Coco was too scared on Halloween to be anything that might make her scared. Witches were out. Ghosts too. So, for the second year in a row it’s the cat. Which for a mother, is a good thing. All I have to do is find the stuff, and she’s set.

I decided Addy was going to be a panda, since he’s cute and cuddly anyway. The ears were simple - a nanny got on that. I painted the bunny tail from an earlier costume (thanks Christy - that tail just keeps on living!). We even managed to find the correct black and white combination for the torso and limbs. I got into trouble with the eyes and nose. My face pen ran out of ink from the last holiday. Addison was not pleased about me rubbing around his eye sockets. I guess I shouldn’t blame him. He didn’t ask for this panda stuff.

So Addison went a little light on the eyes, but overall the kids looked great. I think I could dress them up with unfolded laundry, and they’d still look great. Oh…I guess we already did that. Now there’s a costume idea for next year!

When I heard that they were going to expand one of the short spans of highway - note highway, in no way is this a freeway - into three lanes both ways, I thought, well that will be something. Thus it has begun.

Lanes are narrowed into one, bulldozers come inches from plopping dirt on people or cars, and men work terribly close to it all. This strip of highway leads from the highly populated suburbs of Santa Ana and Escazu into downtown San José. Exits shoot off to other highway loops to the east and north and south suburbs of La Uruca and Hatillo.

It’s really lucky thing there’s even the room to conceive of another lane. Many areas are squeaked so tightly between canyons, rivers, and gorges, it would be almost impossible to build.

THEY say seven months. At first I didn’t believe it, but at the rate these guys work, it might just happen. I can see the new road taking shape as mountains sides are literally chiseled away. It shall be a sight to see. Plus we might actually get some exit and entrance ramps where you don’t feel like you’re jumping off the cliff every time you merge. This is exciting stuff for us.

So if you want to see a “developing” country in action, come take a look. Just be sure to give yourself enough time in case there’s a traffic jam.

Coco woke up a few days ago in tears. She’d lost her tooth and couldn’t find it. She feared she swallowed it or lost it. I told her we’d just have to look.

Loosing teeth is such an intense experience for kids. It’s funny I don’t remember that. I do remember avoiding my father if he saw one he thought we yank. He wasn’t exactly the cuddliest. Coco doesn’t like to put her teeth under her pillow and give it to the tooth rat. That’s right, rat and/or mouse depending on who tells the story. (For a wrap up of the legend, read here.)

We found the tooth right in the middle of the bed. She gleamed with relief.

“I’m going to put this one under my pillow.”

“Are you sure.”

She nodded and I took it to soak it in hydrogen peroxide to get off the little bit of remaining blood. I set the tooth in a little dish next to the sink and said a quick prayer that I wouldn’t chuck it down the sink, which I’ve done in the past. And….I crossed my fingers that I would remember to put the money under the pillow. I’m not too fond of this custom because it’s too much pressure to remember. The only other tooth Coco put on her pillow I forgot TWO nights in a row to put some cash in place of the tooth.

Around 10 p.m., I crept Coco’s room. An odd light was shining in the corner, and I thought for sure she was being visited by something not of this earth. Was it the tooth fairy? Did the fairy seek out all United State citizens where ever they lived? No. It was the reflection of the street light through her curtains onto the new shelf I’d stuck in the corner.

Once I got past that, I pawed for the plastic baggie with the tooth in it. I stood over her bed crinkling the bag like a little old lady in the theater opening a cough drop. Coco woke up. Busted again! Just like I was when I tried hiding the Easter basket one year. Luckily, she was so drowsy, I just re-kissed her goodnight and she fell back asleep.

The next morning she beamed at the 800 colones she’d found. I suggested maybe it was because she’d just turned eight. She cupped the money in her fist.

Awfully smart mouse, I said.

You’re funny, mommy.

Yup. I’m a riot.

We’ve all got it: the Tupperware shelf. This is perhaps one of the most annoying places I spend time at every day. And not a little time, a lot of time. The kid’s lunches go in square ones; the chocolate covered pineapples go in a small round one; yogurt in a bigger round one. There’s never the right lids to cover the ones I need.

Everyday I reach up and grab one, and they all come falling down. Blue and white lids drop behind the stove and bottoms bounce into the dirty dish water. I’ve tried putting these things on low shelves, high shelves, and the Lazy Susan. The Lazy Susan is a nightmar if one gets stuck and you can’t turn the thing or reach the lid to get it out. I do believe I screamed loud enough when this has happened to attract have people come running.

Then there’s the box of unwanted lids and tops and leaky plastic bears that dribble when drank out of. Why do I keep them? Because I might use them some day of course!

Saturday as I was rearranging my pantry and putting that “life junk” (you know paper plates, extra yarn, grocery bags, felt, the little sauce warmer with the candle under it that I never use…you know things like that away). My daughter wasn’t anywhere around so I started tossing bits and pieces of old games, dried out markers, and half used pieces of paper into a garbage bag. I placed it on top of the table just in case Coco would come in. Then my nanny saw it and said she wanted to go through it later - stuff her grandkids might use. She placed the garbage bag in the garage. Even when I try to throw things out, I can’t.

Eventually enough time will pass and I’ll toss those bears and lids. But in the meantime, when you’re Tupperware falls behind the stove or falls on your head and makes you say a few words you hope your children will never repeat, remember there is this odd little woman in Costa Rica suffering just like you. You are not alone. The feelings cross International boundaries and do not know language barriers. We all live in Tupperware hell.

This sunflower was something to see. The hearty flowers have a tough time taking root in Costa Rica. The roots are just not made for all this rain. It’s an amazing feat to grow where all the elements fight against you.
I do get a little homesick when I see such things. Those acres and acres of yellow flowers stretching their necks towards the sun. The sunflower reminds of the hope I always had in the spring when I planted a garden. If the rabbits didn’t get to the stalks, I’d get my own personal crop of golden sunshine. I’d go out every day and just look at the center. That’s what I miss.

The thing is, I can have the center where ever I want it. It takes a lot to tend the garden and plant the right seeds so that the bloom can shine in the sun.

I just have to remember to look farther than the nose on my face.

We’re sopping wet in Costa Rica. The backyard becomes a deserted playground. The ground squishes with every step, and it doesn’t get much time between rains to dry out.

Give my daughter a little bit of space, and she can live in a fairyland - wiling away hours with a bit of dirt, a garden tool, a small cup to put things in. But during the last months of this rainy season, she goes out less. Garden parties get abandoned and left for days, then weeks, then months. Just sitting there patiently waiting for us to come back and play.

Although yards are lovely here, the truth is, it’s hard to play on them for 1/2 the year because it gets so muddy. Everyone gravitates toward patches of cement instead. Covered patios are a must. Since I don’t have much of one now, we shall wait for the Trade Winds to dry out our little patch of earth so we can once again frolic about like the little fairies and nymphs we truly are.

So I ask this guy with the fish if I can take his picture. After a long day of no Internet service, I found all these “other” things to do.

I went for a run - that’s how I found the guy with the fish; got dangerously close to finishing a deadline (yikes! looming success!); put away my laundry that I transfer every night from a chair near my bed to the bed back to the chair again; and grabbed some things I needed at the market.

It’s not that I don’t get a lot done with Internet working. I do. In fact, I can’t run this little website without it. But it gives me a chance to reflect on just how many times do I “refresh” my email to see who’s written me.

I wouldn’t eat this fish if you paid me since it came from the lake in la Sabana park. The lake is green. If it’s not contaminated, then it just looks unappetizing. I grew up near a lake similar to la Sabana. It was in the city and was man-made. It was also green. I remember thinking the same thing when I saw people fishing on the shore. Are they actually going to eat those fish?

But this guy doesn’t read on health websites about the dangers of fungus or mercury in fish. Perhaps he needs to feed his kids. Or perhaps he just needed a break from the whatever it is that stresses him.

Well I’ve got to run. You know, it’s been awhile since I’ve checked my emails.

The first years I arrived in Costa Rica, I got involved in the Women’s Club. It’s an English speaking professional and social network of women. I went to meetings and got involved in volunteering and projects the group supported. (This was B.C. - before children of course.) I volunteered to hand out hot dogs at the fourth of July picnic. Years ago, they held the celebration at the U.S. Ambassader’s residence in Escazu. Any U.S. citizen can get in with a passport and a lot of Ticos get invited.

The hot dogs were free. I handed them out on a napkin and people squirted their desired condiment on top. Then, I’d notice a few people coming back for more - ninety five percent of them Costa Rican women that looked like they could have stepped out of a Ruben’s painting if you’d just stick a pair of wings on their back. The plum little women would ask for two. I’d watch them stuff the dogs in their bag and ask for another one. This wasn’t not an anomoly. It happened over and over again.

To be honest, I didn’t quite know what to do. Scold them? It became hilarious until we ran out of hot dogs. Over the years, I’ve discovered this is a time honored tradition. You always get to take a plate home from a gathering of free food. Usually it’s offered and given quite happily. For example, at birthday parties the host will serve up a plate and wrap it with tin foil for anyone in your family who didn’t make the party. Goes double for cake or desserts. Little wrapped up pieces of cake travel hours just to make it to the campo for someone’s niece to taste a bite.

At a birthday party last week for one of Addison’s friends, I had double the nannies. One came to work and the one who’d just finished a shift was on her way home and suggested I dropped her off after the party. Hmmm…I thought.

It was a grand party at a big gym. Cakes and desserts and coffee are always served. I dropped the nannies off and figured it was safe to run down the road and pay a few bills at the pharmacy and pick up some things I needed at the grocery store.

When I returned the two nannies were finishing up getting their sparkly tattoos while they held Addison and a plate of cakes and cups of coffee sat in front of them. I grabbed Addy and took him to the gym so the ladies could finish their cups of joe. They whispered and eyed the plate of brownies and empanadas as the clown finished up the tattoos.

We left before the rain and the pinata hit. When we got home, I unpacked my purse and found a smashed baggie full of desserts. I put them in the refrigerator, smiling. It’s just double the fun in paradise.

By all accounts, I should be fluent in Spanish. In the last few months, I have to report that speaking Spanish has become a foreign thing to me. I’ve reverted, lost ground, and stumble over words and phrases that used to flow out of mouth in a grammatical free-for-all, but at least they flowed and I had a little bit of confidence. Now I can’t remember words and speak slower than the Internet service works here (and that’s slow!).

The cashier asked me if I wanted the free prize they give out every few months for my puntos - points. I froze; the car attendant asked me if he could put in the 10w 40w oil. It wasn’t like I needed to say a big word like viscosity, I just needed to find the word for hood - the hood of the car not the axel or engine block. I’ve been driving for ten years here! I should know the word for hood for goodness sakes! Instead I had to hold out my hand and do that stupid smile that says: I’m a Gringa that can’t speak Spanish very well at this moment so we must rely on some charades here - bare with me kind young man. I fished around the glove compartment while the poor guy stood there holding this heavy sheet of metal (the hood) so I could find the clavo - nail - to hold the hood up because the hood holder is broken. Geez! I don’t even know the word for hood holder in English!

I like to think I’m on a learning curve and a whole bunch of new vocabulary is sputtering somewhere in my cerebral cortex just waiting to blossom the next time I go to the gas station or check out at Auto Mercado. Coco has blown past me and of course now corrects me. I was talking to one of the nannies and told her about making a “plan” for this or that.

It’s plane! Mami! Not plano!

Thanks Coco. I need that. You’ve got to correct me every time I make a mistake.

Wait, I thought, did I just say that? I gripped the wheel as I stared over the hood of the car and drove on to the supermarket, hoping this would be the day the offered those free wine and beer samples. Maybe if I just loosened up, I’d never forget a thing.

**And this is another problem. You decide. The on-line translator says: capilla del coche. Which I think is used at gas stations throughout Spain, not here! Then the dictionary says capota or capillo. So I guess I’ll do what I always do, I’ll go and ask my nannies.

We arrived to the ballet just in time to park two blocks away. Perfect spot. The “car parker guy” quickly handed me a small piece of cardboard he’d ripped up from an old box that said 2000(about $4.00) on it. Which meant after the performance, he’d be expecting that in payment. My friend parked right next to me. She was promptly handed a ripped off piece of cardboard that said 3000 on it. She was getting charged 1000 more because…..her car was white? She arrived 30 seconds later than me? She looked wealthier? I stuck the piece in my pocket, and we walked on to the theater.

A few weeks earlier, I saw an advertisement for the ballet on a small billboard along the road. Melico Salazar is a theater in the heart of town, just a few blocks shy of the National Theater. When our group decided to go to the performance, we checked the Internet site and found the calendar for June. No more. Nothing about Coppelia, the classic comedic ballet about a doll that creates havoc in the world of lovers. I called the theater and the box office spoke in such a low voice I wouldn’t have been able to understand her if she’d been speaking in English. Undaunted, we made a plan to go.

At the box office, they didn’t take Visa. Since I only had enough cash for the gallery seats (otherwise known as the nose bleed section), we left the main theater lobby and walked around the back of the building where we climbed a lot of stairs.

The ballet was great. Even though the seats were hard wooden benches, it gave kids enough room to move when they got antsy and whisper when they got excited. La Compañía Ballet de Cámara Atelier performed to a delighted crowd. Tutus, point shoes, twirls, leaps, and amazing displays of physical strength and grace filled the auditorium. For a few hours, we forgot about car-parkers and ticket takers and the hole I’d discovered in my favorite old black shirt (which I’d worn of course).

It’s no small task making a trip to the arts in Costa Rica. But the price is usually right - we paid $10 a ticket. And all that other stuff just adds to the adventure. That’s why we call it paradise.