The people are flocking to San Jose to see cows. CowParade has invaded Costa Rica and these fantastic looking beasts are dotting the sidewalks and parks. I lugged the kids downtown - and even though we got a tad too much sun (that happens often to us white kids here) - we had a ball moving from cow to cow; checking out horns and udders.

It looked like San Jose, an often disliked city, was rediscovered and full of life.

I’ll be posting a video on our adventure. So come back soon.

Moo.

Waiting at a stoplight yesterday afternoon, I saw a homeless man up ahead. He walked along the side of the driver’s window. The light was red. In his right hand, he held a bouquet of pink lilies. Instead of asking for money, he was throwing the entire long stem into the window of the car. The guy in front of me drove a grand new Mercedes 4×4 and wore silver sunglasses. The man approached the driver’s window and threw the lily into the window.

When people beg for money at intersections, often they’ll offer a small token for your gesture: a grasshopper made from palm leaves; a pencil; or at least a cup to drop the money into. Every time I’ve given money I’ve usually been blessed or at least profusely thanked by the person. This man had seen a few long days and nights on the street. Who knows where he got the flowers. The man in the Black Mercedes started digging frantically in his car for some change. The light turned green. And then, the man with the flowers began to approach my car.

I waved my hands back and forth and started to say: no, no, no! My car was moving, and I didn’t want the flower. There wasn’t any time for change. As I passed the man, he held the flower up and with great accuracy, he tossed it into my window. Drops of water splashed my sunglasses from the wet stem. I was moving to fast. Stopping wasn’t safe. A car was inches from my bumper. I moved ahead. I felt horrible.

I went home and put the flower in a vase. Earlier that day I had read that many of us have a hard time accepting. If we are all working on giving, there has to be receptacles for the gifts, right? I took the gift,; said what thanks I could; and hoped the man had a warm and dry night.

There are these graces that come with Down Syndrome that are kind of a benefit of a slower paced life. For example, since Addison doesn’t yet walk I can take him places and know exactly where he is at all times. We all know restaurants are actually large rooms with lots of chairs and tables disguised as torture chambers. Ever get a child to eat all that expensive food you just ordered? Or not spill? Or not run around and slap other customers? Or not crawl under the table to eat that French Fry that just fell on the dirty carpet beneath your feet?

On the other hand, my little guy is pretty easy at restaurants. I still avoid them, but having someone cook for me is an "extra" I need once and awhile in this single parenting orb. There never seems to be a moment when it all stops spinning. But at a restaurant - as long as there’s a play area for my older child - the world stops spinning for an hour or so. If we can find a high chair that Addison won’t slip out of, I can nice men and women bring me things for a change.¹

I bring along some sort of green mush that is Addison’s food. He’s got so many allergies and such a tender tummy, we don’t risk letting him eating strange and exotic things like pasta or crispy tortilla chips. He’s content with his mush and the other day we ventured into the wild side by letting him eat creme bruleé.

I ate three. We both asked for more.²

<sup>1. High chairs in restaurants will often be wooden and made by a guy with a workshop down the road in Costa Rica. You can even buy them on the side of the road. Beware when using them, they are tricky little buggers.
2. The last photo is sign language for: more. The sign is actually those chubby little fingers coming together and touching tips. He was a bit off here, but we knew what he meant. MORE!</sup>

Babble away. I can speak Spanish with an accent that sounds like a native. Flexible tongue I guess. On the telephone, even friends mistake me for a native speaker. But listen close and my pronouns bounce every which way in the sentence, and I swing from passive to active voice like a lazy monkey.

I understand a great deal of Spanish, but I get very nervous when it comes to getting every point correct. When someone at my kid’s school communicates something to me, I want to get every point and tend to listen with so much effort it almost hurts. When the person is finished speaking, I am then processing like one of those hand-held translators: arroz=rice; frijoles=beans; complacidos=pleased; emplazar=locate; dolar de cabaza=headache. It goes into my brain: I translate it in a matter of nano-seconds into English; then translate back into Spanish what I want to say.

That pause I need while the translator engages in my head tends to make people awkward. Some will start speaking English; some blink to pass the silence; some say the same thing all over again. I do have to swallow my pride when it is important to understand exactly what’s being said and ask the person to repeat themselves. I get extremely nervous with friends because most of them speak better English than I do Spanish, and I feel foolish and self-conscious that my Spanish isn’t more polished.

Occasionally, I completely fake it. Once, the gardener I had at the time came into the house before leaving for the day. My mother was visiting and we were sitting in the sala - living room - while my daughter took a nap. He paused at the door and went on for about 10 minutes. I put down my book and listened intently. I nodded in agreement and probably said: la verdad, which means the truth, kind of a way to say: You bet! Ain’t that the truth! I agree.

He left.

My mother asked: What did he say?

I said I had no idea and shrugged. Sometimes there’s absolutely no harm in faking it.

On the way home from ballet class, Coco likes to pontificate. Maybe it’s being immersed in the arts for an hour, pointing toes, demi-plié, and all that. l’m generally bored and anxious to get home knowing I have dinner to cook and another little child to get into bed.

Coco is oblivious to the traffic and my mood.

Mommy - why does my brain tell me so much? It tells me to move my legs, my arms. It talks to my stomach, makes me hungry. And then it talks to me all the time - telling me to do stuff, to think stuff. Why does it talk to much?

While waiting for ballet to get out, I finished a book written by Thich Nhat Hanh called A LifeTime of Peace. It’s a compilation of letters and thoughts about, well, peace. There are thoughts about peace in the world, peace with your loved once, and even peace in doing the dishes. A lot of the book is about quieting the mind - that rattling that wears us down to nubs. Coco’s entering the world of "us adults" and the world of the mind. I realized that all that talking she does - that which drives me nuts - is slowly going to fold inside her SELF. When she passes a store window and says: Mommy can I buy that? Or when we’re in the pool, she’ll say: When are we going to make snow angels again? Or when we’re driving home from ballet she’ll say: Why does my brain talk so much?

Thich Nhat Hanh gives these great simple ideas to quite the mind, to become mindful. Even when washing the dishes and brushing our teeth.

"Brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth,
I vow to speak purely and lovingly.
When my mouth is fragrant with right speech,
a flower blooms in the garden of my heart."

Coco starts getting a little upset if I don’t reply. I have a hand signal that I give her to let her know that I am doing some dangerous driving maneuver and can’t speak. She quiets for a bit as I merge (and I tell you merging in Costa Rica is a miracle every time it happens without incident since there are basically no lanes to merge!)……The guy behind me honks because I guess I merged a little too tightly for his tastes; I merge again; hit a bottleneck; and finally get off the freeway.

Mommy when are we going to that restaurant again? Mommy when can we stay in the hotel for a week?

I put my hand up again in order to preserve my sanity the last 400 meters until we reach home. Coco will have to start all over again to learn how to quite the mind that once lived in the moment so purely. She can take it from her mother, it’s not easy. After dinner, I am actually looking forward to doing the dishes. As Thich Nhat Hanh said:

"While washing the dishes one should only be washing the dishes, which means that while washing the dishes one should be completely aware of the fact that one is washing the dishes. At first glance, that might seem a little silly: why put so much stress on a simple thing? But that’s precisely the point. The fact that I am standing there and washing these bowls is a wondrous reality. I’m being completely myself, following my breath, conscious of my presence, and conscious of my thoughts and actions. There’s no way I can be tossed around immediately like a bottle slapped here and there on the waves."

Mommy? Coco says as I’ve just about finished with the last plate. "When are we going to the beach again?"

For a just a second, I wished for a few more dirty plates.

I took the kids for a night out at a hotel. The beaches are so fantastic here in Costa Rica, but with kids I needed a break from the drive. So I made reservations at this hotel across the street from my house. One thing about living in a tourist town: hotels are everywhere. There was a special for Easter Week because most folks do head for that special beach place. I led Coco on a bit and didn’t completely reveal that we were going to a hotel near our home. She got all her things ready; sat in her booster seat; put on her earphones. Two minutes later, I pulled up to the front door.

Why are we stopping here? she said. Do you have to pee?

This is where we’re staying!

Laugh! I thought I’d cry.

We swam. We ate. We indulged in big beds. We made a mess. We ate some more.

As we were packing up, Coco cried and said she didn’t want to leave.

I knew what she meant. Before we went to bed (at the late old hour of 8 p.m.!), I walked around the water fountain. The sound of the water on the rocks could have kept me there for hours. Heaven.

But I still had to hide the Easter baskets somewhere in our small hotel; nibble on the carrots I brought with (bunny gets hungry you know); and sleep under that goose down blanket.

For tomorrow always come. Thank goodness it always comes.

Some days I just have this little boy. A boy who likes to swim and then bask in the sun.

Some days I just have two children. And, they are the same in all their differences.

Some days I just have it all.

Some days are every day.

Some days are.

La Bamba performs magic every day in our house

admin on 22 Mar 2008

Awhile ago, I wrote about the miracles of the song La Bamba. Now, the song has appeared again in our lives, quite by accident (the debate of whether anything is an accident…well for another time…). A friend that was leaving for the States gave me this stack of wonderful CDs. We love them for the car. And I much prefer the group singing over DVDs. It reminds me of singing away to Loretta Lynn when I was young. (Again I’m dating myself!)

One of these CDs was by a guy named Red Grammer. I had no idea who this guy was, but he can sing. His voice is like a smooth milkshake - vanilla - with the real beans. This CD is a bunch of folk songs. Addison will not eat a meal without the CD. The folky-folk songs like Gary Indiana, America the Beautiful, and Day-O are pressed upon my brain like a vice grip. The nannies can sing them - and they speak Spanish. Since La Bamba is in Spanish, the nannies really belt this one out.

About 3/4 the way through the CD - just about the time Addison gets cranky - La Bamba plays on the CD. What is it about this song? Red Grammer’s voice bellows the tune with such joy, no one can resist swinging their hips or at least singing along. Everyone’s got their own rendition. This is my favorite part:

Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba se necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia para mi, para ti
Y arriba y arriba
Y arriba y arriba por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere

To dance the bamba
to dance the bambe you need a bit of thanks
and up and up
and up and up for you I will be, for you I will be (there)

And I love this one:

Para subir al cielo
Para subir al cielo
Se necesita una escalera grande
Una escalera grande y otra chiquita

To rise to the sky
To rise to the sky
Big stairs are needed
Biig stairs and another little one (just in case)

It’s just a happy song about going up to the sky. Looking up. Being up. As it goes on, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But to me it makes perfect, complete, and true logic. And after Addison swings his blond hair back and forth like a true rocker, he finishes his dinner.

So many great people have been writing on my old site - which still is up and running - and this new one. But with this new thing, it’s like getting a DVD player and figuring out how all the little buttons work. I just figured out how to operate and do COMMENTS. Yikes. What rock did I climb out of??!!

Next thing you know, I’ll learn how to operate my answering machine.

Keep it coming.

By the way, I have to share this great site that was sent to me by a freind George. He’s right - get out your Kleenex.

Easter egg painting was an elaborate craft project when I was young. My mom would get those kits that had the paint and little holders to prop the finished egg upon to dry and display. We’ve got eggs here in Costa Rica, but no kits. And most eggs are brown, not refrigerated, born to pretty healthy chickens that aren’t crated and treated like a pile of rocks in a box. I’m digressing….back to the egg-bunny connection. The Easter Bunny - much like Santa Claus - are secondary figures due to the importance of the religious holiday the imaginary characters are based on.

So again - like most holidays - I adapt. My daughter Coco is crazy about holidays and I find myself between an egg and chocolate on which culture to follow; which tradition to carry on; and which mores to exude. When push comes to shove, I usually find a middle ground that gives the kids some sort of balance while growing up in a Catholic country. Halloween costumes are simple and made from scraps around the house; Christmas revolves mainly around a Charlie Brown-kind-of-tree, and Easter includes a hidden basket with Easter eggs we’ve decorated.

I found some white eggs at the store; boiled and cooled them; got out the magic markers. The kids had at it and 30 minutes later, we can check that off the list. So, the story in our house is that the Easter bunny comes sulking around at night (we don’t really address how he gets in); nibbles on some carrots we leave out; goes into our refrigerator; gets out those decorated eggs; places them in a basket with other treats; proceeds to hide the basket (for some unknown reason); hops off into the night.

Bliss. Bunny bliss.