Seeing a professional, in any sense of the word, is always a test of my knowledge, fortitude, empathy, and last but not least, boundaries. The last time I took my daughter to the dentist they strapped her down to a table. It was one of the parenting experiences you can’t believe happened when you get home. Was that really me watching them torture my child?

My daughter’s teeth are in great shape, and we’ve been hounds at keeping her mouth, her diet, and her candy sucking clean and sober. Have you ever, ever tried to keep a kid away from candy or snacking in this society? I’ve walked across parking lots of stores and had candy bars stuck in my child’s face. I’ve opened the door of my car at family events and been greeted by pretty purple lollipops. Schools hand out candy; toll booth operators hand out candy; and most restaurants now tie a dessert right in with that bargain price kids’ meal. I’ve fended off more than most parents could. Since I homeschooled for the first six years of my daughter’s life, she was exposed to so much less and suffered through many-a strange and odd looking snack assembled by her mother.*

My daughter issued no protests as the hygenist cleaned her teeth while staring at cartoons (which of course are ladened with advertisements for sugar filled, or corn syrup flavored, or red dye colored juices and snacks). The dentist called me over to look over the x-rays and go over the plan for Coco’s teeth.

I decided against one of the treatments. This was not easy for me to do. It is more-to-all-of society’s liking when we are aimiable, agreeable, and "go with the plan" suggested by the professionals.

Why don’t you want it?

I told her I had spent hours and hours researching the subject on the Internet and had decided against that particular treatment. Stunned and still unconvinced of my knowledge (she was the professional after all), she implied that because I wasn’t a dentist and hadn’t studied the subject, perhaps I was mistaken.

No, I said. I really did a lot of research. Then she got me with that question all writers eventually get.

Have you written a book?

I don’t know if this was a general interest in my career or a bit of a dig into the fact that unless I had written a book, I cannot surely comprehend all things dental. I went to the dentist for an removal of plaque and an x-ray or two and another person’s opinion on the status of her teeth. Yet, when I go to professionals, I am also looking for a bit of confirmation on the fact that I’m throwing my hat in the ring everyday and this person, whom I’m paying, is right alongside me. Most dentists, doctors, etceteras seem to be a bit threatened when someone comes along and knows something about the human body.

But I am a professional too. I am a professional in the mothering of my children. It is my full-time job. It’s my business to know everything I can about my kids. That’s what’s missing with the "conference;" the talk about my child. Maybe there’s something they could learn too.

We agreed to disagree on the issue and she said she’d respect my decision to not get the treatment. The room fell silent and my daughter came over, finished with her cleaning. She was white, whiter than her usual white. She bucked up well for the long, 1/2 hour procedure. I was proud of her. In fact, I was proud of the three of us.

*I even sneak seaweed (known as Wakami) in her pancakes..can you imagine?

Cultures clash when holidays roll around. Which road do I follow: the autumn brick road to the land of tricks and treats or the dance to the Day of the Dead? Halloween is a "holiday light" here in Costa Rica. It’s not really celebrated and many think the brash knocking on doors and demanding candy is not exactly mores they want their children to pick up.

Granted that feeling may be a little out of context. I mean there is a rich history behind ghosts, gobblins, witches, pirates, and Tiggers all preparing to prance the streets of the USA with hollow pumpkins waiting to be filled.

My daughter got a taste of a traditional Halloween "up-there" a few years ago and she could easily become dismayed at her mother’s lame attempts to replicate any sense of the spirit. So, I usually end up mixing the two. It took a while for me to get used to Christmas with palm trees, but I usually find this middle road and if I put a bit of effort into just the right spots, the kids are happy, in fact, gosh-darned enthusiastic.

We bought a pumpkin; carved it. Coco made kitty ears. I made a tail out of left over washer hose - eye brow pencil for whiskers. A small bag of candy, figure out whiskers for the two year old and…..ta da! Halloween. Even after I made a backwards ladybug (red spots on black instead of visa versa..) we always manage to find fun. And if all else fails, I’ve just learned I can get a blow-up Samari wrestler outfit complete with fan to inflate in case I fall flat on my face.

My daughter loves to picture life on the page. I get drawings on scraps of paper, backs of envelopes, colored paper, and anything that’s blank and white. She’s ordering her world in these drawings: her family and who belongs in it; animals and their families; stars, planets, and stuff in the sky; her friends….and just about anything else she comes in contact with.

I don’t pass by these quickly. So much is expressed in them, over time, they string together a story in themselves. Once and awhile I date one and throw it in the "Coco Art File." She’ll be able to look at a part of who she was back then: stick figures with block hair; animals with elongated necks and funky ears; houses with chimneys, always with chimneys.

It’s a habit I encourage and bear with when I am busy cooking and she again presents me with another rendition of the lion family or the new puppy/kitty family she’s invented. It’s a habit that could, as I’ve grown to find, save her. For in those stories are the bits and pieces of her SELF, her truth. And as far as I can tell, the truth shall set her free.

My daughter got sick this weekend, and she tried so hard to be well. I thought we’d get by with a day, or two at the most, but she’s been hit hard by some pesky bug.

Today, she felt better and when her friend came home, she took a bath; got dressed; and head out for some jump rope.

It didn’t last long. As I lay in bed trying to recover from my own aches and pains, I heard her feet slap up the stairs. She dabbed her eye with a handkerchief:

Why can’t I be better? I want to play!

We hung out in bed and played a game of Go Fish. Then she heard voices outside. The jump rope games had ensued.

Why do I have to be sick? I want more normal life back! I’m just mad at this fever.

She dabbed her eyes some more, and we moved on to a few games of tic tac toe.

I can relate, I said, I can relate.

My son talks so much; interacts so much;understands so much; I am confident of his brilliance. I wonder, like every other mom - what he will be - what he will do in life. He’s already bilingual, plus he can use sign language (in Spanish and English). There are days I go about my merry way with my regular-old-little boy.

Then, there’s this walking thing. He’s 2 years and 2m months, and he can’t walk. He can scoot on his butt and when driven enough, he crawls on his elbows, pulling his body along. The most well-intended people offer suggestions, therapy (always more therapy), and I begin to doubt what I am doing. Am I doing all I can? Could I do more?

I am constantly torn. I live a duality of normal and this thing…this…thing we’ve all got…Down Syndrome. But then there’s this little boy that has me and my daughter whipped, whipped in love with him and I catch myself feeling, gosh, feeling so normal. So, which world do I live in? After the round-about-year I’ve had with a few "normal" people out there, I am beginning to think that the world of the abnormal is much closer to fine; a much saner place to be.

I just went to rent a video. It has been a long time since I’ve been able to scan the isles with the knowledge that my kids might just leave me alone long enough to let me watch one. I had no idea what many of the movies even were. I used to pride myself on being up-to-date on reviews; I knew what the cool independent films were; I knew what Hollywood films were possibly worth a watch.

When my son arrived, all that stopped. I spent over two years in such intense sleep deprivation, films were the furthest thing from my mind. The video store near my home offered a option plan for home viewing: 1 day, 2 days or for 75 cents more…30 days. I didn’t dare chance it. I signed up for the thirty days.

The only bad thing is, I let my daughter pick out two movies. You know what that means??? Thirty days of High School Musical 2. I didn’t even know there was a High School Musical 1. I sneak in and out as the kids watch the sugary song-filled show (let’s use that term loosely!). I sure hope 30 days is enough time for me to get one film in.

Some days I can’t figure out the rock from the hard place.

CHAOS radio played in my head as I sulked the isles of the grocery store hoping not to be scolded
from the ghosts of my past. How do I stay connected to that positive energy I am promised is out there?

Focus.

Focus on the beans in the isle 9; the detergent in isle 4; the chocolate - don’t forget the chocolate - and the water.

I plopped the ridiculously heavy water bottle in the cart and CHAOS radio was tuned out; the grocery store and I were one.

I looked down the distance and thought a ghost appeared. Ha! That manaquin looked just like someone I know.
Damn those voices in my head toying with me….again.

Coco had a sleep-over for the kick off of her birthday week. Unable to contain her excitement, she sat a clock in front of herself an hour before her friend arrived so she could count down every minute.

We went to the movie Underdog, had ice cream, made an Underdog* cake; and stuffed the Hello Kitty pinata (see last blog entry for details). Then, at about 8 p.m. the girls walked down the steps in unison and asked me if they could watch T.V.

Are you crazy? I wanted to say. But instead I looked at their cute faces; summoned one more ounce of energy and said:
Why no! There just might be a surprise in store for you if you both can play for ten minutes upstairs.

I had purchased two rubbery, spikey, yet soft, balls (made in China of course) that blinked colors if you smacked it hard enough with your hand. I knew the balls would sail us right into bed time.

Really? my daughter said.

Maybe I said.

The two girls hunched their shoulders and walked up the stairs.
Coco whispered to her friend:

I know what my mom means when she says maybe! It means yes! My mom is really funny!

As I pulled out the blinky balls and wandered around the living room for a place to hide them so we could play the “hot/cold” game, I wondered:

Is that funny strange or is that ha ha funny?

Funny thing - I take both as a compliment.

*Underdog is called Supercan in Spanish, which I kind of get, but yikes, can’t we come up with something a bit catchier or closer to the actual meaning??!!

Addison lead off a group of children in an attack on Hello Kitty. The helpless pinata held various form of candy that these small people desperately wanted.

The pinata* is a regular fixture at birthday parties in Costa Rica. I can’t get away from it though I tried. My daughter, who’s turning seven, loves them. She used to run screaming from the sugar filled beasts because the “elbow to elbow” battle at the end of the pinata bashing overwhelmed her. So, I had to get the goods for her.

No more.

Note the LARGE stick Addison, her two-year-old brother is holding. No mercy granted for this pinata. Even Coco risked life and head injury to pick up candies that would leak from fatal blows to the strung up cardboard cat.

Addison got first crack at the thing. He’d been practicing all week. He’s only been to a few parties, but it didn’t take long to know instinctively that pinatas must be hit. He got a few good hits in and the big kids took over.

The end was cruel. A hole burst forth and the candy dropped like hail. Each child managed a small box full.

I’ve grown fond of the tradition myself, though I resisted at first. (Well if you saw most parties you’d despise them too.) But when the focus is on the smashing, swinging, flailing, screaming….well then….what could be more fun. And, a few sweet treats in the end don’t hurt either.

*Author send her regrets, for she was unable to find that little wiggly symbol that goes over the n.