Rice, the staple of Costa Rica’s diet, must be made a certain way. Any other way, it just isn’t rice. I’ve simmered rice, steamed rice; and boiled the heck out of it. Those Costa Ricans near and dear to my heart will politely swallow my over-cooked or under-cooked dish, but there’s just one way to do it right. And it goes like this:

Put water in a sauce pan. (I’ve never seen it measured.)

Get the water boiling a bit.

Add rice. (Like less than half the water.)

Finely chop about 1 tablespoon of sweet red pepper and one clove of garlic. Throw this on top of the rice when the rice has absorbed about 1/2 the water. Cook - skip putting a lid on it - until the water is absorbed. You can top it with a lid after the flame is turned off.

Never works for me. But I’ve watched again and again and again the rice turn out perfect. However, when I worked with a Vietnamese family, I couldn’t steam it either. And it came out perfect every time for them. And Sushi rice? I stick with the pre-made stuff.

So if you pull up a bench or folding chair for your next meal in Costa Rica, you can appreciate the precision with which that simple meal was made. Costa Rica is not really known for it’s food, but do know that every rice that’s simmered and every bean that’s cooked is done with a lot of heart.

After lunch, Coco and I settled in the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream. As I chattered away, I opened the kitchen cupboard door and at that exact moment also turned my head to look for a bowl. And that’s when the two met. Didn’t know a lip could pour out that much blood, especially for a paper-sized cut.

First, I wore a large band aid on my face. It was a High School Musical band aid, which was big enough to make me look like a cross between Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. I then moved to the white tape that I use to adhere the oxygen hose to Addison’s face every night. (Handy stuff, I must say.) However, then I Iooked like I had a big wad of toothpaste across the top of my lip for the entire day.

Later, I got really mad at my daughter for disliking my Rice Krispie bars. I’d try to make them from memory as the Internet was down and I didn’t have a recipe. My ever-astute eight year old (especially when it comes to sweet things) asked me to add this or that and make them different next time.

I actually had a mini-tantrum. In a flash, I was a two year old. Felt like I just couldn’t do anything right.

As I took a jar of sea salt up to the bathroom to add to the vaporize I put on when it’s dry out (and it’s weirdly not raining lately), I dropped it all on the floor. I got the mop; swished it around and tried to clean it up.

I put the mop upside down to drip over the sink. When I returned to get something on a shelf, the mop fell right on my head. As the salt crunched beneath my feet, I realized I didn’t mop up much salt up at all. I shut out the lights. It was time to go to bed. Re-tape my lip and try another day.  It was time to start over.

And hopefully, the Internet will be working so I can get the Rice Krispee bars right this time.

Final spans of bridges and exits are being finished on the Autopista del Sol on the west side of San José. But as these bridges have to close to add trusses and concrete support beams, the world crunches to get by.

I get particularly excited about bridges, probably over excited. Besides being able to get from one side to the next, they represent a connection to the possibilities of what lies “over there.”

This one bridge effects a mountain of traffic for miles around it. There’s just not a lot of options to get from here to there because the valley is surrounded by gorges and rivers, one bridge connects us all to a place that’s just stones throw away.

Like the people sitting right next to us, sometimes it takes the construction of a really strong bridge to pass the narrowest and deepest of canyons.

As the mechanic and I took a drive to check some work they did on my car, he drove along a back road and slowed down for a little traffic jam ahead. We’d both noticed a camion backing out of the uphill driveway, but it wasn’t until the truck was moving faster and faster and a man started shouting at it and running after it that we realized it didn’t have a driver. Two seconds earlier, and I would have had the rear end of the truck plow right into my door.

I wonder often how many times I’m kept out of harms way, despite myself. There are times I think I have to be where I need to be - must be - and it just “works” out that I can’t go. As of late, I’ve been stuck at home due to a “car-in-repair,” and I can’t help but wonder how many mini-disasters I might have been spared.

The mechanic laughed so hard, it was awkward. (I guess being a mechanic, it really hit him metaphorically!) The truck driver jumped into the cab and the woman that owned the house started yelling at the man that he was going to kill her. My mechanic rolled down the window and yelled at everyone what a thing it was: que va! que suerte! (and a few other que-s I couldn’t pronounce and sense I don’t want to repeat them here.) He snapped his fingers in that way only Costa Rican’s can do - by flapping his hands so hard the fingers snap.*

We waited for the driver to gather up his on-the-loose truck and drove on. My car, of course, didn’t make that funny noise as we continued on. I told him it was like when you were a kid and you called your mom into the room to hear that funny noise your closet was making and when she stood there, silence. Only silence.

These purple flowers are hearty and grow everywhere. I sense many ignore them as weeds or usual. They grow everywhere, just as impatiens do. As I admired their purple”ness” and many webs laced in the leaves, I couldn’t help but wonder what I was missing as I took the time to stop and admire them. Sometimes what we’re missing isn’t always what we think it is.

*I’m gathering video footage of this, so stay tuned. It’s quite amazing. 

I pulled up for gas and a boy came to my window holding a jar of honey. He said it was a good price, pure and natural. He face was sweeter than the honey he held. I hated saying no.

On any drive, I am approached at about 50 percent of the stoplights to either donate money or buy something. Jugglers hope for a tip; beggars look for a handout; and guys sell fruit in bags. Sometimes I give. Sometimes I don’t. Admittedly, I feel rotten whether I do or I don’t.

I worry that I don’t acknowledge the humans in distress. I worry I don’t give enough. And I worry I shouldn’t have given when I did. It’s just a part of living here that I can make no sense of. I worry that pain and suffering is just too much. Too much to bear.

In this one errand, I saw a woman overdose on the sidewalk as the paramedics tried to revive her; I was asked to donate to the Red Cross; I passed on many bags of fruit; and the old woman in the photograph walked across the street talking to the air.

As my tank filled at the gas station, the boy eyed a slow moving police car across the street on patrol. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the necks of the honey jars and hid alongside a metal locker. When the police moved on, he sat back on his concrete block and set the jars in front of him. As I paid for the gas, another car pulled up at the pump alongside of me. The boy walked up to the window to peddle his honey pitch. As I started the car, I could see the man fishing in his wallet for money.

Me: Coco you better not chew on your cheek or you’ll get that sore again.

Coco nods. But keeps chomping on the inside of her mouth.

Me: Remember how much that hurt when you scraped the inside of your mouth?

Coco nods again.

Me: Do you want to think about not doing it?

Coco: But Mom! I’ve got lip hang. I can’t help it!

Lip hang. Who says I’m only learning new words in Spanish. Cielos!

Thanks everyone for all the kind birthday wishes. After being four for a few days now, he seems to have “cool” down. I mean, who gets this happy about getting a new shirt and pants??!!

There are victories along the way. Sometimes they are as subtle as getting the spoon in the mouth and not loosing every bit of food. Sometimes they are as large as taking that long awaited first step.

One thing is for sure, there is no time to wallow in the win, for soon there will be another battle waiting to be fought in the form of flight of stairs, or a run down the street, trying to pronounce the letter C.

Addison turned four.  A big victory that was no small battle, but in the end, no big deal. It’s just another day in the life of a few too many chromosomes.

Addison made everyone put on the hat. Addison discovered Dr. Seuss. First he was enamoured with The Foot Book. Then Hop on Pop. Now the Cat in the Hat. When Coco was little, I bought a pretty expensive version with the Spanish translation next to the English verse.

Though the Spanish is clunky, it works in abbreviated form. It’s enough to make Addison, Coco, the nannies and me laugh. If not at the story, then at least at my less-than-par Spanish.

When Addison sees the Cat, he must stand up and he chatters as if he was a character right from the book. I pulled out a worn old hat from my closet and we all then had to stand up and be the Cat. And it wasn’t enough that we put on the hat. We had to put our hands on our hips and sway with a sly step, just like the Cat. If done correctly, we’d get a gleeful little applause from Addison. If we didn’t saunter correctly, he’d keep pointing at us to get it right.

Addison turns four today. And we’ll mark the birthday with cakes and balloons - enough to celebrate yet not enough to get carried away. For between those birthdays are 364 days more of living and loving and pushing so we can yet mark another year.

Addison was too wound up to go to sleep. As we lay in the dark, he bounced about on the bed. Occasionally I had to untangle him from his oxygen hose. He chattered away, and then he reached for my hand so he could stand up one last time. He talked away to the darkness, telling again the story of the Cat with the big Hat. He plopped down against a pillow and I listened as his breath changed to the sound of a deep sleep.

Some climates welcome seasons by the change of the color of the leaves. We, too, in Costa Rica can look forward to blooming trees when the dry seasons starts. We get dotted blossoms of red, pink, orange, yellow, and purple on the hillsides and side streets. But our biggest marker of the new season are the potholes.

After a beating from the sun and rain, the worn asphalt begins to fray, ever so slightly. Until one day “bash” goes the wheel of your car into the hole. As the rains continue, the holes widen and deepened, getting riper with age.

The good thing in all this? People actually have to slow down. And when there’s no sidewalk and a mother is pushing a stroller or a blind man walks home from the market, I can only be too glad to welcome our street blossoms.