Hundreds of large, black ants scurried out of the squirt holes of the bidet when I turned the water on. Every night, these creatures left their nest in search of food and flooded my bathroom. Needless to say, at one in the morning, this can be annoying and even dangerous as their bite is a lot worse than their bark.

In narrowed down the nest site when I watched the window for many evenings and saw no trail begin there. I taped up holes for the drainage in the bidet, and the ant stream dwindled to nothing that night. The next day, I saw a crud of crumbly, “nesty” stuff protruding for the drain. Since we do not use the bidet as their is a toilet and two showers in this bathroom (as well as three other bathrooms in the house), I turned on the water. What I saw next should be saved for reading when one is not eating anything cream-colored.

Oval eggs, the hatch-ling (do we use that word for unborn ants??), spilled into the bidet. Big and small black ants followed, some as if they were going down a giant wet slide. What to do?

Costa Rica is alive. And keeping it outside is impossible. Maybe calling the fumigating guys with the “bug-earred’ cars is an option, but who wants to breath that in once a week? The bathroom is connected to the bedroom and the kids use this bathroom all the time due to the tub. I’d like to just remove the bidet, but I’m renting. I’m a little nervous even if we do find a way to get rid of the ants, that crumbly next stuff and ant poop will begin to rot.

So the challenge goes on. The cockroaches have returned and I am sure hunt the ants through the night. It’s kind of a creepy place, my bathroom, even with the cute decorator baskets and matching towels. It’s a horror film at night. Maybe this is a job for duct tape!

We tip-toed through the thick of trees for the elusive birds of paradise. I strained my head up-wards and could hear them but saw nothing. Then, from a swaying branch we saw one! Quickly it disappeared back into the dense green foliage.

Mom! I’m stepping in bird poo,” said Coco as she tip-toed through the spotted, white grass. “What are they doing up there?” All around Costa Rica, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, parrots gathering in trees and squawk. And squawk. No matter how hard we looked, we couldn’t see any of the green parrots in the green trees.

“I’ve seen this a lot honey,” I said as I grabbed her hand so we could find our car in the parking lot. “I think they’re just getting together to chat.”

“What are they saying?” she asked.

In my best “parrot-imitation voice” I began talking about the things I think parrots would like to share at the end of a long day of foraging and being a bird: Where the best food spots were; perhaps one knows another parrot that would be a good date; cool spots to hang in the hot afternoon…..

Coco leaned back in her booster seat in the car and looked through the window. “They really say that?”

“Listen,” I said. ” I think the birds know it all. Who else would talk that much other than a know-it-all?!”

I see what all the commotion is about. After years of remaining clueless about “texting,” I have discovered what’s at the bottom of all those messages.

Last night, when I got a message in Spanish about dreams and wishes coming true, I was shocked at how tingling I actually felt. Even when I realized it was a message the person probably sent to everyone in her telephone directory, it didn’t matter in the least. In a matter of seconds I was smiling and pushing buttons to send a response.

One of the problems is, I am terribly slow at the button pushing part. Also the buttons on my phone are sticky, I can’t read the alphabet or numbers anymore, and I send most messages in Spanish. About thirty minutes later, I got my response out.

Although it might be quicker for me to saddle up a horse an ride him into the sunset, I just can’t help feeling that extra-special-something when my ring tone sings it’s tune: Mensaje a leer.

The rain has been swept away by the December winds in the Central Valley of Costa Rica. The dry season means a lot of great things, including getting reacquainted with our beautiful sunsets and airing out the nooks and crannies of closets. I always find this change of season also brings along with more drama than I’d been expecting.

Happily, I’ve returned to hanging up laundry as it now dries in a flash. As I was slipping shirts on hangers, I heard a scream that was the kind reserved for major child drama. I turned around to see a red-faced Coco with a dead guinea pig hanging from her hands.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident, you will know there is that time that slows down - as if it spins in slow motion. When I saw the dead animal, I saw the rest of my afternoon play in slow motion before me: Tears; wailing; heartbreak; shovels; dirt; digging; a funeral. Coco cried so hard she started to cough. If I didn’t get the nuts and bolts of the burial moving forward, I’d be wiping back tears all afternoon and non-stop questions of that dreaded “next pet.” I had to move fast to move on.

“Let’s get a towel,” I said, afraid of what can happen to a warm, dead body when it’s dangling from the hands of a desperate child. Maisy was the last in a lineage of nine guinea pigs. Though we gave away most, three remained. The mother of Maisy died in June of last year.

“I need new pet! Who’s going to be my pet?” she said between choking on her spit. While my daughter was trying to fill the whole of a broken heart, I couldn’t help but think about taking back a cute little balcony I have - with a view of the mountains. It was the only place I could put the critter and not attract rats and thousands of cockroaches.

It didn’t take long to process the death. I told Coco we should work on being grateful for the life Maisy gave us. We can’t think about new pets when we have to say goodbye to our old ones. It seemed to work. She went off to play, coming back once and awhile to check on the burial plot. After searching for 1/2 with my shovel, I finally found a place in my small garden that wasn’t root bound. I soaked the ground with water and chopped back roots to make a place, I’d hoped was big enough. (Thank goodness it wasn’t a rabbit, or it would have never fit.)

I got a Bible my grandmother gave me; a rosary my father had; and a Virgin Mary Coco got from one of her nannies. I guessed Maisy was going down as Catholic - or at least a good Christian. She was loving and shared while on this earth. Coco and I stood at the grave. Then, I heard this non-stop crunching.

“Do you think could stop jamming those cookies in your mouth while we have the funeral?” I asked her.

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, but not before shoving one more in her mouth. After setting the bag aside, she bent down to say her goodbyes. Then, I said a few words. We hugged.

“Can I go play?”

“Sure,” I said. I took the shovel and covered up the rodent. She was so much bigger than I’d remembered. I covered the grave with plants and rocks and set the Virgin Mary on top.

That night, I sat on my balcony. Over the time the guinea pig had lived on it, I hadn’t noticed my distant view of the mountains had been taken up by palm trees. It’s almost hard not to have a view in Costa Rica. The one shown in the picture above is a view from someone else’s home, but one can look up or down and easily see the majesty of any mountain side or top - wherever we are in Costa Rica.

Oh well. I sighed.  It didn’t matter. I could stare at the same tree and never see all it has to offer. The wind blew and the leaves rustled. I looked down upon the grave and said: Thanks Maisy. May you run with all the other guinea pigs in the sky.

Then, those things we’ve struggled so hard for start to fall into place. Addison now walks with ease. He races across the living with glee and looks like he’s in a walking race as his arms move to pump him along. The two are not quite coordinated yet.

He stands up on his own. And he got his captain’s license.

Ok. So, I’m kidding on the last one. But he IS definitely the captain of his own ship - setting sail and heading down stream.

An estimated 200 rotting, dead, fermenting cockroaches littered my kitchen floor. I ordered a fumigation while I was traveling - something I’d suggest everyone do - and a scheduling glitch stalled the cleaning woman from coming for over a week.

When she walked in the door, she almost vomited. It makes me shutter to think where all of them were hiding. Sizes varied from tons of babies to loads of adults. She’d only be able to clean so long and have to step outside to breath.

This is a subject that should not be photographed nor lingered over too long. These creatures have figured out how to outlive many species. I’ve heard they can live seven days without a head. One thing I know for sure, they’ll be back. They’ve outwitted a lot smarter people than me. We’ll spray again (he assured me it was non-toxic) and start the whole battle again.

I’m pleased to again announce a guest column by Mary Earhart. She’s graced MotherJungle before with articles. I enjoy reading her stories as they come from a Costa Rica I can sometimes become removed from as I stay busy with kids. Mary and I also share the common experience of parenting special, challenging kids. Though hers is a bit bigger than mine, a mother’s feelings are often the same.

Trick or Treat

by Mary Earhart

My son was smiling when he showed me a Jack-O-Lantern crab he found in our shower. He (my son) is an adult who has a mild form of schizophrenia, he seldom interacts with other people. But the crab with the bright orange legs drew him out. He caught the little fellow and let him go outside.

A few days ago a huge specimen was in my washroom. Besides those claws there was a bright purple head with orange triangle markings—it was the size of a baseball! Worse, it folded itself up in the screen door jam. I couldn’t hold the door open and prod it with anything at the same time. My son came to the rescue; he was gentle and interested and got the creature to crawl to safety after a short time.

We are living in a remote area of Costa Rica. For a person dealing with mental illness under the care of family, it is a low-stress environment with abundant natural wonders to interact with. I don’t know what my son is thinking but I do know that swimming in the ocean is good for his brain. I believe he has a deeper perception of nature, one I envy. Sometimes he will share something that sounds delusional and ask if I’ve experienced it. I answer no honestly, but I’m careful not to negate his truth.

My son was different as a child but we didn’t know it was an illness. He seemed wise beyond his years, never emotional or complaining about things that bothered the other children. He had a photographic memory and got good grades without studying. Then, in his twenties, when the expectation is that work and family and ambition begin, he completely stepped behind a curtain into another reality.

He is not searching for a solution, at the same time he gives whatever we ask him to a try. Patient and compliant, he waits for us to finally understand. Living in Costa Rica, I think I’m beginning to.

Check out Living How It Is or Getting Younger in Costa Rica for more of Mary’s perspective.

Dogs and puppies basking in the sun - free to roam where they may - is one of the great pleasures to see while living or traveling in Costa Rica.

Now for the disclaimer: Yes. Some of them do not have a home. Yes. Some of them are neglected. Yes. It is depressing to see so many of them.

But there’s a second, or sometimes more, that I get to sit next to one of these little guys and enjoy a moment of sunshine and freedom - untethered, without a leash. Neither one of us worries about the next meal or that we haven’t found the perfect love yet. We’re just one in the sun.

This dog wiggled in and out of a community center I visited this weekend. She wasn’t noticed at all. I’m glad I took the time to say hello before we both went on our way.

Coco does not want to admit that her guinea pig is part of the rodent family. And now that they are all the rage at the box office, our guinea pig has come up a bit on the family totem pole. She’s technically still last (though one step ahead of the cockroaches), but she gets more time in the sun and run around time on the lawn. I guess it’s our form of star service.

Coco: What’s a cousin of the guinea pig?

Me: A hamster?

Coco: No, more her size?

Me: A rat?

Coco: She’s not a rat.

Me: No but her cousin is.

I tried to explain the species concept, which is easier with horses. It’s a bit more confusing with rodents.

I like to think of our little guinea pig - the last of nine - is like our light at the end of long, long tunnel.

The hottest pet may be the guinea pig. But forget not for a minute that these animals are - animals! We make hundreds of parenting decisions a day: What time to get the kids up; what to give them for breakfast; whether or not they need a bath depending on how funky they look/smell.

And we make mistakes along the way. In fact, I make them every day. I’ve regretted giving cupcakes and potato chips for dinner. I’ve beat myself up when I paid too much for yet another plastic toy that no one plays with.

And for what? To banish our guilt at our imperfection? Yet beware! The moment I said yes to one guinea pig, I had nine. Yes. Nine.*

And what may look cute and cuddly and lonely at the pet store comes home and needs to eat and eat and eat and eat. And be cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And smells and smells and smells. And of course, poops and……

And of course we all know who gets to clean it!

So, be careful out there. You might want to go with that double scoop ice cream cone instead of the rodent.

*This is the last - last - rodent in a lineage of nine.