Since Addison decided to lick the play log-cabin at the birthday party yesterday, he probably picked up a bug. Exactly what was not needed two days before a day - a long day - of International airline travel. His immune system is a bit touchier than other kids, so it seems he’s always “just gotten over something” or “coming down with something.” Instead of having two or three months in between illnesses, they but up against each other like baby birds in the nest.

THEY say that we “get” what we can handle. And THEY say that we grow through challenges. At this rate, I think I’ve got it figured that I am as big as a whale, or at least an elephant.

Addison got a clean bill of health at his doctor’s office, sort of. He’s tall, but skinny - for his age group in the “Downs” category. There’s that pesky little cough, but he’s visibly stronger and more bubbly than ever. I have about five doctors I rotate around to depending on the current physical or mental need. This doctor is a wonderful woman that ushered Addy through the major surgery on this third day of life on his digestive track. She then was the pediatrician in charge of getting him off all those tubes and beeping machines, and home.

Since I needed those letters for the airline to get Addison’s food on board, I did the old “kill the bird with one stone” trick. He also needed a yearly check-up. It’s kind of fun to watch someone’s face who hasn’t seen a child in awhile.

“He’s so big!” She couldn’t get over his size.

I admit. I beamed a bit. Then came that question, the BIG one: Is he walking yet? Most Downs kids at this age are. Addison got really clinging and grasped any part of me he could while she looked down his ear tubes and throat. She has this really distinctive voice like Susan Saint James, and I think he remembered all those needles she stuck in him a few years ago.

“You can walk Addison,” she said to him as we finished the exam. He pointed to the life-size Bob the Builder in her office. I set him on the floor. “He just doesn’t want to,” she continued.

And in some ways, I believe this is true. From the time Addison was born, he has been completely content with whatever spot he was in. Instead of running over (or scooting in this case) to destroy my plants, he’d be entirely content with playing with his toes or the fringe on the carpet. Addison is an observer; he likes to watch. Yet, with any quality we posses there is probably some adjusting we all need to do to stay in balance.

I didn’t defend how much I was working with Addison. The mounds and mounds of times we walk back and forth in the living room with the baby stroller loaded with rice and rocks. I just took it in. There’s a saying that says something like a wise man can hear wisdom from any fool. I’m not saying my doctor is a fool by any means, no what I have learned is sometimes just the right message I need to hear can come from anywhere. If I get all “uppity” and “know-it-all,” I could miss a few good words that could change my life or just simply lift my spirit.

When I told the nanny the news, it was like igniting a fire under her. By the end of the day, Addison was scaling the stools and walls with almost 100% more frequency than before. News flashes from the doctors always juice the nannies into action. Sometimes we all need that extra shot of confidence and support because after two and on-half years with this guy, we can easily slip into a comfortable routine that isn’t challenging anymore. The trick is not being a fool by not listening and hearing the wisdom even fools can bring.

One of the advantages of having someone inside my home, working alongside me with me the kids and helping out with the chores around the house, is that I get to question my habits and the roots of my cultures right down to the sink basket. I grew up thinking that metal little catch-all-the-food gadget was for, well, catching all the food that either didn’t go in the mouth or the garbage. Without that little thing, what horror! What trouble we will have. Every time I approach the sink when either a maid or nanny has washed some dishes, the sink basket disappears. Sometimes it’s in the dish dry rack under all the dishes, and sometimes I can’t even find it.

What “heck” I would have gotten from not only my mother but myriad of landlords who would have shaken their fists at me due to all the clutter I was sending down the drain. Do you know how expensive it is to call RotoRouter?? Have you ever seen the black sludge caused from all those little bits of uneaten food?? Shame on you! Whenever I return to the sink. I dutifully put the thing back in it’s hole. When I return, the maid or nanny takes it out. Guess who’s sink clogged up more? In ten years here, I’ve never had a drain back up. In the States? Oh, the sludge I’ve slogged through.

It’s also a custom to dry all the wet towels fully open, splayed across the counter tops. I, on the other hand, installed two spiffy plastic hooks on the side of the oven. What brilliance! I thought. The wet towels will hang out of site (because even though they have cute little red checks when you get them home from the linen store, after two washing they are just plain ugly) and dry from the warmness of the oven and stove. Do you think anyone but me hangs them there? No. Without out fail, when I return to a sparkling kitchen after someone was kind enough to help with the dishes, I can’t find the sink basket and wet towels cover all the kitchen tops.

Ten years ago, I would have fumed at the missing sink basket, just like my ancestors did. This is cultural adjustment in the most basic form. Lifestyle patterns root deeply in the past, and we pass them on often without even considering if they are useful or not. A friend of mine, an anthropologist turned owner of the Don Carlos hotel in downtown San Jose, said once when I interviewed him that culture is like a ball and chain around our ankles. We just drag it along with us, accepting it as our lot. Shaking loose that ball and chain can be hard and scary. I mean THEY cut the grass differently here; THEY use a different kind of soap; THEY eat rice and beans; THEY don’t return phone calls like WE do. Culture is the music, language and artistic tradition created and carried on through generations, but I also see culture as passing on the things we need, or think we need, to make it through our day. I can now speak the language and manage the climate in Costa Rica, but it’s been a much more interesting journey to challenge my own “culture” and shake loose what I have valued as “so” important.

Working women in Costa Rica don’t have dryers. It’s all powered by the sun and not those high-tech panels that capture the energy so it can be harvested for future use. No. The actual sunshine. Flat means it gets dryer faster. Drive across any country side and you’ll see towels and clothes laying on top of bushes and even over the grass - each grabbing it’s spot on the sun in hopes of getting dry before the afternoon rain begins. A working women has no time to concern herself with a stylish kitchen. It doesn’t matter where the towels hang, as long as they get dry.

The funny thing, is not matter how I try, I can’t get myself to wash dishes without that little sink basket in the hole. I’ll dig it out plop it in there. And when the towels cover the kitchen, I take each one down. And instead of getting all worked up that things weren’t done as I would do them, I appreciate the care that went into the act and the history behind it. And the dishes pile up the the sink regardless of what I think.

All of a sudden, it was quite. I opened the door. The puddles were still. The air was cold and chilly. After almost a long string of rainy days and nights, the rain had stopped. My daughter slept off a fever in her bed. My son was insisting the nanny read one more book as he sniffled and coughed. I put an extra blanket on my bed. As head off to bed, he was so bundled up in clothes, it looked like he was ready to play in the snow instead of sleep. The quite didn’t last long.

Although Coco slept the hours away and awoke free of a fever, Addison coughed the night away. Neither one of us got much sleep. The blue sky and warm sunshine was the only thing that kept me from screaming and throwing all my dinnerware against the walls. I called the school and the bus driver to tell that Coco was sick. She plopped in front of the television, and the nanny took over the care of Addison. I went back to bed.

We’ve been watching, and listening, to non-stop construction next to us since we moved in. Work is allowed to begin at 6 a.m. here. The condominium next to mine is half finished. Since the developer probably hasn’t sold it yet, it’s one of the last units to finish. This bright morning, the guys decided to chip away at a cement wall just six inches from my bedroom wall. The guy would slide a metal ladder along the wall and then tap tap tap on the cement. That might not sound like it’s loud. But consider this: Homes in Costa Rica can be built just six inches away from each other. You can place a back wall on your property line. The home next to you can plop a wall six inches from that wall. (There’s all sort of rules for windows so everyone is not peering into everyone else’s home.)

The guy with the hammer and chisel was tapping right above my bed. Scream inside a cement wall and the sound resonates and bounces all over the place until the vibration dies out. Tap against a cement wall, and it sounds like it’s right inside your head. I put a stuff lion over a blanket, which was already over my head. I managed to doze off. The guy slid his ladder further down towards my closet door, muffling it enough for me to fall asleep. The quite didn’t last for long.

I moved to my daughter’s room; placed blankets and a stuffed kitten over my head. After twenty minutes, the guy had made his way to my daughter’s room and now it sounded like he was chiseling in her bathroom. I sat up and remembered I was hungry. I had a day full of errands and chatter of cartoons,”things-to” to get ready for a theater performance my daughter’s in tomorrow. It was 8:30 and the sun was still shining, but it wouldn’t last for long.

I cleaned my car battery (see Daily Tip to Paradise for action photos!); Fed my daughter, again; and decided I better get out for a run. The rain has stopped. But as a seasoned ex-pat or Costa Rican knows: There’s a short time to get out and do IT. As I huffed along my route, I passed sofas drying on the sidewalk and dogs in the sunshine. I hopped over muddy puddles. The sun felt cozy on my shoulders. One puddle was so large and muddy, I had to wait stop and walk on the road with cars whizzing by. As I waited for a turn to join traffic, I saw this bouganivilla plant. It took a bit of a beating in the rain. More petals sat in the grass than on the branches. It was almost hard to tell where the plant began and ended. Sometimes I don’t know where the day ends and where it begins, and after four years of my sleep turned upside down, I feel like a hamster. It’d be nice to snuggle up in the corner of my wood chips and wait for the nibblets to be dumped in my dish.

The clouds are moving in. The construction workers have finished their coffee break and started not only tapping, but also sawing too. They’ve got to get back to work. There’s only a short time to do it.

I have three nannies. They all give great care to Addison, but each one is different. One nanny is like a grandma, one is like an aunt, and another is much younger and more like Addison’s big sister. She also accompanies him to school. She takes a lot of pride in what Addison learns. She fiercely defends Addison as one of the most normal, if not more than normal human beings on the planet.

Do kids really know what we are saying? When speech is not mimicked back, it can be harder to find out if a child is comprehending what we adults say. However, Addison can hear a song once and repeat it. Not in words, but in the hand signals and motions. He nods his head to the beat and knows exactly what line is coming up. In his class one day, a teacher was teaching the kids yoga. You know that one where you sit cross-legged, pinch your fingers together and humm? With a prompt from his nanny, Addison was doing yoga. He pinched his pudgy little fingers together, looked up to the sky, and hummed. Is there any chance at all this kid gets it?

The question is one posed by Jill Bolte Taylor - the singing scientist who had a stroke and became her own best experiment. She lost the ability of her left brain. She couldn’t speak or create labels. Life had to be learned from the ground up; the left brain life that is. On the other hand, her right brain was there, being all-encompassing, passionate, present, and flowing with the great life force of the Universe. At least, that’s how she explained it. In her book, My Stroke of Insight, she explains that we need to “step to the right of our left hemisphere.” Bring our presence to each other - not our labels; not our egos.

Addison understands this left brain language. And he is teaching me how to communicate, this time without that part of my brain (which Dr. Bolte Taylor explains is the size of a peanut. A peanut!!) driving me insane with a crazy crop of voices in my head always in charge. Down Syndrome kids, or any child or person with so-called “brain deficiencies,” can easily be tossed aside as not “getting it.” I am afraid this kid gets more than I may ever know.

Amidst even quite times, there’s always something there to remind me of how quickly brightness can turn a little dark. I promised an evening out with the kids. My daughter was giddy with joy. Addison only knew he was going to get in the car - one of his most favorite things in the world. After packing up our gear and managing not to get too wet as we loaded and unloaded our group into the shopping center, we walked around and even had the delight of meeting some good friends.

Coco’s “buy-me-something” mode was subdued, and she was thrilled with a notebook she got to pick out. We walked past bored vendors hanging around outside their store as business was slow. All the female clerks know Addison since he comes to this mall about two or three times a week to play on the dinosaur park play set. He flirted with all the women and blew them kisses. He has a way of driving women wild. Our meal was acceptable and no one spilled much of anything.

We bought a few other things and head for home at the late hour of 6:30 p.m. My garage is skinny and getting in and out takes a lot of traffic management in order to open doors and unload children from the back of a two-seater car. Addison is learning to get out of his car seat and walk over to me so I can lift him out. He stood at the door and played peek-a-boo with the nanny and Coco as they stood in single file down the slender slip of space between the car and the wall. I picked up Addison and pressed my back against the wall to shut the door. I looked down and saw Addison’s foot caught in the door.

Emergency management with children requires the ability to subdue panic and proceed with intelligence, speed, clarity, and calmness. Easy? No. I don’t know why I have this particular talent - it’s not really one I can put on my resume.

Hobbies and talents:

In case of office emergencies - ranging from paper cuts to falls on slippery ceramic to heart attacks - I can attend to the sick and the injured with a the expedience of a paramedic and just the right mix of a mom.

But this I can do. I’ve tended to dying dogs, sprained backs, raging fevers, and major surgeries. For some reason, I just don’t panic. I’m sure the trait comes from my mother. She grew up on a farm where life shows it’s cycles without sparing us our feelings. And she’s lived through a lot with that same matter-of-fact temporment. I knew, without looking, that Addison’s foot was caught in door. When the language caught up to my tongue I yelled:

His foot’s in the door!

Before I finished speaking, I had the door open. Our giddy moment was over as he screamed in pain.

Addison’s legs hang from his body when he’s held. He often goes without shoes. If he had had them on, I’d have never been able to shut the door on it. I carried Addison to a chair, and I held him as he cried that distinct cry of: Man this really hurts! A cry that is much different than: I’m tired. Or, I’m mad. The good thing about Addison’s softer muscle tissue is that his foot bent with the car door like a Cabbage Patch Doll’s would. I could tell the door hadn’t caught that big bone across the top of the foot. He’d be left with a bruise, but no bones were broken.

In just thirty minutes, Addison was laughing and playing with his sister. He downed some coconut water while listening to his favorite High Five song. As the nanny and I marveled at his recovery, he knew we were talking about his feet. He pointed them, in harmony as if to say: Yup. I’m just fine. And with that the darkness turned light again.

Being a parent means I get to be an expert in everything - or at least in the eyes of my children. Coco’s learning a song for a father’s day breakfast. The moment she got off the bus, she starting singing off-key (sadly she’s inherited my genes here) to You’ve Got a Friend. I joined in. She looked up at me because not only did I know the chorus, but I knew other versus, all the versus. For a few moments - before I explained to her that the song was written by one of the most successful female song/writer singers in the last fifty years named Carol King and the album was this huge success - I was in that goddess status of: mommy knows EVERYTHING.

I waited until I got into the house to explain that Tapestry was one of the biggest albums - like ever. I mean, four Grammy Awards, Album of the Year, Song of the Year. Carole King was such a big roll model for me. She did IT back in a time when girls were stuck with imagining what life “could be” like if only we could dress, act, and be more like a man - THEN, we’ll be making some serious money and get all that respect. Carole came out as herself with this one and the world ate it up.

We sang the song a couple of times over. Coco’s already got that kereoke thing down. She tilts her head and does heart-felt hand gestures to the words. We played the song at breakfast a couple of times. Addison clapped, though I spared him the brief history of the great song writer behind the words since he’s only two and would prefer to rip the CD cover to shreds than listen to what I know. I showed Coco the album cover and she said:

She’s got a cat. She’s lucky.

The bus arrived and Coco and I mouthed the words together as she buckled up. Addison blew me kisses as he was plopped into his car seat. The door shut, and I went back inside. The house was quite. I pushed play and listened to the entire album.

Almost every morning, there are three to five dead cockroaches - on their backs - on my first floor. As the kids finish up their breakfast before getting on the school bus, I walk around, broom in hand, in search of carcasses. We’ve all gotten over - to some extent - the icky feeling a cockroach brings on the moment it appears. Addison puts his hands up to his sides, palms wide open, and flutters them with a big OOOHHHhhh expression. Coco will yell out: Cockroach! and in a very matter-of-fact manner, put her shoe on and attempt to kill it. She often misses, and I’m left to follow after the crippled insect and finish the job.

Some things just bring on shivers automatically: cockroaches, humming with your lips together, running nails against a chalkboard, a pee in the middle of the night, or protein drinks. The nannies and I got in the habit of counting them. Four this morning! I got six! Slow night - only two. Sweeping the bodies up is annoying because the legs stick in the straw and when I go to swish them onto the dustpan, several of them are hanging down and I can’t get them off.

Then, someone ALWAYS starts in with a round of La Cucaracha…..

La cucaracha, la cucaracha

Ya no puede caminar

Porque no tiene, porque le falta

una pata para caminar.

Why do they die on their backs? I suppose there is some scientific explanation, but I like to imagine that the ones that make it out to the ceramic tile managed to escape torture within their tribe. Crawling inch by inch with every last ounce of dignity to a place where they can peacefully “cross-over” to the other side. With one last breath, the tip over, ask for forgiveness, and die.

Before moving to Costa Rica, cockroaches were something “other” people had. Not me. Here, everybody’s got them. They do not discriminate. And a fumigation will get rid of a crop under the sink and behind the cupboards for awhile, but they’ll be back. Heck, these blattodeas can live a week without their heads. Talk about a shiver.

I respect this bug’s right to live right along with the mosquito and the flea and the fly. But in my home, I feel like it’s self-defense. The poop can spread disease and can increase the severity of allergies. I suppose I’ll always let out a little scream when one lands on me, but I kill now without remorse. Late one night, I went downstairs to get some water. A cockroach ran across the floor in search of a hiding place. It bumped up against the wall before I could do it in. I wasn’t in the mood to hear that “crunch” from the kill. It ran onto the wall and finally found a place to disappear. I finished the water and turned off the light. I bid goodnight to the insect, knowing this was most likely his last.

As I was packing up school lunches, I read the “communications” book my daughter comes home with every day. It is a green notebook with notes from her teacher about school. It’s quite a good system. If there’s a field trip, or special dress day, or a note I need to send to the teacher, I write in it. I try to glance at it immediately after every school day in case there’s an assignment for me “to do.” I forgot to look Friday, and I paid for it. Sunday night I had to trudge to the market and get a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly for a gift basket for the school’s janitor and lunch lady.

The supermarket was jammed. Why? I thought. Shouldn’t all you people be home on a Sunday night? Especially since it is pouring rain!! It took me ten minutes to find a place to park. I bumped into people up and down the isles, checked out, flipped my sweatshirt hood back up, and walked back to the car.

As the rainy season starts, we get a few good downpours as if mother nature says: Remember me? Do you remember where your umbrella is? When I’m without the kids, I often go without the umbrella and just get a little wet. The flowers here provide a lesson in durability. The delicate ones eventually wash away. A great many like the heliconias have a waxy skin that lets the rain roll off it’s back, much like a duck. Their roots will bind up a clump of dirt so hard, it would take a backhoe to get them out. For a long time, I sought books as one of my greatest teachers. Can’t get enough of them. As Heinrich Mann said:

A house without books is like a room without windows.

They offer insights and vision into the world.

And flowers? This is the world we are. If the world were filled with flowers, maybe we could be as grounded as they are and all that discomfort would just roll off our backs, even on Sunday nights in search of raspberry jelly.

Since moving to Costa Rica, I’ve done what so many other soft hearts have done: rescued dogs. But for me, it didn’t start in Central America. I had this “habit” for years. In the States, I adopted two mutts (while at the same time finding homes for so many others) and lugged them down here in addition to another dog and I cat. Since those have died, it seemed the Universe knew I was ripe to take in a few more. I found Buddha, along with her seven siblings, in sort of a “nest” on a walk one day. Long story short, we found homes for all seven; got most of the females spayed; and took home this one: This really active, high strung, super intelligent one. I think she faked being the shy one in the corner when I would visit the foster home to help pick off flees and bath the wild group of puppies and their mother. When she looked at me with those eyes, I was sunk.

Then a few months later the other one Canella - Cinnamon - hung out in a gutter during the rainy season and wagged her tail as I walked by every day with Coco in the morning. Another long story short, this canine one day decided I wasn’t going to get away (o.k. maybe it had something to do with the turkey baloney I fed her for a few days). Well, she gained enough strength to follow me home with a broken leg. Who could resist a raggedy dog, limping, big brown eyes leading a soulfully wagging tail?

When separation of a family happens, everything must be divided up, including animals. I had to leave the dogs behind. And now with a special needs child, I can’t manage the energy it takes to handle dogs. Just keeping up with the guinea pigs is enough. On the day I left them, I spilled this huge jug of yogurt from my organic food delivery. Buddha and Canela were right there to help me out with the clean up. There are things I miss about the dogs, but I have come to terms with where I am at and let go. I know they are well taken care of, and I even get to see them once and awhile. The best thing they’ve taught me? their complete surrender to this moment. I threw them a biscuit and hoped that I too will be like them: flea free, waggin’ my tail, and totally present. Bark. Bark.