The old swing set made a perfect parallel bar. Motivated by the summer Olympics on television, I unfastened the metal swings and threw them aside in the grass. The picnic table skittered across the grass as I pulled into position, two feet in front of the metal bar. I stood on top of the far end of the table; ran to gain momentum and jumped. I’d hang and propel back and forth with my body until the inertia wore off. In my mind I was a great gymnast. In reality, I probably looked like a nine year old running off a picnic table and hanging there.

I pulled the table back. I was getting more confident. I climbed atop the weathered wood and stared at the crusty metal bar. There are some images we remember that are odd. Like why do I remember watching my mother take the pot roast out of the oven? Or my father frying baloney over the flames of the kitchen stove? Then there are memories I know exactly why I remember them because the action bordered on being something so stupid the Universe just needed to be sure I would never repeat that action again.

Perhaps it was the sweat. Perhaps I did one jump too many. As I flew threw the air (all three feet), I looked up to watch my hands reach for the red bar as the palms of my hands slid against the glossy paint without grabbing on. I fell flat on my back with one exception: My arm propped under my shoulder blade like a broken spear. My wrist had broken the fall and folded in half like a Swiss knife snaps back into it’s case. That was my one and only broken limb. Every day my son navigates the world with limbs that don’t work like he wants them to. I was challenged over not being able to pour Kool-Aid. He struggles a million moments a day to get his muscles and nerves to all work together to just take one step. His feet drag behind him and his knees just won’t bend with strength.

When I moved to Costa Rica, I quickly discovered some of the benefits of living here that could help someone with special needs, whether that need was temporary like a broken leg or more permanent like Muscular Dystrophy. Most homes come with a “maid’s” room. It’s a small cuarto (usually near the laundry for obvious reasons), and it almost always has a bathroom. The room can be no bigger than the size of mattress, but that room served our family tremendously when my mother-in-law came to live with us. After six months in Costa Rica, she broke her hip. Luckily we found a house with a maid’s room big enough to also put her T.V. and a desk. And since it was on the first floor, so she could walk to the kitchen and patio without navigating many steps.

This one architectural feature proves to be a bigger bonus than I’d imagined. And add in that most homes have several bathrooms in addition to the one off the maid’s room. For a family of five growing up, we always had one. What a luxury to have kids in a separate place to make their watery messes! What a necessity to have my former mother-in-law on a different floor and back by the kitchen!

I quit jumping off picnic tables a long time ago, but now I have to navigate the world of a special needs child, plus those holes in the sidewalk and molded over driveways (in the rainy season) are always testing my balance.

The big purple ball I used to exercise Addison deflated. I dunked it in the pool in search of holes but couldn’t get it to stay under water. I brought it to the tire expert guy down the street. He got it inflated, but the air only lasted a week. I received a new nozzle, which also failed. I originally brought the over-sized thing down from the States when I was pregnant in hopes of birthing on it or at least stretching my back. I did neither of those things since non-stop contractions made my pregnancy a “sit down only” affair and the thought of going anywhere near a ball as I suffered through labor would have made me hurt anyone in shouting or kicking distance.

When I bought the purple ball in a Pilotes kit at 4 months pregnant, little did I know it would become such an important exercise tool for my son who would have Down Syndrome. The nannies and I gave it our best effort to use the squishy thing, but Addison kind of sunk into it. Plus he protested a lot.

I passed an exercise store in a strip mall called Plaza itzcatzu and saw huge, inflated balls inside. The kind man in the store was fluent in English. Addison tried out the tread mill and flirted with the entire sale staff by blowing them kisses while I decided on my purchase. As I continued to talk, I told this man how sometimes I get judged because my son doesn’t walk alone yet. Most of the time I pay “no-never-mind” but there are moments I have a harder time shaking it off.

My nephew didn’t walk until he was three and one-half. There was nothing wrong with him, he told me.

It was just something nice to hear. A bonus that came with the big red ball. The ball barely fit in my two-door car. Once in the living room it looked right at home beneath the shadow of our mother earth lamp looming in the distance. One can never have enough orbs floating around.

I save the chore of laundry for the evening. Instead of “getting in a load in the morning” and having it all done by the time the kids come home from school, I actually wait to do it with them. It’s one of our favorite evening past times. Some people like to play Scrabble or watch the news, we fold the laundry.

When the laundry comes out of the dryer, I bring it out in the basket and Addison actually yells: Huuurrraaahh! and claps his hands. The clothes are so hot and snuggly warm, no one can resist touching them, putting them on. We don’t have many machines that emit heat in Costa Rica. I think my car has heat, and I tried using it once but a funny stale rabbit hutch smell came out of the vents, so I turned it off.

When I was about Coco’s age, I remember coming in from the house after playing in the snow; taking off the many layers of jackets, scarfs, hats, and mittens, and then cuddling into a ball in the corner of our living room in front of the heat vent. The heat would kick in, and it felt like warm hands tucking me into a layer of blankets. My hair stuck up from the static electricity, but I was warm.

On chilly evenings in Costa Rica, the clothes from the dryer are soul tingling. I don’t even bother attempting to fold anything because Addison will scream if I take even one item away. When I plop the basket in front of him, he reaches in and pulls an item to his face and holds it there. He’ll continue pulling out towels, shirts, and socks while taking in the warmth of each thing. Then, he’ll get the spirit and start folding. He’ll hold an item up; shake it to get the wrinkles out; sort of double it over into a lump; and set it behind him. If he gets more adventurous, he’ll put a pair of his sister’s underwear on his head.

Coco loves to join in. She’ll put on everything she can. Then she walks around the house and it all looks so familiar to me as if she’s just come in from the snow. Funny how things circle around no matter what country we’re in?

Placing clean laundry on the grass was foreign to me, until I moved to Costa Rica. Every Monday morning I can go out to my small patch of backyard in the city and find at least one or two dishtowels splayed on the wet lawn. One of the true sources of pride in this culture is clean laundry: White shirts, sparkling school uniforms, and even old dishrags.

Addison has three nannies. Each rotates during the week; each has special talents and quirks and gifts I get to watch and enjoy over the three days they spend with us. I can see over time how each woman offers my home a bit of who they are. Two of the ladies are more like grandmothers. These women come from the country and no one has a dryer. Few have washers. Plus there’s often not a lot of room or time to hang things on the line before the rain comes. Laundry is almost an artistic outlet.

The nanny on Sunday/Monday will collect the towels from the kitchen and go to the pila - the laundry sink - and apply rub this blue bar of soap all over it and then proceed to scrub it with a brush. This ritual is not far removed from washing laundry in the river and beating it on the rocks. Some of the towels get soaked for a day or two. (If the nanny leaves before getting these soaking things out on to the lawn and I miss them, the smell can get funky.) The towels then lay out on the grass for the rain to beat them into the final round of cleanliness.

When I first moved here, I may have huffed out to the lawn and thought “they” were crazy to leave the laundry in the backyard. Now I can smile and appreciate the story that goes behind it and see how I do the same things with cultural traditions I’ve learned due to history, fear, weather, and common sense. If I could take one these nannies up to live through a winter, they’d think I was bonkers with all the “tricks” I’d do so the pipes couldn’t freeze and mittens wouldn’t get lost.

If the Sunday/Monday nanny gets a load to dry before she leaves, she gleams and almost bursts with pride in how wonderful mother nature is in getting the dirt out. Her smile energizes me for the rest of the day, and I have a funny urge to go and scoop her some pistachio ice cream and make her a cup of coffee. Perhaps the nannies think I’m a bit on the lackadaisical when it comes to laundry and stain removal. But I’m thrilled to let them pick up where I drop off. Around here, there’s never a shortage of cleaning - limpiando - to do.

For the past few days, the Internet has been slow at my house and often doesn’t work. Without being able to refresh my “inbox” every hour or so, it’s time to look for other things to do. I went to make a cup of coffee and the “kind-of-cheap-but-good-enough” espresso machine spilled water all over the sides of the filter instead of pressing it through the coffee to get that great, tiny little brew I love to take up to my office after the kids jump on the bus. The cup, the counter, the wall, and the clock were covered with coffee grounds. I turned off the machine.

As I was working on a chapter in my book, the printer ran out of paper. I put in one sheet and the machine ate it like a lion devouring a rabbit. The light blinked: Paper stuck! Paper stuck! Yeah!! Like tell me something that could help me like how to get it out! I opened the front door and could see the whites of the edges, black ink smeared all over my fingers as I grasped what I could. Itsy bitsy pieces ripped off into my hands. I think I’d have better luck retrieving the rabbit from the lion. I turned it off.

So I probably won’t be able to publish photos today; I’m making coffee the Costa Rican way with a cloth bag that I hold over a cup, and the printer is still is digesting my page. With my Golden Calves melted, broken, or stuck, I guess I’ll have to find another muse. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Costa Rica’s Independence day rolls around on September 15th. Our freedom came without much fanfare. In fact, the story goes that a guy on mule delivered a note to the powers in charge that said: You’re free from Spain. Still tied to Guatemala, it took a few more years to then break off from Guatemala and declare itself a complete sovereign nation. All of Central America celebrates the 15th of September as a day of freedom.

On that day in Costa Rica, each school child is required to participate in civic activities. There’s a parade in every town and scattered barrios. In August the Costa Rican flag begins to wave on street corners as vendors hope for early sales. The kids take to the street and prepare to march.

The surrounding Central American countries developed armies. In 1948, Costa Rica put down all arms for good. I can’t think that has something to do with it’s unique position of peace and relative prosperity amidst nations of indescribable poverty and violence.

I like our little army of drummers. It helps us keep time with our own beat.

These girls stopped in front of my camera and wanted me to take their photo. I was filming a marching band practicing in the street. With Costa Rica’s Independence Day rolling around on September 15th, student musicians around the country are preparing for the town’s parade. The music pounded to an addictive, repetitive beat as the lead drummer tried to keep the kids in step. An instructor walked up and down the rows helping the more timid students get into the groove and hit their tambor with more conviction.

The girls giggled and for a moment, paused, and looked at me. And then through me. The neighborhood I happened to be in was rough; kids go hungry; drug use is rampant; and broken homes the norm. The pounding of the drums rose in my throat as I waited for the digital camera to flash the photo up on the LCD screen. I showed them the picture. They looked at each other and giggled just like any pre-teen would. It could have been the first time they’d ever seen a photo of themselves. I turned back to film the band, and the girls ran away, holding hands as they went.

Barely a birthday goes by without a pinata in Costa Rica. When I was a kid it was just a distant legend I’d heard about happening at other people’s fancy parties. Now we have the choice of Nemo, Barney, Cinderella, Strawberry Shortcake or Batman. In “ecological ways” I always try to make it a little different. This one held bead necklaces, blow horns and some chocolate. Enough to look like a bounty when it split open from it’s fins. First Addy went at it with a spoon, then on to a bigger stick. We propped him against the wall. I think we could have put rocks in there and he would have been thrilled. Kids are just that easy.

Sixteen paper clown plates and nine matching cups sit on the kitchen table. I’ve got some balloons to blow up and a cake to buy. Addison dressed up for school in a smart white shirt (see how long that will last!) and walked holding his sister’s hand to the bus. Lucky me, I get to go and watch a special Mother’s Day performance at the kid’s school. When we return, it’ll be party time. Three years ago today, I reached out to touch the arm of my son. It felt funny. Even as drugged as I was from the emergency cesarean, I could tell something was different. The next time I awoke, I was told he had Down Syndrome. And so the ride began.

Addison will open his gifts. But I’m the one who got the big present. I am beginning to understand why I shed all the tears and worry and fear I felt in those first years. When any child arrives, the parents have a chance to say: O.k. I’m done being the selfish grown-up I’ve pegged myself to be, now it’s time to shed all that and be all that I can be. We’re drafted by the toughest army out there. The training is brutal and the mind games exhausting. With Addison it gets all mixed up. Though he speaks a few words all “jumbly” and garbled, he says more than I could ever hear. Though he doesn’t walk yet on his own, he’s taken me farther than I’ve ever traveled.

Last night, the nanny told me that on the third birthday the mood a child arises with in the morning will indicate what the rest of this life will be like. As I peeked over to Addison’s bed I felt like I was looking into a crystal ball. I want the past to be the past. Repeating painful lessons, which I seem to do over and over, is about as fun as dropping a hammer on each and every one of my toes. I want to be done with sleepless nights, hospital runs, bad relationships, petty thoughts, and putting off my soul’s desire for just one more year.

The bright sunlight lit up the room just enough so I could see Addison’s eyes staring back at me like a mouse peering from his nest. I tiptoed closer. He grabbed his feet and pulled them to his chest and smiled. He reached up and hugged me and snuggled next to my belly. I sang happy birthday to him and had a feeling it was going to be a very good life.

My daughter is learning all about road safety in class. The Costa Rica government does mandatory testing of children every other year. So Coco will be tested this year in the main subjects the government deems important. She then will not be tested the following year. This section is on rules of the road. She’s got it all down: Cross at the corners; look both ways; reading road signs and semáforos - red, yellow, and green. Except for spelling regalememtos correctly, I think she’ll do fine.

Then there’s the real thing.

The roadways in Costa Rica are held together by a fine thread of hope: Hope we will not crash. Hope we will not hit a pedestrian. Hope the other driver stops because I’m not about to. Hope I can pass this slow truck full of cows even though the double yellow lines I learned about in school tell me I could die because I actually can’t see the other car coming towards me around the bend. Let’s just cross our fingers and hope we make it to our destination.

I do not think I am exaggerating when I say that every time I drive somewhere, some one runs a stop sign. Usually it’s the case of the second driver sneaking through behind the lead driver when he was supposed to wait another turn. Or it’s the “slow-down-to-second-gear-and-go-through-the-stop-sign-even-though-it’s-technically-not-my-turn” kind of thing. It’s hard to explain to Coco why all the rules are broken.

Well, it’s hard to walk on sidewalks when there aren’t any I told her. I have a tougher time explaining away the “cheaters” as I call them. All those that decide stop signs or speed limits weren’t really made for them. Or the drivers that make two lanes when the lines (refer back to that lesson in school!!) indicate there is only ONE. ONE. NOT TWO! Even if you can sneak by this long line of cars with your tire riding the gutter! Why on earth do all these driver’s think they get to go first? What happens to the kind, empathetic, understanding Costa Ricans I so dearly love? Where do they go when they shut that door and turn the key?

With the rain we had yesterday afternoon, I could see the road near my house actually washing away. Rocks and asphalt crumbled under the force of the torrent. Much of the time, potholes get filled with what ever is available (even coconuts!). Crazed, inflated egos behind the wheel are the last thing we need. Driving in Minnesota this summer made me sad because it was so pleasant. People not only stopped at four-way intersections, they patiently waited for each driver to take his/her correct turn. I felt like I could drive all day.

So as my daughter learns, so do I. By being patient, stopping at intersections, and not loosing my cool, I’m trying to show my kids how to save a few lives and keep our livers in tact. Maybe a few of those parents are learning along with their kids the rules of roads. All I can do is hope.