian came into the shower and held me close. We vocalized through the contractions, moaning and intoning Om. Being loud and hearing my voice echo against the tile walls was empowering to me. I liked moaning as loudly as I wanted without thinking of how I might sound to anyone else. Eventually, we ran out of hot water and came out of the shower. He dried me off and put my hair up.

Later, Ian called Ruth because I told him I was scared and wanted to be at The Birth Center. The contractions were coming so quickly and so hard. Ruth agreed to meet us at The Birth Center at 9:30 p.m. The car ride there was awful. Thank goodness we only live five minutes from The Birth Center.

When we arrived, I told Ruth I wanted some reassurance that everything was going OK. She checked me and announced I was 4 centimeters dilated. It seemed that I should be more dilated (and closer to the finish line) considering how painful the contractions were. I had been hoping we were further along than that.

For the first time, I met a woman named Alethea. She was there to act as Ruth’s medical assistant, but she told me that she was a trained doula and that she would be happy to help me in any way that I wanted. I say I met Alethea, but the truth is, I barely even opened my eyes for the next six hours. I came to know Alethea through her soft voice and gentle touch. Alethea was a strong, reassuring presence throughout the rest of my labor.

And so I labored. My memory of the chronology of events is really fuzzy. I have flashes of sensation and images, but nothing really orderly or coherent. The reason is by the time we arrived at The Birth Center, my contractions were coming about every two minutes; my reason had left me. The part of my mind that thinks logically had left me. My conscious self, my personality, had left me. Throughout the rest of my labor and the delivery of my baby, I operated on a deeper, more primal level.

I became an animal. I moaned, I groaned. I clenched and sweated. I changed positions several times because my body became tired or my hands fell asleep from holding any single position for too long. I labored on the bed, on my knees leaning over the birth ball. I labored in the birthing tub. I labored on the toilet. I didn’t care that I was naked. I didn’t care that I peed involuntarily during contractions, leaving little puddles on the floor.

All the while, Ian was there. I have no memory of him leaving my side for even a moment. He tells me that we used some creative visualization and pain coping techniques that we had learned in our childbirth education classes (we had only attended four of the six classes before my labor began!), but I don’t remember doing that. I do remember he told me he loved me over and over again, and that he was so proud of me, that I was doing great and he believed in me. He said he was so excited to finally meet our baby, and that he loved our baby so much. I can’t thank him enough for the constant flow of love I felt coming from him throughout the labor.

Alethea was there, too, and she provided a different kind of support. She expressed her faith that I could do it, that my body knew what to do to get my baby born safely. She was the voice of authority and experience: I learned that Alethea has birthed three children of her own. Incredulous, I asked her, “Why?” Alethea was able to tell me what I was doing right, and sometimes how to do better. Instead of telling me to relax, which would have seemed too difficult in the face of the pain I felt, with a gentle touch she instructed me to relax my forehead. When I concentrated on softening the muscles in my face, the tension in the rest of my body also eased, and I relaxed a little all over. She must have reminded me to release the tension in my forehead a thousand times.

And, of course, Ruth was there every moment. She periodically checked the baby’s heartbeat using a Doppler on my tummy. She also performed a vaginal exam a few times to check the progress of my dilation. She was quiet and professional, but also very compassionate. Ruth kept her sense of humor and that was reassuring and helped me relax. I felt confident that my baby and I were in good hands. When Ruth instructed me, I did as I was told.

The pain was softened by laboring in the tub. I was hoping to birth my baby in the warm water. I was in there a long time, leaning up against one side of the tub with my elbows hanging over the edge to keep my hand with the “heplock” tube out of the water. My hands fell asleep like this. During this time, I began to experience a huge urge to push. Without my telling it to, my body convulsed during the contractions. But Ruth checked my dilation and told me it wasn’t time to push yet. I was six centimeters dilated and we still had a long way to go. They instructed me to “blow” whenever I wanted to push. Alethea and Ruth showed me how and began “blowing” with me. Ian joined them. I blew steadily for the next several hours.
I began having very dark thoughts while “blowing” my head off in the birthing tub. My heart was flooded with fear and pain and regret. I regretted my decision to forego pain medication to have my baby at The Birth Center; I regretted not being at a hospital. Beyond that, I even regretted my pregnancy! My anxiety and fear made me wish that I could erase the last year and not have the baby. What was I going to do with a baby, anyway? I said aloud, “This was a terrible idea!” I meant the whole thing was terrible. My cheerleaders just continued to love and support me.

Then Ruth told me I had to get out of the tub. My cervix was stuck at six centimeters, but it was dilating unevenly. One side was open but the other was still very tightly closed. We had to get the cervix to open further and the baby’s head pressing on the cervix was actually causing some swelling to occur, preventing good progress. I despaired. I was wracked by the contractions and the involuntary urge to push. I felt I couldn’t get out of the tub, but Ruth said I had to. I had to walk around and open up more. It seemed impossible.

I got out. And I walked, sort of. Really I hung on to my husband and we shuffled around the room—slowly. We took one or two staggering steps between each contraction. I peed and “blew” and moaned. I drank sips of water to relieve my thirst and we “danced” around the room. When I tired, Ruth told me to sit on the toilet. She said that our bodies are accustomed to relaxing the pelvic floor muscles and opening everything up when we sit on the toilet and it would do me good.

Eventually, after what seemed like forever, Ruth told me that I was completely dilated except for a tiny lip of tissue and she thought I might be able to push past it. So I sat on the bed and pushed. The baby began to move into place and I did push the baby’s head past that obstructing tissue. It’s hard to know what muscles to use to push. Ruth coached me by telling me to push out my bottom. I didn’t expect it to feel so rectal.

We moved onto the birthing stool. Ian sat behind me on the bed and held me. I pushed and groaned. Ruth applied warm washcloths to my perineum to help it stretch. Finally, I was allowed to push as long as each contraction lasted. Ruth helped by telling me when I was doing it right so I could remember that feeling and do it again. I was so exhausted. Pushing was a tremendous amount of work and I started to worry that I couldn’t go on, but I also knew that it was almost over. My baby was coming and needed me. I couldn’t give up.

When the baby’s head started to crown, Ruth told me to reach down and feel the head. I felt lots of hair. Alethea suggested that she switch places with Ian so that he could see the baby come out, but the thought of rearranging and waiting was unbearable to me and I told him no. So he stayed where he was, supporting my back.

Ruth also told me to slow down and stop pushing. “Grunt,” she said. But I didn’t really hear or understand her at that point. I could only hear my own cries rise in pitch as my baby’s head crowned. It burned like nothing I’ve ever felt before and I didn’t stop pushing. In another minute, my baby’s body slid out of mine and Ruth had to move quickly to catch the baby. She lifted the baby up to place on my tummy, but the umbilical cord was too short and she had to rest the baby on my thigh, somewhat precariously, while I held the baby and she quickly clamped and cut the cord. It was 3:15 a.m.

There was a brief moment in all the excitement when I think I was the only one who knew the gender of the baby; my son rested against my leg. He was covered in white vernix coating and was bluish in color, but he cried right away and turned pink very fast.

They moved me and the baby to the bed. Ruth helped me deliver the placenta by tugging gently on the cord (which didn’t hurt) while I held my baby boy. With tears in his eyes, Ian got into bed with us. We gazed at our son with love and relief that he was finally here. Ian suggested that we name the baby Lucas Alexander, which was the name I preferred. I guess he felt I had earned the right to get my pick of names. We were full of joy.

My body was really shocky; I was shaking and bleeding a lot. Ruth announced that I had some pretty significant tearing in three places and that she needed to stitch me up. The local anesthetic was really painful and the stitching was frightening. Ian tried distracting me and I tried to focus on my new baby, but it was scary. After that, Ruth and Alethea and Jennifer DeLugach (our RN) cleaned us up a little, took our vital signs, and placed the baby to my breast. He sucked strongly after we achieved a good latch. It was the most satisfying feeling having my baby at my breast, realizing that the work and suffering of birth was over and he was alive and well.

After nursing, they put Lucas on Ian’s chest for some skin-to-skin warming. And then, our loving attendants melted into the background. They left us alone for several hours while we talked a little and watched the baby. He was red and wrinkled with sparkling dark blue eyes and a full head of black hair. Lucas was alert for a little while, then we all fell into an exhausted sleep for an hour or two. I felt so happy.

Later, Ian made a few phone calls. At about 8:30 a.m. Ruth got us some breakfast from Lyons and we ate in the family room of The Birth Center. Ian’s father arrived with his camera and my dad showed up soon after. Everyone else would have to wait to meet Lucas until the work day was over.
About six hours after Lucas emerged into the world, we left The Birth Center. Ruth had helped me nurse Lucas again before we awkwardly placed our 6 pound, 8 ounce baby boy into his enormous car seat. We were proud and scared and profoundly grateful to Ruth, the loving staff of The Birth Center, and to the heavens and earth for giving us a healthy baby. The adventure had only just begun.

© 2002 Sara E. Wilson

Our little angel turns 4-year-old on Monday, May 1st. We are preparing for two birthday parties: one for kids and one for our family. Thank the gods that my MIL talked me out of splitting the family gathering into two separate occasions, making the total three parties. That would have been madness.

As it is, we’re staring down the barrel of two cakes, two sets of paper-products/utensils, activities for children, goodie bags for child-guests, gifts, balloons, seating, food for two armies, etc. Not to mention the cleaning. I was OK till today—today I got stressed.

Part of the problem lies in Lucas’s unwillingness to decide on any “theme.” We decided we would entertain the kids at Saturday’s party with finger painting. It’s messy, but not rules-based, fun. This age group doesn’t do “organized activities” all that well, and frankly, I’m not a good organizer of children or children’s activities. More than three kids in a room makes me nervous. Honestly, I don’t know how I survived my public schooling. (Maybe that’s where my PTSD comes from.)

So, anyway our only “theme” is “birthday.” Every time we ask Lucas what kind of cake he would like to have (to thereby determine what type of decorations we should have) he says something like: “Cinderella-Thomas-Percy-Harold the Helicopter-Belle-Snow White-Cowgirl-Lava Girl cake!” As I already mentioned to Parnasus, I fear no cake could possibly live up to his expectations. Nevertheless, I’m in a cake conundrum. We’re trying for the “cowboy/girl” idea, but we aren’t having a lot of luck.

Parnasus, bless her heart, has agreed to tell a story during the kiddie party. This is wonderful and perfect and really nothing could make me happier. I know the children will love it!

As for the family party, I only have two words to say: POT LUCK
Oh, and I’m buying that second cake.

P.S. Some sappy reflections on my baby turning 4 may follow sometime soon. Jeez! Has it really been FOUR YEARS?

Today, my friend B asked me if I would like to go running with her. Like a deer on the road blinded by the glare of an oncoming car, I said, “Um… yeah!”

Some background:

B is the mother of one of Lucas’s best friends. She’s tall and thin and gorgeous—even though she has THREE kids. She’s a professional, too. She is a neonatal intensive care nurse at Sutter. B was attracted to me as a potential friend because I have a subtle sign on my CRV that says, “I am Pro-Choice America”— something I got from NARAL. My sign is subtle because it’s actually on the inside of my rear driver-side (tinted) window—I’m too much of a princess to put actual bumper stickers on my vehicle. But it’s there to subtly piss off fundies, and, I suppose, to subtly attract hot mothers of preschoolers. Apparently, B sometimes gets sick of all the feel-good, supermom, Christian Waldorf people. Apparently, my little pro-choice sign indicated that I was edgy and friend material.

Anyway…

B is a runner. She looks like a runner, except she’s stacked. B informed me today that she’s training for a marathon.

I am not training for a marathon.

I am simply training to not get fat again. I am slowly climbing the fitness hill out of the Valley of Sloth.

So why I said “Yes, I would like to run with you” is a bit of a mystery to me. I think it’s because I would like to be like B—would like to be able to do what she can do. A brief fantasy played in my mind: We are both running near Lake Natoma, in shorts and tanks and clean white shoes. B’s golden hair floats along behind her, gleaming in the sunshine. I am keeping up with her; we are running side by side, chatting becasue we are so fit that conversation is easy and relaxed. I am not wheezing. My knees feel fine. I am cracking funny jokes and she is laughing.

Then the otherworldly bubble burst. I started backpeddling: “Um, well, I’m not really a runner. I jog a little bit. I’m only just trying to get into better shape. I’m pretty much starting from scratch. I’m not very fit. Um… I’m definitly slower than you are. I can only do a 15 minute mile—and I can only do that like, maybe two miles.”

B smiled at me. “I don’t care,” she said. “It will be fun! We can walk.”

Relieved, I said I was pretty sure I could run for a ways—that we wouldn’t have to walk the whole time.

We have a date for next Tuesday. Instead of sitting in a café like we have a couple of times, we’re going to Lake Natoma to go running. I am glad I said yes.

I wrote almost 100% of it yesterday—the day it was due. Then I spent the evening chopping it almost in half to meet the word count. It is HARD to ax good material: last night I felt like I was slashing my way through the jungle with a machete. I’m SOOOOO glad it’s done, or at least, that I’m done with it. I did WAY too much work on it. I wish I knew of a way to parlay the rest of my research into another article on the subject or slightly similar subject. Hmmm… maybe I’ll ponder that.

Now I’m just hoping that all those inspiring stories that I heard about people who exercise despite serious health conditions (to help manage their conditions) will continue to prod me to rise from my office chair and work out regularly.

Dr. Davis said, “The deposits I make today into my bank of health really have to last me through my lifetime. And it really is an issue of choices.”

He also said, “Even those folks who can do only a little bit of exercise, they smile more, they look at you directly in the face more than they did before. They wear clothing that says more about themselves that begins to show that confidence….And people feel that they are beautiful people. It’s an unusual transformation that happens and it doesn’t take very long.”

So far, so good…

Hi Friends and Cheerleaders,

Friday, April 21, Lucas and I went on a pretty long neighborhood walk. He rode his tricycle and I walked to keep up with him. (He took his first major bike spill too, but continued the ride.)

Yesterday, April 24, I took an extremely brisk neighborhood walk for 25 minutes. Then later I attended the best yoga class I’ve ever taken. It was tough, but doable. I think I got the breathing thing much better than I ever have before because the instructor was very clear about when to inhale and when to exhale. Each move was like “Inhale up to cobra pose. Exhale down to the floor.” No way to get confused. It was a great all-over body workout and I can totally feel that my back, arms, shoulders, chest, butt, hips, and legs worked hard! Yet I don’t hurt today. Finishing off the day in the hot tub was great!

My only blow-it move yesterday was having two bowls of cereal for breakfast ’cause we were out of fresh eggs, and the leftover Easter eggs didn’t look so appealing 9 days after Easter.

My Gentle Exercise article is now finished, but I’m hoping to do more yoga and try some water classes at CA Fam Fitness. Hopefully I can keep up the momentum.

Well, I haven’t written my article yet. I’ve done all the research, all the interviewing. I have about five or six times more material than I need for the 2,300-wd piece I have to write. My deadline is Monday. I’m not stuck, or blocked, per se. Frankly, I’m just don’t want to write it. Today I have no childcare, so it will be tough to knock it out today, which of course, would be ideal. I have plans for this weekend, so I’m honestly not sure when it’s going to get done. The crazy thing is I’ve already spent about 28 hours on it. So, if the stars align and if my muse shows up sometime between now and Monday at 5 p.m., I might just break the $20 per hour mark on this job. (That’s sucky, BTW.) I know that once again I have done WAY more work than was actually necessary. Curse my perfectionist tendencies!

However, there are other benefits (besides money) earned by my writing this piece for the magazine: doing it 1) leads to more work, both writing jobs and editing jobs for them (and my hourly editing rate is quite good), 2) provides me with more writing clips and more exposure, 3) keeps my skills up, 4) allows me to meet and talk with lots of interesting people that I would not meet otherwise, 5) allows me to learn new things, and 6) makes my grandmother happy to see my name on articles when she gets her magazine in the mail. Writing articles is about the only thing that most of my family members can understand about my business and skills. It’s a tangible thing they can see and it makes them proud. You can bet your boopy that they’re not going to seek out one of the more obscure and intellectual monographs that I’ve edited. Besides, generally speaking, my name doesn’t get in those: I’m sort of a “behind-the-scenes” editor on most of those projects.

The other good news is that the process required to research and write this piece on exercise has really motivated me to get my ass into gear again. I recently realized that it was a year ago that I kind of fell out of the exercise habit—ironically, it was during the writing of another piece about weekend warriors. My life got crazy-busy, and stressful, and depressing about this time last year. I lost steam and stopped running and working out, and basically spiraled down the drain for a couple of months. I’m very happy to report that the opposite is true this year, with this exercise article. I’m inspired by the people I’ve interviewed and I’m building up momentum at the gym. So, yay!

So, the awesome news is that I’m already feeling better. It’s partly the weather being springy and sunny, but it’s also largely because of my workouts. Just like Dr. Davis (the sports medicine guy I interviewed recently) said, as soon as even a tiny bit of progress is made, the person begins to transform in many ways. I already feel more energetic, sexier, happier with myself, and happier with how I’m spending my time.

Yesterday 4/19: I only managed to walk to and from the Bennetts’ twice, but when Lucas is riding his little trike, I have to help push him up the hills. This adds some small amount of resistance to my walk. It’s a cheerful little walk too. I like to admire the neighbors’ yards and get garden/landscape ideas.

Today I went to the gym. 10 mins on elliptical (80 cals); 39 mins on treadmill (130 cals; ran a mile of the 2.12 miles I traveled.) Heart rate is well in the cardio zone, so that’s good.

Also lifted weights for a 1/2 hour: pecs, triceps, abs, low back, quads, etc. Now I am showered and I feel great (but I still don’t want to write my article).

Does sex count as a cardio workout if your blood boils and your heart chakra opens while you do it? If so, then I’ve had a few more workouts this week too. 🙂

Also had a chiropractic adjustment today. Weight: 129

NOTE TO SELF: Must get/bring music device or at least head phones. “The Daily Show” and “The Colbert Report” are NOT funny without sound or close-captioning.

So, last Sunday, for the first time in my life I experienced a conjunction of paganism/nature religion with Christianity in a place not filled with my closest and dearest friends. It was very exciting for me, and so I have to share.

The Sunday service at the UUSS was an “intergenerational” service, which means they wanted the children to be able to participate and follow the service. Thus, they designed one that was full of storytelling and music. The assistant minister (woman) and the worship leader (teen or young adult) acted out three separate stories in front of the congregation. The first story was about a seed that grows and changes into a tomato plant that bears fruit. The second story was—get this—the Demeter and Persephone myth, as retold for children by Starhawk. The third was the story of Mary Magdalen finding the stone of Jesus’ tomb rolled aside and the body of Jesus missing. The theme with all three stories was that change, transformation, and rebirth are good for us, and that Spring is an optimal time of year to embrace change and renewal in our lives.

I’m all for it. None of this stuff about renewal is a new concept. But a pagan Greek myth told in a church service? That’s a first in my experience!

UUSS also held an Easter egg hunt for the kids. The Women’s Ritual Group provided eggs filled with raisins and cheerios and little rolled up paper scrolls with messages:

Scroll 1: “To many people in the United States, Easter is generally thought of as a Christian holiday. But did you know that the word “Easter” never appears in the Bible? The name comes from an Anglo-Saxon (Germanic) goddess of spring called Eostre (Es-truh), as in estrogen (a female hormone). And, guess what—her symbols were the rabbit (Easter bunny) and the egg (Easter eggs).”

Scroll 2: “Easter is in the spring, about the time of the vernal (spring) equinox—a time of balance when night and day are of equal length. The seasons are reversed, or complementary in the northern and southern hemispheres of this earth. For example, when we have spring, the southern hemisphere is having fall.”

Scroll 3: “Many Christians believe that Jesus came back to life on Easter. Many gods before Jesus were reputed to come back to life in the spring, such as the Persian (Iranian) god of light, Mithra, who was born on—guess what—December 25, around the time of the winter solstice (longest night, shortest day).”

So, yeah. Out loud, in front of God and everybody—young and old—this congregation acknowleged the goddess and the appropriation of pagan symbols by Christianity. Neat.

I get to go work with grown-ups today! I’m off to Sac. Magazine to work for the day.

I don’t have the energy to write about all of it, but I do want to say we had a good weekend, even if it was rather full. We went to Ian’s mom’s house on Saturday, and saw Ian’s dad and his girlfriend on Saturday night. On Sunday we went to UUSS, and then went to my grandmother and great-grandaunt’s house to see all the crazy Merkels, Muellers, and Elams, and the many assorted hangers-on. Yes, kids. That’s two solid days of Easter.

The best part of Easter started late on Saturday night and resumed again early Saturday morning. Before bed, we put some carrots (with tops) out on our garden altar on Saturday night for the Easter bunny. We talked a little about the goddess and how this is a special time of year for her, and how she sends her animal, the Easter bunny, to visit and share her bounty and blessings with every child and every person. Eggs and bunnies are old nature religion and goddess symbols. On Sunday morning, Ian and I set the alarm and went out to the altar really early, in the damp. Later, Lucas hunted eggs in the rain and lit up when he found the altar full of goodies and flowers. We found the carrots were nibbled and only the tops remained. The Easter bunny had left gifts for us (colored eggs, plastic eggs with coins, stickers, some chocolate, flowers, fresh fruits, and a candle). Lucas carefully gathered them all into baskets. We placed the flowers in vases and he asked if he could eat the strawberries and grapes that the Easter bunny left for dinner later that night. It was fun and meaningful and it worked. We strive to carve out a tiny piece of each holiday to create and maintain our own Wilson family traditions, and to remake the holidays into versions that suit us better.

I am sorry that we didn’t get to see friends at the home of Parnasus, Samayam and everybody! I think that’s the only sad thing about the weekend.

Oh, and Lucas didn’t even ask me for a piece of candy today.