This day comes around every four years. I go merrily along and there’s always this big sun shooting out flames so I can grow my plants, get my vitamin D, and feel content. As far as adding another day in February, I don’t even think about it. Without out these calculations though, we’d be missing a few days a year. Imagine the problems with computers and agendas, those Blackberry things (I still confess to not really knowing what those are), but someone takes care of it.

And phone lines? I couldn’t tell you how they work. But I know if I need to call home and check on the kids, it’s there. Gravity boggles my mind if I ponder about it too much. But, if I drop that fork I am sure of the results. So, all these things work whether I’m concerned about them or not: water vapor, wind, global warming, and Wi Fi.

This day rolls around and surprises me every time it comes. Yet it’s always there, functioning for me to keep things organized and running.

I wonder what else is out there?

Coco came crying into my room an hour after she was supposed to be asleep.

She was remembering that I forgot to take her to final school choral concert.

I practiced those songs for days! I can’t let my mind forget it.

It’s absolutely true. I messed up the days on the calendar. I blew it. We all know these kids are little sponges and soak up what we do and say, but I forget how deep those impressions go. I was hoping, being she’s seven, she’d forget about it. Instead it popped up and there it was again. Imagine all the others things we "do" to kids. The littlest of seeds gets planted in those psyches and pop out like worms in an apple: it’s there, we just don’t see it.

I mess up. I said. I make mistakes. It’s a lot, I told her, all this parenting stuff on my own. But if you give me another chance, we can give it a go tomorrow.

We both said thank you for three things, and she snuggled next to her lion and soon began to snore. I went back to check on my son and he was grinding his teeth as if he was determined to get them out of his mouth. At midnight, he woke up and we spent two hours playing until he fell asleep.

It’s a bit much, these kids, but I’ll get up and take a bite of the day again.

Every new house, apartment, and even boat I move into I immediately plan a garden. I can’t help it. And, every time I leave that house, apartment or boat, I wave good-bye to another crop of plants and sigh. All that work? And for what?

The first house I moved into in Costa Rica was downtown. Not off to the side of downtown in a neighborhood or suburb, no smack dab in the middle of San Jose. This house had a tiny front yard and every morning I would nurture the struggling bougainvillea trying to guide a vine towards a shimmer of light. I’d pluck out overgrown impatiens and shoo away the big paws of my three dogs so they wouldn’t trample my new seedlings. Just as the vines of the purple plant began to stretch over the fence, we moved.

On this boat I lived on, I bought all these pots. I watered them until the end of the season when the petunias looked like long skinny necks of a giraffe and the mums were huge big-bellied blossoms. I left the pots to the new owners.

I owned a home once where I transformed a trash-filled back yard into a blooming English garden. I sawed planks into pathways; picked out chunks of broken glass from the soil; and hauled perennials and annuals from the nursery until my wallet and my back ached. I can smell the garden when I look at photos, and if I close my eyes, I can still feel the stems brush past my legs when I walk down the path, an iced tea in my hand.

The plot of yard I have now is small, tropical like (which means shady) and offers a few sleeves of dirt for blooming potential. I gained custody of a few plants when I left my last home. Most were almost dead. They’d been unattended to and ignored. I’m not much of a green thumb, and I don’t care to study about plants. I just like figuring them out on my own terms, learning tidbits of information from people more knowledgeable than me, and ultimately letting the plant just do it thing.

The planting season is on hold because there’s no rain right now. We just sprinkle our crop with the hose every few days and they seem happy, blooming and taking hold. I drove by the old house I lived in downtown. The bougainvillea has taken off. It’ s purple spreads now over the top of the iron gate. I’ll never be a master gardener, I don’t have the patience to study that much. When I think of these tiny plots of land, chunks of soil, maybe I left some beauty behind. Maybe someone else will be moved to pick up a trowel and feel the energy of the earth right there under their thumbs.

So when it starts to rain, I’ve got this idea to haul in some bricks, build up the dirt, and find some more purple blossoms, orchids maybe. A Japanese theme - wouldn’t that look great? I could get some bamboo, and put the fountain over there, a few chairs, and……….

Before moving to Costa Rica, I never really “checked in” to my surroundings. Was I happy to live where I was living? Was I challenging myself to be the best I could be? Was I sure I wanted to shovel snow the rest of my life? When I finally did this one day, or over a string of months, I realized some things had to change.

Ten years later, I need to “check in” again, but now I live in Costa Rica and what about this place? Am I happy to live here? Am I challenging myself to be the best I can be? I don’t have to shovel snow, so that’s over, but do I like all this rain?

Complacency is certain death. What’s next? Why am I here? Why do I love Costa Rica? As I was running yesterday in the big city park called la sabana, I pondered these things. Here’s what I came up with:

I love the yellow and pink and purple trees that bloom from December to April.

I love that there is this group of people so committed to children, they will stop what they are doing to say hello to a baby (even the construction guys!).

I love that people are eager to help each other, in all situations.

I love that I am speaking a language I never studied before I was 30 years old. It makes my brain grow.

I love that anyone can re-invent themselves - start a new.

I love the fresh produce.

I love getting sunshine, vitamin D, almost every day of the year just by walking to and from my car.

I love watching a developing country find it’s way in this big, fast world.

An adventure? I’m not rafting or hiking through the rain forest, or swinging from trees (though I’ve done all that). I’m changing diapers; dealing with attorneys; schools; roads; traffic; lines; and dishes. Us ex-pats can get a little “high and almighty” about all the things wrong with our new home. In some ways, it’s easier because we know we can always leave and head back to our “other” home. We can also get a little giddy after a year or two and light headed about all the wonders of our new adventure and loose that center of reality. I’m quite aware of Costa Rica’s short comings, yet I’m so appreciative of the great value it’s added to my life. I’m here, and for now, I must continue to see what really is.

Where ever you go, there you are.

And here I am, and I love it.

After changing Addison’s diaper, I threw away the old one, which was full of yesterday’s lunch and dinner, and searched for a new one. When I returned he obviously hadn’t finished the job, because he unloaded more onto the clean sheets. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and decided if I pick the child up and carry him to the toilet, I could put the goods right where they belong. When I got to there, something was missing. I had Addison, but the flattened BM once stuck firmly to his buttocks, was no where in site. I held him over my head, tipped him to and fro, nothing. I retraced my steps. IT was no where to be found. Then I looked down and there IT was: stuck to the top of my shoe. And, of course I was wearing Crocs - the kind with all sorts of holes on top.

Who do you clean up first in this situation? I decided on Addison; threw my shoes in the tub; and carried on with my day. This wasn’t going to set me off to a bad start because we were going to the beach. Later that day the kids and I arrived at our destination in paradise around sunset. We all tripped on our way out of the car, junk tumbling behind: DVD player, empty water bottles, suitcases, clean diapers, dirty diapers, stuffed animals, wet wipes, and about 100 other big and small items we couldn’t live without for a weekend. We looked like we’d been dragged behind the car, and we smelled as if we’d been living in the vehicle for a week.

The air was lush and the plants green, something I love counting on when I visit the Caribbean. We stretched and came to life. Coco and I discovered a howler monkey about 10 feet in front of us. We walked under the tree and this young female looked down at us. Remembering they often pee when humans come near them, we stepped back a bit. The howler grabbed the fan of a large palm and traversed across to another sturdy branch. She turned her back to us and hung her behind past the limb.Look out! I said.The monkey peed. Then….the monkey took two large poops. Wasn’t this how I started my day? Coco laughed so hard she started to pee in her pants. She took off running to the cabin yelling: I’ve got to poop!

I felt oddly complete, as if I had come full circle.

Golden people. This is what I call people who grace my life, ring my ears with laughter , look me in the eye, and offer respect and love. This was Mavis Biesanz. Mavis Biesanz was an ground-breaking author. She wrote many books, including: “The Costa Ricans,” published in 1988, and “The Ticos: Culture and Social Change in Costa Rica,” and “Un año con Carmen. A Year with Carmen”, her last work.Mavis was golden because she was a writer and on top of publishing books including the lauded The Ticos, she was a mother. She was a voice of reason and keen insight. I was lucky enough to spend a few afternoons with Mavis. I interviewed her on occasion and in between sips of coffee, she imparted wisdom to me, sometimes without even knowing it.I traveled to Costa Rica to write, to learn a new culture, and to never, ever wear moon boots or shovel snow again. But traveling to a new place so very far from home can, at times, be a little lonely. Then, I met this woman. Her name was Mavis, and she’s this famous writer. We get to talking a bit and find out we’re from the same state: Minnesota. We talk a little more, and we find out we went to the same college! I didn’t speak Finnish, but could talk “Minnesotan”, which is a language all it’s own. I felt a connected to a little piece of home, of myself, when I met Mavis. Golden.A few years ago, I interviewed Mavis. We shared coffee, talked about writing and Minnesota and politics and mothering, and we talked about the country we so loved, Costa Rica. When I showed her the interview, she got out her pen and correct my many mistakes. The story she told me is a piece of Costa Rica that was as interesting and important as the books she wrote. Golden.Mavis broke ground. To write anything, even a phone number, is no small task while being a mother. Mavis traveled to Costs Rica in 1942! There was no Pan American highway. I know she continued on balancing motherhood and a career, which is about as easy as juggling plates on your nose. Golden.If I can honor her life, I hope I can in some small way carry the torch and continue to impart stories and insights to this country we both came to love. You betcha Mavis. You are Golden.

Addison woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I just had a sneaky feeling that we were in trouble when he woke up an hour earlier than usual. Even though he had a bright smile on his face, I could see that look: mom, I’m going to be crabby, cry, scream, smack you, the nanny, my sister, and spit out my food. This will begin in one hour and last until my nap ensues at 11 a.m. I guess that dispels the myth that Down Syndrome kids are “such happy people.” Being a two-year old over rules any extra chromosome, any day.

And this is how it goes. It’ s so simple, isn’t it?

Addison went to his first birthday party. Parties at our house tend to gather around small dollops of ice cream and lopsided cakes. I’ve even been known to re-wrap birthday presents that I gave earlier in the day to the same child.The birthday girl the other night was turning two and there were probably 30 kids counting the brothers and sisters who tagged along, including mine. Overwhelming for a two year old? I’m leaning towards this conclusion but try to stay empathetic. I might have passed on the festivities, but since it was at a gym, I saw a chance to kill four birds with one gigantic Backyardagains pinata: 1. Addy exercise/gym time; Coco exercise/gym time; go for a run; get out of the house so the kids don’t drive me nutty. Since I bend towards an overachiever persuasion, I can artfully squeeze many objectives into a small window of time and make it look effortless.Why just walk up the stairs when I can carry the laundry, a cup of coffee, and toilet paper for the bathroom?Why just go to the grocery store when I can pay my bills at the drugstore,* pick up guinea pig food, and get the car washed while I wait?Why just go to the park and enjoy a sunny day when I can exercise, pick up school materials, grab lunch, hike up a mountain, and volunteer at the orphange on the way home?I can over do it too. We all have our way of overdoing it. I looked over at the gift table for this two year old and knew that if my kids opened up that many presents their heads with explode. When it was time to bust open the pinata, Addison took his place among the large circle of children. He held his bag, having no idea what it was for. He took a few swings at the candy-filled creature.When the candy dumped on the floor, the children - and adults - amassed on the floor like ants to dropped butter. Addison got his share and then dumped the bag back out again. The nanny screamed in terror as little children began to descend on Addison’s haul. We packed up with enough candy to securely rot our teeth and the neighbor’s, and the neighbor’s dog.When we got home, I realized we’d left Addison’s food bag at the gym, a place I rarely drive by. But, this afternoon I have to pick up from my daughter’s from a friends, so I can swing by and get the bag, stop and get groeries, and I’ll throw my tennis shoes in the trunk so I can squeeze in a run.

Many men have made me cry, loose my footing, and send me screaming, running, clinging, or running in fear for my life. I’ve been married to men who make me cry. I’ve shed so many tears over lost men and the pain they’ve dealt out that I could start my own river.Bullies have made me cry. When I was in grade school, there was a flasher roaming the park. For several months (until the frost), I had to walk six blocks out of my way to go home. I’ve spent my life cataloging "tips" in my brain for navigating safely on this planet. Back when I was in high school, men starting grabbing women and throwing them in vans. So to this day, I never park side by side to a van; I walk with keys in your hand, the point sticking out of my knuckles; I know sensitive places to kick and poke and stomp; I walk with a mission. The list is now nameless in my thoughts. It sits now like the security file in a computer and boots up when called. it. It’s tiring.

A man (and I use that term loosely) is harassing women as they walk to and from work down our street. He likes to show off what he’s "got," so to speak, as if we’re all going to fall to the ground in great adoration and thank the heavens for this gift. His pattern is to select an empty lot and then pop up like a cobra sniffing out a mouse.One of the nannies that cares for Addison is terrified. This strong woman - a single mother raising her daughter on her own - is reduced to panic and fear. I know this too well. But no more! I said: call to action.

The morning after his "freestyle exhibition," I went looking for him. Though the fellow in question (and I use this term loosely) wasn’t around that day, I talked to security guards along the route; asked them to call the police or help a person in need. I asked the neighbor if she’d call the neighborhood police. I’m looking for pepper spray, and for a week or so, I drove my nanny to and from the bus stop.These are the wrong men to shed tears over or waste precious energy quivering in fear.

Who makes me cry now? Cesar Millan.Tears. Tingles in the tear ducts. Wow moments. I connect to his work, his energy for a moment, I’m all a-blubber.I first read about Cesar in the New Yorker and I thought: I want to have what he has: this focus and life passion that resonates with truth. Not the kind of truth we think people want to hear, no the kind of truth that makes people wiggle with discomfort because it challenges us all to grow and think a little bit.Cesar is called the Dog Whisperer. I’ve never seen his show, but it doesn’t matter. Just in his look, in his focus, I see what he’s all about. This guy helps really troubled dogs, and thus helps people, and thus makes me cry.The ragged guy around our street is gone, for now. My nanny is still terrified. I can see her cataloging in her brain that list, that file we learn as women so we can navigate the streets, parking lots, and schools safely. No more crying for the wrong guys.That reminds me. I’ve got this great move. If you step on the guy’s foot, you can poke his…………….