Why do kids repeat the same thing over and over and over? I know it is a cognitive learning process, but that information doesn’t do me much good when I am tired and have to repeat myself 10 times because my daughter either won’t take no for an answer or just repeats and repeats and repeats.

i was talking to another mother and she has three children with one more on the way. She got a good line from a another mother who said this is what I say to my child: If you say that to me one more time, I will freak out on you. I will get really mad and angry and go wild. I just want to let you know that is the path we are turning towards if you keep repeating that statement to me.

I’m great at explaining an “adult-like-answer” that my child can relate to on the first go around. But, when she repeats the question or statement the second time, I get a little tense, and on it goes until I am down-right pissed off and about to say something I will regret.

I am going to turn over a new leaf and freak out instead. In a way, it sounds so sane.

The Internet connection in this country, Costa Rica, works slower than mold. There are days I will come up to work on the computer and poof! No Internet in the morning. Again in the afternoon, and on and on.

The Internet, I believe will - and is - changing the world. Living in a developing country and creating a viable income could really only be possible with the Internet. Democracy will grow much faster than mold through the Internet. Voices will connect, and no one can fight the power of souls connecting.

But the sketchy characters will continue to try. Instead of fiberglass lines, we’ve got cable and phone company monopolies. Thus back to our problem in Costa Rica. There’s too many people and not enough lanes of traffic. Sound familiar? The Internet takes planning and thought. It’s sketchy characters that benefit from a quick, short term buck that leave us all clicking that mouse with no results.

I’ve learned it can be a very good thing to be without Internet - our new life addiction. Many of us run to it like we used to dash to the answering machine the moment we walked in the door. Yet listening to a few messages wasn’t quite as time consuming as hours and hours and hours of Internet surfing. I wish I could boast that in paradise, we shunned the road less traveled, sadly we followed the lead of the U.S.

Paradise has it’s bumps; bruises and blemishes. And when I get frustrated and want to scream at the computer, I grab a shot of morning sunshine, or watch the stellar moon, and listen to the palm trees rustle in the wind and connect on another level.

Addison got his first official phone call today.

They grow up so fast.

There’s always something new to buy: balls, gadgets, exercise equipment, feet simulators, music therapy, miracle walkers, swings - all promising the results I hope for. So many well intended people approach me with the name of another therapist I should see or more equipment I should purchase because they know it helped their child or a friend of a friend’s child walk, run, or crawl.

I nod and accept the kind intentions. Then, I have to decide which is what and when I can afford something and how and why I can and should do it. Overall, I don’t like introducing a lot of therapist or machines. The time just shuffling around in the car I feel is wasted energy. After mounds of suggestions, I did finally decide on introducing a few “budget” items.

One is a jumpy-swing thing. No other word for it. Because I could have the mini-swing apparatus made for cheap by a guy down the road, and because I could have the elastic rubber bands made by a lady for $40, it turned out to be a pain in the butt to design and transport, but a bargain when all was said and done. Once a day, Addison hangs from this thing, and he works on gettting his brain to communicate with his legs without anyone helping him. He can move on his own. He’s not always pleased with the swing; he protests a lot. But, we’re gaining ground.

Then….I returned to the therapist triumphant and content that I had conquered the jumpy-swingy thing design, construction, and implementation. We put Addison in the swing at the therapist’s office so I could be sure we were doing the correct exercises at home. The therapist, a wonderful man named Moises, then placed an electric treadmill under Addison’s feet and wow! Look at him walk! The boy was on fire. I had read a few months earlier that Down Syndrome babies can walk sooner with treadmills. I considered looking for one, but quickly let that idea go when i saw the price tag.

I think you could find a treadmill for about $500 (that’s Costa Rica prices), he said. $500! I just found a bean bag chair for free, which had been suggested by the therapist a few weeks earlier. One thing I like about my therapist is his down-to-earth approach about all this equipment: we were doing fine with a beach ball for $1.50 and now I’m almost up to $1000!

I have an old treadmill that is not electric. It’s rusting as it ages through each rainy season. So, we’re going to haul the rower/treadmill/stomach twister/reclining bicycle over to my house and give it a whirl.

Then…I went to my daughter’s gymnastic shows and Addison was walking, almost completely on his own, down this row of parallel barred gates. My friend said, "I know a guy who can make you a gate just like that! It’ll only cost $100 or so….

And so it goes………

After negotiating a still-not-that-great of-a-price, I finally ended up with a Christmas tree. According to the guy who was selling it: there will be trees today, tomorrow, and that’s it. I was standing on the street side with my daughter. He should have just told her Santa was dead.

He tied it atop the car; I lugged it back down; hauled it into the house; screwed it into the tree stand; strung the lights; while Coco and her friend managed the ornaments.

Mission accomplished!

On the way to gym class, my babysitter called to tell us the tree fell over. When we got home, the pine looked so ashamed, like it had failed us when all it wanted to do was stand tall. I stood it back up; reminded Coco that it was just a tree and we could fix it. Many of the glass ornaments were broken.

There’s got to be a message in this? Start a new? Get help when dealing with tall trees in the living room? Shake it off?

I wonder if any one heard it when it fell?

Construction starts whenever I move into a new house. In my last house, a few months after moving, bull dozers ripped out the lime and mango trees to make way for our neighbors. Across the street, another home took a year to build. Piles of rocks were dropped off in the street; hammering; pounding; and sawing went on from 6 a.m. until 6 p.m. and Saturdays until noon.

Then a funny thing always happened: I moved. With all the construction projects I’ve endured, I’ve rarely reaped the rewards. In one home, I labored through two years of watching a bridge being built over a river (I had to drive miles out of my way to go to and from work) only to move just before it opened.

Until now, that is! A brand new bridge has opened near my home, and I can’t stop thinking about it. In fact, I try to invent things to do just so I can drive over the bridge. The opening of this portal means I can avoid a traffic circle, which goes right in front of the mall. And that’s huge. I mean huge. Everyone and their cousin goes to this mall, and it gets hairy considering most people neglect to signal; obey stop signs; and it all happens on streets much too narrow to support the heavy traffic.

This morning I walked across the bridge. And, it’s stunning for Costa Rica standards. Lights. Painted lines. A stop sign (o.k. so it is also ignored, but at least it’s there) and a pedestrian walk way. I stopped to look down in the cavern. The river is not wide, but the drop is deep. I thought of all the hands and effort that went in to finishing this project. What joy it has given me. Imagine when they opened the train lines to the Pacific and people could travel to where they’d only wondered about or the tunnel through a moutain to connect east and west. I get to share a bit of that excitement, and this time, I get to reap the joy of all that work.

On my way home from my family’s weekend out, I saw a field of coffee ripe for the picking. White hats looked like they strolled down the rows, when in fact it was people, picking red bean by bean. Each plant must be “gone over” for a period of days because the berries all ripen at different times.

This work is not paid well. And, it can be a long day in the sun. Much of Costa Rica’s crops are now picked by people from other Central American countries: Nicaragua, Panama, and so on. Immigrants come here for a better life; Costa Ricans move to the U.S. for a better life; and I came to Costa Rica for a better life? Funny how it works.

Since moving here, every time I sip a cup of coffee, I give a tip of the hat in thanks for the hands that have held that little bean for an instant. It makes the coffee all that much more a alive.