Cultural differences always seem to come down to the kitchen sink. The basics. It’s what we’ve been taught to do “all these years.” Living with someone from another culture full-time is a non-stop lesson in understanding that there is no one way to do anything.

The difference between living with live-in nannies and maids is that I have three people in the thick of my life 24/7. They get to see it all: my habits, the kids habits, how boring we are, how odd we are, and how frustrating we must be at times.

All of my nannies prefer splaying the wet dish towel we are using for the day atop the small counter tops I have. I detest this. It drives me buggy. Why would someone want to take up the clean counter top with a yucky old towel? To dry of course. Women from poorer cultures, at least here, must be concerned all the time with getting things dry. With no dryer in sight, it’s the sun and air that gets life dry with any luck. Since I’ve lived with a dryer all my life, I just flop the rag in the corner by the sink until I return to the kitchen because I know it will be tossed, washed, and dried by a machine.

We also have sink basket issues, which I’ve written before. In or out is best? I’ve even hauled down a fancy stainless steel mesh basket that works like a funnel and catches everything. Except when a nanny comes in and pulls it to the side, does the dishes, and all the bits of food go down the drain anyway. I’ve come to the conclusion that pipes must not clog as much here. For if anyone saw the innards of a sewer system due to a blockage, no one would throw anything down the drain.

Even in the garden, one nanny digs and plants that I just planted or chops something down. This is with the greatest of intentions. And she probably knows more than I do. I can’t help but wonder if wars don’t come down to more than this? Wanting to do things our way because we just know - darn it!  It’s the truth!

After so many years of not having things my way, I’ve learned to come in the kitchen and put the rag aside. Replace the sink basket and sigh as I look out the window at the geranium that was just planted in the shade. (Don’t even get me started on mops. That’s a whole other issue.)

After so many years of not having things my way, I’ve learned that the truth isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.

I have this trick - (no I can’t spin plates in the air though it often feels like I am). This trick has helped me through many difficult times and stopped me from either screaming and pulling my hair out to ramming the back of some one’s car. And I consider myself timid. But being I’m part of the good ol’ human race, I get can livid at how some people can act.

The only trick that has perhaps saved my soul is that I squint my eyes and image that person as a child. A pudgy little kid, running around in wonder and excitement about the puppy that just ran by or the lollipop his mother gave him. For this person was a child once and I think that innocence and joy is still in there though it’s trapped behind forty extra pounds, a bad haircut, and rude behavior.

So, I remember him/her as a kid and move on. And when my kids get the best of me, I try to remember how I’d like to be treated if I’d just made a mistake even though my hormones made me do it.

And if that doesn’t work, we can always try the trick of imagining everyone in their underwear.

Hmmm…..I think I’ll stick with the kid.

It’s bizarre driving without traffic jams Costa Rica. A majority of the autopista from San José to Ciudad Colon is finished. And that means the peajes - toll booths have opened. The fare rose from 100 colones - about 20 cents to 310 colones. Imagine the uproar.

In addition to being a higher price, the toll hits drivers coming and going. So an errand to la Sabana or Santa Ana will now run about $1.50. That’s a lot for the Costa Rican worker. The first few days the tolls opened, there was a “strike.” Yet I use the word lightly. Strikes in Costa Rica are not like the Norma Rae stand-up-and-unite-the-workers. They are more like a grumble. The disgruntled gather; hold up traffic; and then move on. It makes the paper the next day, maybe. And unless it’s an international item such as shark finning, it’s never heard about again. Except. Except at breakfast, on coffee breaks, and on the back roads.

To avoid the toll, drivers are taking the back road. And there’s not too many of those. Just a little more traffic on them slows it down to a cow’s pace. I’m guessing it won’t take long and people will give in and see that maybe they’re spending another dollar in gas by going out of the way.

But the roads got to be paid for somehow. There’s not much going in the way of taxation in Costa Rica. A solution always nicks somebody. It’s said that one can go to the bank called HSBC and get a sticker for the window and pay in advance. But - and I heard this over a cup of coffee - someone told me you had to be a customer of the bank, which I’m not. Or, it will cost almost double.

So, I’ve gone to shoving bills and all the coins I can into my old ashtray. And as I opened my car door this morning (my window doesn’t work) and handed the man my 2000 bill, I spilled a cup of coffee into my crotch. I thanked the man, who was very professional, and went on my way. I drank what was left of my coffee and zipped right along - without a bit of traffic in sight.

Take a good look at this list. Jaleh Ruhe, one of my favorite free-lance writers in Costa Rica, gives a very individual spin to some of the pleasures others would not have thought of or found. Have you ever considered potholes as a plus? Or grandmas? How about Dober-bunnies?! Here are some of the most interesting and diverse to make the list yet.

Jale is pura Tica in one sense, yet brings an international perspective as she’s known it’s good to get out once and awhile (that includes the country!).

1.  Bus Rides - Everyone wants a car, that private, immediate means to get wherever at any time. That’s what most people sitting on a bus would agree on. That seething, silent agreement gives each bus ride an edgy sense of purpose to the poor and the average. It’s the only time I ever see Costa Ricans read. Everything in Costa Rica has been elaborated to please a foreign market. Passengers on buses work their asses off to make that elaborated reality possible.

2.  Simple and Satisfying - Beans are to rice what yin is to yang. Beans make you smart. Rice stretches the possibilities. In Costa Rica, when these two meet on dishes, they’re called “spotted cock” or “marriage.” Both sexy and responsible, this staple combination present in all school and worker lunches, comforts and sustains an entire country indiscriminately.

3.  Grandmas - They remember when everyone had too many siblings, when Jaco was remote and Limon segregated. They’ve talked the mustache down since they can remember and bask in defeating the bane of machinsmo, for the most part. They can scare you to death with the darkest stories of ghosts and devils born of madness and cruelty, just to hug you back to your senses when the story is over. Television still amazes them.

4.  Fat Fashion - Soft folds over the tops of tight jeans, broad backs squeeze into tiny tees, the more to love, the more to show, baby’s got back and front and everywhere in between. She’s hot and scandalous and can cut those skinny bitches. Bell-bottomed, hip-huggin, how-you-like-me-now, fashion fits fat here. It’s not always pretty, but it beats hiding in over-sized attire and crying over calories.

5.  Mutts - Tico-weilers, Dober-bunnies, Chihuahua-terriers, the proud runts who evolved despite their tarnished pedigrees, lurking in markets, humping next to churches, scrappy as scrappy does, barking at nothing, driving neighbors crazy, whimpering behind walls, owning the streets, scaring most average Ticos, chasing after my bike )do they really thing they can get their teeth into my peddling feet?), they all smelled like puppies once.

6.   Saprissa - I used to be a Liguista, red, black and proud. Then one day, on a bus of course, I figured I never go to Alajuela, I’m pretty fond of the color purple, I like the way goalkeeper Jose Francisco Porra’s eyes seem to always be crossed, and San Jose collects my garbage. I”d committed the ultimate act of football treason when I switched. It felt liberating, almost like playing the game myself.

7.  Potholes -  My car hates them. They send a shudder up my spine and a curse to my breath every time I hit them, but they remind me to slow down, lighten up, take it easy. When tough-guy asphalt made of tar and gravel succumbs to the gentle patter of raindrops, opens it’s pores, creases and collapses, it’s a leisurely, consistent and encouraging proof that nature can and will beat mankind’s control-freak ass every time.

8.  Topes - Before Costa Rica became a haven for outsourcing and tourists, it was one big farm country. Rich soils from active volcanoes had to be tilled and seeded and the terrain has never been flat or easy. Horses and men, not soldiers and guns, will keep this country from ever becoming another American enclave. TLC or not, when the real Costa Ricans converge on capital cities riding dancing horses and drinking their fill, I feel safe.

9.  NIcaraguans - Guanacaste was NIcaragua. Some say up to 40% of all Costa Ricas are Paisa. The don’t “take” Costa Rican jobs, they accept the hard work and low pay that nobody else wants . But they’re defeatists, ashamed of their history and too scared to challenge their national “immigrant” status. Like Costa Ricans, they need to quit blaming their government and start building on private enterprise.

10.  Castros - 600 mts. north of the Coca-Cola bus terminal, Castros nightclub gets going around midnight. Costa  Rica’s premier dance experience, Castros is both popular and elegant, the way salsa should be. Club goers swing to cumbias, slide to disco and shimmy to meringue. Nobody’s left out. Expert dancers guide the shyest and the stiffest to the jam-packed dance floor and make them feel like Fred and Ginger. Trainers and casual wear are not allowed.

Today I shall stop and smell the roses; and the daisies; and the grass; and the clean laundry. I will take it into my lungs as deep as it will go. And our paradise has so much more to offer. Even the sunshine smells good.

A long weekend of runny diapers and tinny stomachs leaves me yearning for some of the sweeter aromas of life. Even the palm trees smell good. Believe me. I’ve sniffed them.

There is no way to name what the struggles with kids do to all of us. We’d all reach in and take away their pain if we could.

So everyday I, in the least, try to see the world as he sees it. And ask for the Grace to know even a tiny morsel of his pain. For I feel feel it, perhaps I can help transform it. And to transform into something than I was the day before, perhaps that’s the whole point of IT.

Atop one of the many cement walls in Costa Rica sits this really creepy fisherman. He’s got a grey face, witch’s hat, and he’s entirely dressed in black. In addition that look would send anyone screaming.

Image running into this guy when you’ve walked down to the pier with the kids to toss your poles in for awhile! The town he sits in is called Escazú, which has a legend of being the home for witches. I suppose he’s fishing for a date. He’s does bring attention to the fish shop tucked back in an bland street with little foot traffic. A retailer’s nightmare.

I have no idea if they sell fresh fish, but it’s at least worth a look. But be careful, you might find more than you bargained for.

Today, I just don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a mother wrapped up in special needs. I don’t want to extract phlegm; I don’t want to be patient; I don’t want to ask for help. I just want to be left alone and chat about the latest movies I’ve seen or books I’ve read.

With “regular” kids we can relate to this feeling too. Who wants to get a kid to eat another vegetable? Or be excited, I mean really excited, when they show you that mud pie they just made? In the living room.

Parenting is a non-stop gnawing at our ego. Bit by bit the things I once thought important fall off. And even though I stayed in my pajamas all day yesterday and looked the depressed-mother part, I pushed through yet another therapy session. Addison protested the whole way, not liking for one minute the big machine I had specially made for him. He also doesn’t care that the ugly thing now takes up big chunk in my living room. That living room where I imagine talking about the latest book I will someday finish.

As horrible as I may be putting it, this is one of the greatest gifts of special needs. All that angst I carry around gets a chance to come out. If Addison hadn’t come to push me, perhaps I would have grown old and bitter while watching repeats of Friends and having one too many glasses of wine.

Addison’s body every day has to do millions of things it doesn’t want to: Walk, run, pick up a ball, form his mouth into words, swallow, cough up mucus, and stand up again and again and again. A million times more than other kids.

Addison pushes me to transform in ways I never thought were part of me. Bit by bit, I care less of what people think, yet somehow I love everyone more. And day by day I try to best the best I can be. Even when I don’t want to.

No. Today I don’t want to be a mother of a special needs kid. But I will, and you’ll have to run to catch up with me because I’ll do it with as much joy as I can muster.

About to make the injection, I realized that again I was telling the children to stop hitting each other as I held an exposed needle high in the air.

As I mentioned before, a lot of medical care can be done right in the home, if you know the right drugs to get. The needle I happened to be holding was for sodium chloride, salt basically. Have you ever taken a child to the emergency room when they couldn’t breath and they put a mask on them? That’s what’s in it. In Costa Rica, the hospital sent me home with a bag. When I run out, I just go get another and the pharmacists cheerfully brings me a new bag.

The bags require that I inject a needle to extract 3mm of liquid and then I squirt it into the nebulizer and in theory, it loosens up the phlegm in Addison’s nose. He got a cold. It was expected, especially since his sister had one. We’re treading a balancing act of still extracting the effects of pneumonia and keeping this cold far away from joining up with the mucus that are still hanging around.

We’d just returned from a successful run of Coco’s play. It was the first time Addison had gone on such a long trip after his hospital stay. We were all happy to be home; dishes piled up in the sink; and the kids tried to entertain themselves with the “hit-the-frog-in-the-air-game.” It always ends up with someone, besides the frog, getting hit. So, Addison smacked his sister in the face and pulled her hair. She then whined his name - over and over and over again. This ritual is repeated nightly. I keep telling Coco if her face is within smacking distance and she harasses him, she’s going to get smacked.

When I realized I was sternly reprimanding the kids as I was holding a needle high in the air, I laughed. What a prop this needle was! All of life is really just a play isn’t it? Who do we think we’re kidding?

Get the point?

There’s always that first time. That first time you almost hit a motorcycle. In Costa Rica, motorcycle drivers create their own lanes. It didn’t take long after I started driving here that I had that moment when a motorcycle squirted out from a place behind a car, and I didn’t see him. Thank goodness I had good brakes and better than average reflexes, for it could have been disastrous.

But don’t stop there. Drivers squirm through the skimpiest of spaces on the right AND THE LEFT. This is the worst. I’ve become accustomed to watching for that bike to slip by the car on the right, but when taking a left, one would think you have the right of way since your car is in the outer-most lane. WRONG! The drivers of these bikes sneak up on the left, sometimes it looks like they’re going to be splattered by on-coming traffic. Most of the times, they skitter by atop the yellow lane. Many, many times, I’ve had to slam on the brakes to let this guy go where because he’s forced his way into scheme of things.

I’ve seen my share of these bikes under buses and crushed into the side of a car. We all just accept the fact that that’s the way it is. When I return to the States and drive, I must look a little spastic as I check my left and right so many times, I could give myself whiplash.

Funny, how accustomed I’ve come to this place.