Every time we go to la Sabana park, I tease the nannies that they need to get up on the zip-line. Each one laughs, yet at the same time looks up and marvels at what a thrill it would be to fly across this cable over the park.

The first platform is located at the back end of the lake near the community building. I’m not quite sure why young handsome men must always run these operations, but so be it. (Perhaps a law of physics I’ve yet to learn.)

Many years ago, I rode through the treetops in a forest outside the city of Oratina. When I reached the platform, I felt I’d been invited to a secret bird house. I was about to fly in a little bit of the heavens that the birds get to experience every day. The ride itself? Amazing and terrifying. On the first “zip” to the second tree, there was not a lot of time to think. All the worrying must be done ahead of time: What if I fall? What if I smash into the tree like Tom chasing Jerry? What if the line snaps? What if? What if?

Thrill rides are like mini-moments of what life can be like, if we suspend all those worries and live just in that moment. I suppose that’s why we climb mountains and jump off cliffs. Here’s the trick though - and it’s no Secret: We manifest how we live in the moment. Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility.

At the end of our walk in la Sabana, we watched one of the outfitters as he scaled the cable backwards. Hand over hand he pulled. His mentor stood below him on the path next to us and yelled up at him to “dig deeper” and “push harder.” The first 100 meters went pretty fast, but at the end, a slight incline made the last 50 meters so much more difficult.

The thrill of the adventure quickly wears off. The real work starts when we return to level ground. Climbing backwards up a cable is nothing compared to facing the morning again, and again, and again. Atop the platform of life we stand with the choice to soar like a falcon. Now that’s an adventure in paradise.

I reached into my purse to pull out my bank card to pay for my groceries. It wasn’t there. With a load full of week’s compras already bundled up in bunch of plastic bags (I forgot my cloth ones!), the bag boy and the cashier stared at me waiting for a cue from me. Instead of panicking and speaking to the woman in garbled Spanglish (I completely forget to conjugate or remember where to put pronouns in Spanish when I am under stress), I handed her the blue card instead, fetched my keys from my pocket, and began walking to the car with the young man pushing my cart of goods. I smiled and handed him a few hundred colones as he slammed the heavy back door of the car shut.

I sat in the driver’s seat. It was near noon, and the inside of the car felt like a sauna on low. I rolled down the windows and began rifling through my purse. Blue card, green card, flower card, driver’s license with bad picture of me on it card, cedula with another bad picture of me on it.* No yellow card. Was it time to panic?

Where was I last? Gas. Gas station. All gas stations are served by attendants in Costa Rica. There’s no self-service. Every time I put gas on a card, I am conscious of getting back that card, putting it in it’s slot, and remembering to be grateful for the black gold I just paid $100 for. This time there was a gap: Between that second I signed the slip and put the wallet back in my purse, I couldn’t remember. Why is that? Why is it when we loose our keys, misplace the checkbook, or forget where we hid that spare ten dollars, there is a gap in the exact moment we did it. If I could visualize that moment, I’d know exactly where the card or keys or phone number on the back of the envelope was. Try as I might, I blanked right after the attendant smiled at me and the guy behind me honked impatiently for me to get a move on.

I went back to the station. The office was closed. A group of kind, red-shirted Texaco service station attendants surrounded me and assured me that if the card was left with them it was in the office. I’d have to wait until morning. I went home and looked through everything again.

So what on earth does this have to do with Down Syndrome? Nothing. And everything. Addison didn’t miraculously say: Mom you’re card has fallen down the side of the passenger’s seat. Or, Mom, you’re a mess. Get a grip have a cup of tea; call it a night and know IT’s all O.k. But what Down Syndrome has done for me is taken me so far into holes and tunnels and mysteries, a missing credit card seems manageable. My panic button has been set to low. It takes a lot to get me rattled.

I did go to sleep and didn’t loose a wink. I got up still not knowing where my card was. A part of me wanted to freak out and call the bank and cancel the card (and what a pain it is!), and I suppose it was a bit reckless, but I just knew it was safe somewhere. I filled the gap with certainty. I just knew.

I called the gas station first thing in the morning, it wasn’t there. At nine a.m. the next morning, I gave myself one more chance to find it before I would call the bank. Then, a vision flashed before me like a dream I try to hold onto when I wake up. I remembered just enough. I went out to the car and sure enough, there it was. Right under the rug on the floor of the car. It had fallen down the side of the passenger’s seat. I held it up in victory. I showed it to Addison. He was in the middle of an animal card game and could have cared less.

*And why do the renewal of all cards that require a photo come due when I am chubby and pregnant? Of this I am not certain.

Addison can have a bad night sleeping with a snap of the fingers. For a few hours, there was no sound coming from his side of the bed. Then he started swallowing non-stop as if someone had turned on a little faucet behind his nose. I could tell it was uncomfortable for him. Every hour until two in the morning, he’d wake up crying or just give an out-right scream.

In the midst of feeling tired and not wanting to be a mother - or anything - and answer questions and make lunch, I saw this waterfall while I was out this morning. The sound never stopped and reminded me of the needs of my kids and how I am pulled over the rocks hour after hour. But down below the beating water, there is a calmer pool of water. I imagined diving in and letting the cascade hit on my back and the top of my head.

My attempt at an hour nap got me five minutes. Addison slept with me and just as I was dozing into that deep sleep that makes your eyes fly back in forth in REM heaven, he coughed. Water may be a strong force, but it’s got nothing on kids.

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.

This little piggie wanted nothing to do with being a pig. After arousing from slumber, Lila started trying to nurse off the puppies. I’m not a whiz at anatomy, but I’m pretty sure no milk was going to come out of the tiny male. I know Weimaraner pups are irresistible, what with those blue eyes and all, but I think the piggie was overstepping her bounds a bit.

Coco tapped on the pig’s sticky black skin, and the porcine grunted in disapproval. After a minute or two, she was right back at it. Though the puppy didn’t mind, I was a bit concerned that the delicate belly skin of the pup could me punctured. Coco tapped on Lila a second time. The pig protested again, as I suppose anyone would. We both looked down, and the pig has scuttled over to a niblet of bread on the floor and was chomping away while making this deep, rutting noise.

Dear Lila, I thought. I can relate. There are days I, in fact many times, I know just how this petite porcine feels. Each of us, puppies included, were born in these skins. The piggie has tough and kind of sticky skin; the puppies are fuzzy and warm; and I’m - well - I’m white, pasty, and walking erect. Why me? Why me here in Costa Rica - a single parent with a special needs kid? Why a woman? Why can I drive a car? Open jars of mayonnaise? Or play solitaire on the computer?

Like the pig, I often find myself a misfit in groups. My attempts to nuzzle up to most worlds out there has left me hurt, and outcast, disliked, and even hated when all I was trying to do was be nice and have people like me! The human instinct to connect with others runs much deeper than I think any of us want to admit. The problem is, we keep looking to the wrong “kind” to get that warm snuggly feeling from. Drugs, affairs, bad business deals, taxing friendships, chocolate donuts….Aren’t we all doing these things just so we can cuddle up and get that warm fuzzy feeling again?

Who likes saying no? Took me decades to figure that one out. One of the tricks to being a soul inside a human skin is rising above that primal need of snuggling with just anyone or anything - mindfulness. It’s a lot harder than it looks. I know.

Lila scuttled over to a niblet of bread on the floor and was chomping away while making this deep, rutting noise.

Coco can you put the pig outside?

No mom, she said swinging her head back and forth to clearly emphasize the no. I bent down and picked up the little beast and a sound came out of here that I could only repeat if I was an 80 year old man with 70 years of flem built up in my throat from smoking non-filtered Camels and drinking too many martinis. As I walked toward the door, the belching/screeching sound increased and volume. I laughed so hard, I barely managed to open the door. Coco was rolling her eyes and holding her stomach and giggling so hard, she couldn’t breath.

Just as we were about to leave, Lila trotted around the corner. She knew exactly where to find those puppies.

Coco was just too small to go any further. The swimming hole in the river was blocked by a long path of boulders, rocks, and mud. When she left the door with her friends to walk to the water, I put on my sandals to follow. Instead of going to the spot I was familiar with, the children turned to the right. I lost sight of them all. I jogged and slipped in my shoes, trying to keep up.

Hidden down those gorges and steep roads is a refreshing Costa Rican secret: The rivers. I am not talking about the rafting rivers, those are big and well-known and a true adventure if you’re into paddling and pounding the rapids. Further back in the more ordinary campo are the rocky, cool, refreshing rivers of Costa Rica, rolling their way to the sea. Most Costa Ricans know of a river near by where you can hang out for the afternoon among the rocks and water. Getting there can be a challenge, that’s a big part of the secret.

I kept Coco in sight and saw her slip a few times in those silly Crocs, which were worse than my sandals to walk in. The parent in me wanted to call out: Get back here! You’re too little to keep up! Then the adult in me said: She’s in your sight, so perhaps it’s better for her to find it within herself to stop. The group turned a corner. When I came around the bend, I couldn’t see any of the kids. Now the parent-in-me was telling the adult-in-me that I was stupid and should have listened to her. I heard kids giggling and talking but didn’t know where to turn. I continued down the steep road (you know the kind you have to walk perpendicular on to stay erect) and came to a ledge with no kids in sight. Now the parent-in-me was panicking. My daughter is not swift around water and has no experience in rivers.

I walked back up the hill and saw a path on the other side of some barbed wire. I crawled through and watched my sandals disappear every third or fourth step in mud. Now I began to plead with God and anyone who would listen: Please don’t let Coco go near the water. Don’t let her slip. As I passed through another barbed-wire fence, I looked up and saw children, one of them belonged to me. Although the rest of the kids were adroit and nimble in these woods, I quickly counted heads and found all in tact. I called out to Coco. Her face relaxed in relief when she saw me. She was covered with mud.

Once at the river, it was another 100 meter walk over the river and up rocks and boulders. I told Coco to stop. The other children went ahead. We sat on a rock; she began to cry. I told her I would take her if she wanted to go, but let’s look at the path ahead. She mustered enough courage to cross the river, gripping my hands as we stepped against the current. As she watched the other kids play up in the swimming hole, she cried because she wasn’t having any fun. I told Coco I remember being small, like she is, when I was young. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up I told her.

We threw rocks in the river. The foliage and fresh smells took over. I could have sat there for hours. Coco kept looking up at her friends. It wasn’t easy for her to decide to leave and climb back home. She gave me a fist full of rocks, and I promised I carried them home for her. I have been facing the fact that my children will die every day since conception. An automatic “worry-wart” must have been implanted right along with the new DNA unfolding in my womb. I’ve had to make peace with all the dangers that lurk everywhere in our lives: Bathtubs, edges of coffee tables, swallowing pennies, sticking fingers in sockets, drinking the dish soap; running into the street; strangers with candy; falling down the stairs; car accidents; bacterias……..need I mention more?

On the steep climb back up that slippery hill Coco told me as she walked down the hill, she had two voices going on inside of her: One telling her to stop and one telling her to go. Funny I told her, I think those same people live inside of me.

We held hands and hovered over to the side of the road as a group of fast ATVs sped by. Wet and spattered with mud, we got in the car for the long ride home.

Ask most Costa Ricans where they went during the month long school break in June and July and hoards will reply: The beach. The rain stops in the Central Valley; off to the beach.

For two years, I owned a home on the beach and when the holidays come, I miss my little wooden house. All the romantic ideas I’ve ever had about the beach are true, especially on the Caribbean, my coast of choice. In the morning I’d walk along the beach and many days see no one except a few monkeys. The sea is clean and the horizon sucked me in like an endless vacuum of light. The kids loved the sand and our little town was as quaint as a little town in a snow-globe. (Hey, now there’s an original souvenir!) Life brimmed on every leaf, in every tree, and in each drop of water.

Though I did not live full-time at the beach, I got a taste of what it’s really like - after the postcards are sent. Since most vacation spots on the Caribbean are below the port of Limon, it is at least a five to seven hour drive. With kids, it’s a long ride. On the Pacific coast, there are a few spots like Jaco and Punteranus closer to San Jose. However, many choose beaches on the north Pacific and the drive becomes as long. A few places it makes more sense to fly a commuter plane. Living so far away from the city means deciding what you are willing to either live without or be content with fewer choices. You may have to settle for dial-up Internet while you wait for a year or two for DSL. If you depend on special needs services or supplies, do a lot of research before choosing your location. A routine trip to San Jose figures into most ex-pats budget that decide to live on the beach.

My home was a dream tree house. Half wood and half cement, both materials bring challenges. Wood means termites. Cement stays damp and brings lots of mold. The Caribbean rains almost all the time with several small breaks throughout the year. Closets are a no no. In a closed space, mold seems to grow in seconds. Beyond termites every home will have ants, cockroaches, geckos, spiders, more ants, of all sizes, scorpions, and of course mosquitoes. Since Costa Rica has cases of dengue fever, it’s wise to sleep with a toldo - mosquito net. Water supply is iffy, and often so low you can’t flush a toilet. Many people air condition at least one room where computer or other technical equipment is kept.

Petty theft is a problem at the beach. Keeping a guard up is just wise. There’s a lot of drug use. It comes with the territory. We were robbed once because someone staying in our guest room on the bottom floor didn’t shut the little wooden shutter at night. Though the guests lost cameras, phones, and clothes, thankfully no one was hurt. But common sense goes a long, long way at the beach.

What could be the most important thing to do before settling at the beach? Rent. Resist buying if you can. I’ve watched many-a-Gringo pull up stakes after a few years because one or more of all those factors I mentioned above proved too much to handle. Test drive the town and the area before deciding. It’s true you can sell, I did with some great help. In fact you may decide the beach is yours forever, but instead of Cahuita, you prefer Puerto Viejo down the road.

So why even go? We all know the answer to that: it’s the beach, and the sun, and the forest, and the monkeys, and the air. I could never breath enough of that fresh oxygen and plants and life growing on every tree and gate and wire and road. It’s incredible. Days on the sand, the kids would loose themselves in play and imagination and sticks and rocks. We lived very much in the NOW; the beach is all about the NOW. But it’s a lot of work, especially with small kids. Between those moments of surf and sand come the laundry, dinner, fevers, stomach aches, bug bites, whining, and all the other “regular-old-life” challenges. At a different time in my life, I would have kept my home, but single parenting two kids and one with special needs was just too much. A home at the beach demands a lot of on-hands care I couldn’t give.

My daughter must have been trading stories at school with her friends about who did what over the vacation because in the car she asked me out of the blue why we sold her house. I told her what I’ve written here but in the terms a seven year old can handle.

We’re going to go off and see volcanoes for awhile. Plus we’ll be going back to the beach. We’ll always be going back to the beach.

When I look up there’s so much more to see. Trees reach up and play with the sunshine. There’s a whole life going on at an upper level that if I’m hustling along too fast, miss. Looking up, really looking up, makes me stop in my tracks and pay attention to no other moment than the one right in front of my eyes. That is my goal. Now. Not yesterday and “all I did wrong” or “all they did to me” or “whatever ever else I can come up with.”

This little exercise is a lot harder than it looks. Sometimes the voices in my head have a whole party going on in there. Yet look what I found when I told the voices to go home. I don’t want to miss Cherub-like ladies in the window chucking while chatting on the phone. I don’t want to miss statues of Bishops that - if you look closely - is cross-eyed?

There’s a catch though. Always looking up can be wrought with problems. I’m a testament to that. It all comes back to that balance thing. Look up; look down; never loose sight of what’s straight ahead. Who’s got time for anything else?

I do believe there is someplace for everybody. Costa Rica is the place for me now. Though I love to come and visit friends and relatives, it seems that little Central American country has me wrapped around it’s finger for now. Most ex-pats make a trip home every year to reconnect and see family, shop, and possibly get a break from paradise. Costa Rica is wonderful, but getting away from even paradise gives me the ability to stand back and ask those same questions as to why I live where I live.

I try to imagine jamming Addison’s little limp legs into snow boots, and I can almost feel a panic attack coming on. Just that factor alone keeps me in Costa Rica. Then of course, there’s those wonderful nannies. It’s a shame the Western world has priced itself out of help for mothers. We need it. We deserve it. There’s more to life than being a mother. Costa Rica gives me a tad more of a chance to break away here and there and work, study, and develop myself as the person I can be here on this whirling orb of ours.

So good-bye to the old and hello to the new. For what is new will be old again. I guess then I’ll have to pack up the kids, and the blender, and peas, and stuffed animals and return to ask those same questions all over again. Because didn’t someone once say: Where ever you go, there you are. After it all, I’m still following myself no matter where I go.

It’s amazing how much I let slide while traveling. Those golden moments I capture on the digital camera take over the entire scope of life. Plus there’s still the feeding of the children, I can’t seem to get them over that hunger thing. My teeth are caked with strange substances, and I wear the same thing over and over again. This is traveling. If you’re a traveler - if Costa Rica’s on your agenda or possibly Holland - you know what I mean.

Floss? That’s not really necessary anyway, is it?

Bathing? Well, we can stretch it out just one more day.

Greens? Isn’t ketchup a vegetable?

Ripping fingernails off counts as a manicure, doesn’t it?

I can eat ice cream four times a day, can’t I? And the children too?

But I believe I am finished. Toast. It’s not that I’m itching to be away from this place. Heck, there’s at least a few more weeks until it snows. No, I want to be home and be around my stuff. I want to once again be thrilled with dental hygiene. I want my kitchen and my refrigerator full of the strange, exotic food I like to eat like papaya, coconuts, and avocados. I’m tired of milling through a pile of clothes and debating with myself which ones are clean and which ones cannot under any circumstances be worn again until they are heavily treated with chemicals.

One more day until we fly again. I can see it now: Washing dishes after a lovely meal and sending the kids off to school. Yes. Back they go. We’re done with the tourist thing. It’s time to return to paradise.