The beach was calm; the waves subdued. It was easy to walk up to our ankles and knees in the water. More shells than usual were on shore, and Coco was stuffing her bag with shiny finds. Then she found a sand dollar. It was white and had a perfect imprint of the animal, which looked like a flower, in the middle. I only remember seeing a sandollar once in my life, and it was dipped in gold and I wore it as a necklace.

When we got back to our house, Coco told the nanny about our find. The nanny couldn’t believe our luck.

You are so lucky Coco! She said. My mother told me that you can only find a shell like that once in a lifetime. It is a blessing to find one.

Coco looked as if she had been dipped in precious metal. She glittered with pride and joy. She reached her hand in the bag to reveal her prize. The sand dollar was smashed to itty, bitty pieces. Turns out they are really fragile. Really fragile.

The TEARS!! Oh, the tears. Coco would have cried anyway, she gets quite attached, quite quickly to things. But the nanny’s story topped it. Added that extra zing to her despair.

Our friend, MyBoy (yes this is his real name), came by the next day. He was told the whole sorry tale of the crushed sanddollar.

Oh, those. He said. When the sea is calm you can find them all over.

And the next day we found sand dollars dead; we found them alive. When they’re alive you can tickle their feet, which are like little fuzzy combs, and they move. Coco found four sand dollars. But, she didn’t throw them in the bag. We carefully cupped one in each hand as we head for home.

Just when you think you’re blessing has been crushed on the bottom of a Ziplock bag, life has a funny way of turning gold.

originally posted Jan. 30, 2006

I believe in the power of a sink basket: that little thing that catches the food bits
on the plate and the crust from the frying pan. My maid doesn’t use the thing. I put it in, she takes it out. We’ve never had a clogged up drain.

So, I considered my history with the sink basket. When I roomed in a house in college, the home owner insisted all food be scraped off the plates into cardboard milk cartons, which smelled sour. Then, this woman insisted we wash each plate with water and a scrub each plate and cup before putting the dishes into the dishwasher (what was the dishwasher for anyway?). This woman’s drain clogged several times a year. Gray black slime gurgled up from the basement drain and the homeowner would have to call a service man. The sink basket was a failure.

I don’t go that far, but I still place the sink basket in the basin before doing dishes - I’m conditioned this way. I feel uncomfortable watching little pieces of uneaten cereal pass down the drain.

We do not have a hot water tank on our first floor in Costa Rica. All our laundry is done in cold water (I have the whitest and cleanest clothes I’ve ever had in my life here), and we wash dishes in cold water - people add bleach to the soapy water - almost everybody does. A batch of dishes is washed with lots of bubbles, and then rinsed. The cycle is repeated until the dishes are done. The wash cloth is not hung to dry, but remains wadded up in a ball next to the soap. Although I cling to the sink basket tradition, I’ve transformed my washing ways. I do dishes like the Costa Ricans do.

When I first moved here I brought my own mop. Boy was that silly. No one can clean floors like those I’ve witnessed here. Moving abroad has given me the chance to grow up and shake loose my “old country” way of thinking. I’ve become a lot more flexible with the definition of time; and I no longer believe one must have snow for a fabulous Christmas.

But, I don’t abandon everything, in fact, I hold tight to the customs I adore: I won’t change my shoe habits - four minutes in stiletto heels (popular here from the playground to the mall), and I’d have a broken ankle. I need my space; I don’t eat rice at every meal; when I make a phone call, I introduce myself (I don’t force the person I’m calling to give up their identity); I don’t stuff myself into jeans that are too small; I’m o.k. with the fact that kids get dirty; I don’t like my red wind chilled; and when a car’s stuck, I’ll get out and push.

It’s important to ask WHY. Why? Why oh why do we do things.

Living in a new culture, I see the day differently. I am still an American; my daughter has the interesting task of assimilating the culture of Costa Rica, with the values I model from the U.S. I’ve learned there are a million ways to wash a dish, cook rice, and clean floors. These things seem so minute, unimportant, but the value in understanding a different culture is that I see these little moments under new shades of gray and a brand new silver lining.

originally posted 2-25-07

Almost every aspect of my life has been infiltrated by batteries: AA; AAA; 9 volt; D; C; lithium; battery packs for the computer, camera, video camera, iPod, CD player. Inventions make my life lighter, hip and on-the-go, until that flashing red light appears signaling I’m low on power.

So, now I’m saddled with a bag of cords apparatuses needed to keep the batteries charged. Plus, it’s best to buy a bunch of the alkaline alphabet batteries and keep them on hand. Then, just then, I might be able to use a few of these gadgets before the “once-in-a-lifetime cute kiddie moment” ends (i.e., children’s play, children’s birthday, children petting goat, children playing drums on pots and pans, children feeding parrot, children getting to close to cayman, children smothered in beans, children opening Christmas presents, children falling over on bike, children taking that first step, children painting the kitchen cupboards with crayons…) the opportunities are there just waiting to be missed.

The kids get a lot of gifts that blink, babble, sing out tunes, and recite the alphabet, and a few deliver verses that could be incantations from devil worshipers trying to poison the mind of children because I have absolutely no idea what is being said.

One toy became Addison’s favorite. It was an orange piano, and he loved the little button with the face of a little girl that sang. The songs were hypnotizing and the family made up our own version – it was irresistible.

Oopa oopa say I do ‘cause I got a rubber lion.

We also have a cow that drives an utter and moos. About once a day, the cow moos from a distant room - maybe the wind jiggles the utter or maybe it’s those imps and sprites reaching out for our souls.

Addison rolled around on the gym mats for about an hour. We still had about ½ an hour left to wait for Coco to finish her lesson. So I picked him up, and we walked under the parallel bars to sit on the plastic lawn chair for a snack.

He leaned against my chest. I gave him a bottle of coconut water, which he drank for about 5 minutes. That left us with 25 minutes to kill. I opened a can of cashews. I ate a few and noticed Addison sticking his tongue in and out. This is the sign he wants a taste.

I broke of a teeny, tiny piece and put it in his mouth. He nibbled on it. I asked him if wanted more. He put his finger together – all five fingers touching as if he was making the little pads kiss. This is the sign language for more. We taught him that a long time ago along with mami, play, bath, please and a few others. He has a few signs of his own: the raspberry - sticking his tongue out a blowing, which has now become the maid’s name; the pura vida handshake where he sticks his hand out and jabbers (pura vida means the all-encompassing – hey life’s great, how you doin’, what’s happening, great to see you, etc. etc.). He also gives the high five.

Watching a toddler do sign language is simply, one of life’s most adorable things. In fact, I taught my daughter how to sign, not because she needed it, but just because it’s so much fun to learn and watch, not to mention a natural for kids who like to move constantly.

Addison and I sat back. He signed “more” cashews, and I broke off a piece and put it on his tongue. Coco attempt her pull-ups. Although she could managed only one, we kept signing for more. I set the cashew can on my backpack and the entire contents of nuts dumped into the bag. Luckily, there wasn’t time for any more.

orginally posted January 19, 2007

Enter a room and be prepared. Kiss, hand shake, wave of the hand, what will it be? When I meet someone new, I have moments to decide which is right.

Where I came from (oh so long ago), our custom was to wave at newcomers from across the room. That was all it took. But, it was imperative to acknowledge the new human being in the room. For if I didn’t establish the “hey/hi” greeting and wave, I’d have to lurk around the gathering with this awkward chip on my shoulder. Maybe the other person thinks I’m a snob. Should I approach him/her now, or is it too late?

Occasionally, when a dinner party was a bit more intimate, guys usually shook hands - of some sort - and the woman nodded with direct eye contact. Did you guess? I’m originally from the Midwest! Personal contact, in general, is a no-no.

In Costa Rica, I can get by with a wave hello, but a kiss on the cheek is generally the more appropriate way to go.

Meet someone new, that is of the same social class, and this what you should do: Extend your right hand and hold it as if you are going to give a handshake, but just hold the hand (no fishy hands, please!). Then reach over and rub – or gently touch - right cheeks and kiss the air just before the person’s ear. It’s kind of a fake kiss on the cheek. Works well. I like it, until….there’s a room of mixed company!

Americans, Europeans, Latin Americans, Canadians! What in the world to do with a mixed group? It’s easy with the French. You must kiss both cheeks, and they won’t let you go until you do. As for other American’s, it’s a toss up. I try not to offend anyone, but I suppose I sometimes do, especially if I kiss one and not the other. If I go with the policy of greeting most people with the “cheek kiss” I think I leave a better impression than the impersonal nod of the head from the old country.

A few men I know are thrilled to finally come to a country where they get to kiss other women for free. A friend of mine took up the French kiss (for hello and goodbye), and he was from Ohio.

For the goodbye, a true Costa Rica will probably want to kiss again. Most Americans, and assorted others, are ok with the wave goodbye and happy to dismiss with all that touching.

So, here’s the tough part: after all that kissing, will I ever remember their names?

originally posted Jan. 11, 2007

The windy season gets on my nerves. Anywhere in the Central Valley, from December to February, the wind blows hard, very hard. It’s as though the wind becomes this evil stepmother lurking around and making my life miserable.

I yell at the wind: just stop for a minute, will ya! Here in the Central Valley, it doesn’t stop - day or night. It blows, and it blows. The air is dry; pools are chilly. Step outside and watch hairstyles go frizzy.

I’ve heard that skin drinks in the luscious humid tropic air – it keeps us supple. Take cover in the dry season. My son has breathing problems. His little nose just cannot manage major shifts in humidity. When it rains, I know I’m going to get a pretty good night’s sleep. The wind starts, and I know my slumber will be restless, in fact sleepless. The poor little guy wakes up every hour to thirty minutes unable to breathe.

I start rituals in hopes of getting a dream or two in a row. Humidifiers, vaporizers, and a slow cooker line my bedroom floor from 3 p.m. until dawn. When the lights are off, it looks like a runway in a darkened plane. I have many doctors on the case, but it usually comes down to me. Drugs either work little or are useless. Now, I’m looking for cases of food allergies. I’ve given up espresso for a week. This is serious.

Before I had my son, I had no idea what a hygrometer was until sleep evaded me. Imagine my delight when I found two at Target and lugged them home in my suitcase. When the little dial gets to the “low normal” range, I rev-up the machines and shoot for “high-normal” or “low-humid.”

This brings me back to the rain. On the Caribbean, it’s raining now. I’m off in search of relief like a dowser with my stick pointed down. Sleep deprivation is not allowed as a form of torture in the Genevia Convention. Imagine the mothers who could petition! But, who would listen?

originally posted November 13, 2006

Every night, when I put my head on the pillow, I think of the tiny dust mites awakened from their slumber, excited, and emaciated. They climb through the weave of the pillow, the mattress, and the sheets to eat my dead skin. These are ugly insects. Creepy insects.

Since moving to Costa Rica, I’ve had intimate contact with all sorts of tiny, flesh eating, biting, scratching, and venomous bugs. The first house I moved into had fleas. It took a small army of masked men (they arrived in a car that looked like a mouse), to eradicate the infestation after I’d tried everything: garlic, mint, bay leaves, shampoos……etc. My husband’s midsection was riddled with bites (he’d tangled with a bush where hundreds of tiny fleas hid), and they preferred my ankles, and one of my dogs pink belly. Scratching vigorously and out of options, we called in the chemicals.

When my daughter was three, we got head lice from a friend of hers. I should say, I got head lice; no one else in my family did. If a bug that bites knows I am within 50 feet, it will find me. I threw all stereotypes I held that dirty, unclean, slovenly people are the only ones to get such a louse. There I was, strands of hair covered in nits and bugs, scratching my scalp without abandon.
I refused to put any chemicals on my head. I didn’t even have to read about the caustic shampoos to know instinctively that they caused brain cancer or at least a major headache. Instead, I decided to suffocate, drown, or burn the insects until they were gone. I washed and washed my hair until my scalp started to flake. I went through my hair with a nit comb and picked off eggs and flicked adult lice into cups of water. I slept with a shower cap on; my hair soaked in rosemary oil. When I washed my hair again, I applied as much heat as I could to my hair and scalp with a hairdryer.

I became quite familiar with the life cycle of lice. When the bugs became small, I knew they were most likely in the final hatching, and sure enough, after a week they were gone. I just read on Google News that someone invented a heater, a little stronger than a hair dryer, to kill lice. If only someone would have asked me.

This phenomenon happens to me a lot. I already knew or have invented something that someone else gets rich on. But sucked into the feverish world of childrearing, I barely have time to solve one problem and I’m on to the next. And, I never have a pen or a piece of paper around to write down my ideas.

Maybe if I could have an assistant, or better yet, a clone, I could patent a long list of ideas that could save the world or at least make it a lot less irritating.

Let’s see….I know I’ve got it written down, I had an idea about eternal youth, no it was a something about an alternative energy source, no, no, it was the barrette that never falls out of a little girl’s hair….shoot, if I could only find that piece of paper; I know I’ve written it down somewhere.

Domesticated Ungulates and Glittery Lights Warm Crazy Woman’s Heart

orignally posted Dec. 18, 2006

The other day I worked myself into a tizzy about this or that thing in my life. The issue? I can’t even remember what it was. I was probably being served some injustice by the world.

As I drove down the highway, it took only moments for me to realize: I have so much to be grateful for.

There is a family that lives under a bridge. I pass their home several times a week in my car. Chickens often peck away at the sparse grass between the freeway rails; a young mother brings her baby up for “fresh air;” laundry dries on lines strung from the bridge arches.

As my froth was building in my mind about my “issues,” I drove along the freeway in the sunset listening to music and hoping for respite. I looked to the left at the bridge. I always do. Christmas lights dangled between the bridge’s concrete structures.

“Christmas lights,” I said to out loud to myself.

I sat back against the back of my seat. Just the tires on my car cost more than probably all those people’s belongings. Where on earth did they cook? How did they stay warm? Dry? Yet whatever they faced in life, optimism prevailed in the twinkle of those little lights. I was humbled.

A little further down the road, three cows wandered down the right lane of the highway. They were nervous. Each car slowed down so as to let the domesticated ungulates (ok, so I looked that one up) continue safely along. How in the world is the farmer going to get those cows back? There’s a law that if you hit a cow, you have to reimburse the farmer. But let’s face it, what a mess. What if the farmer never finds the cows?

That’s the thing about Costa Rica - it teeters on the edge of a developed/underdeveloped. It takes only a moment of looking at those who struggle to survive to put my problems in perspective.

I have a lot to be grateful for: I have my family. I have friends. I own a blender and a good pair of tennis shoes. I have access to knowledge, and although I do have to figure out what to make for dinner every night, my family always has a meal.

It takes just a moment to look around the corner, or under a bridge, to remember how much I have to be grateful for. That’s a pretty good reason to kick the pot aside and find the joy in the holiday season.

originally posted Dec. 24, 2006

It’s Christmas Eve. There’s not a single, solitary package left to wrap. My daughter’s away watching a belly dancer (I’ll get to that in a minute), and I’m here alone, listening to the firecrackers go off.

We drag culture with us from where we begin. I celebrate Christmas instead of Hanukah because of where and to whom I was born. I’d be wearing a sari instead of red and green if I’d been born on the other side of the world.

I admit a comfort in what I know: the Christmas tree, the angels, the presents, the cookies, the chocolate covered bells. At first it seemed really odd to celebrate Christmas without snow - I’d suffered from years of chills and ice. Now, I spend the day basked in sunshine. Today there was a little rain, and my son and I ran outside to cool off.

I can embrace the customs that Costa Rica claims: staying up until midnight and opening presents; lighting off firecrackers; partying with belly dancers and a swim. But, I can drag along the little things that I celebrated as a child to my new home. As a new immigrant to this country, I’m forming traditions that are our family’s own. My daughter will set out cookies and milk for Santa (he lands on the front lawn at our house and in Costa Rica falls in rank as a helper to Jesus); I wait until Christmas day to open the presents. And, although we won’t go ice skating, we’ll listen to Christmas songs for two days straight.

How will we ever get to sleep?

And so the story goes….

(too see the first part of this story go to Miracles Make Things Go Away).

I peeled off Addison’s clothes and laid him on an exam table. He looked like a doll in a dentist’s chair. The ultrasound doctor put a pile of scratchy paper towels over his penis because she was afraid he’d pee when the cold jelly was rubbed on his belly.

The last time we’d been in this room, we found out Addison had two cysts on the bile ducts (those little tubes that drain liver liquid into the colon). At one month, the surgeon said he’d another surgery at four months. We pushed the first look at the cysts to nine months. But the prognosis was gloom and doom: without surgery, Addison would get cancer.

The doctor moved the wand over Addison’s belly. She’d push under his ribs, then explored below the belly button and over to his sides. This went on for about ten minutes. Addison lay patiently, looking at me as if I’d handed him over to aliens for inspection. The words I feared the most echoed in the room, as if they’d stayed there awaiting our return: cancer, surgery, cysts do not go away on their own, cancer, cancer, cancer.

They’re not there,

said the doctor without looking away from the screen.

I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to stop the tingle of tears and screams of joy.

I can’t find the cysts anywhere.

I dressed Addison. The doctor handed me the ultrasound printout. We left the building.

The pediatrician was overjoyed about the ultrasound. She told me the ultrasound doctor wanted to tip Addison upside down to see if the cysts were hiding somewhere she couldn’t see.

That’s what I always say about medicine, she said as we put Addison on the scale.
you just never know.

But I knew. I knew it all along. And, so did Addison. To us, this was nothing out of the ordinary.