Coming to terms with Barney has been a long road, a journey of acceptance. He’s easy to single-out, pick-on, and laugh at. Just his color gets parents going. The room is often split: There are those that will cry out that the program is too simple - we should be challenging kids; there are others that have a pile of Barney stuffed animals, books, videos, and many more trinkets in their kid’s room.

Addison loves Barney. He dances to the purple sensation and repeats all the songs. In fact, Barney was one of his first, super-clear words. How can I get mad at IT now? In Costa Rica, these figures on television are adored from Barney to Mickey to Pooh. The money is not, and cannot, be spent on all the commercial products like in other countries, but a cheap backpack is never far from reach.

As my two children get older, I do things that the “pre-mother” person would have been amazed at. Surely I would sided with the “corporate greed taking over our kids’ minds” and “isn’t is talking down to kids?” argument. A few years later, I cannot say I love Barney - fond of perhaps - but I can sing all the songs (in English and Spanish!). And I even must admit I’ve danced to the purple dinosaur more than once.

Traditional holiday photo turns out just as expected. In the heat of the moment - every year before gifts are ripped into - things tend to get out of hand. Sensing I’ll loose that “Christmas Card” look, we pile in front of the tree for that special shot.

A few years ago, Addison wanted nothing to do with his sister. This year, that theme continued. However, he was extremely unhappy when I set up the camera for a self-timed photo. He thought I quite taking pictures - of him - all together.

As you see, this was the result. But it didn’t last long as his attention quickly turned to all that stuff waiting for him under the tree.

Hope your holiday - in whatever shape or form chosen to spend it - connects you to a joy that will last the whole year.

Going in with a budget to spend on holiday gifts, I felt strong and determined to stick with it. Over ten years ago, Christmas in Costa Rica was pretty quite - the loudest noise coming from the fireworks at night. Strolling down the street, one would pick up trinkets and toys, or clothes and candles, from a muchacho. Today, the malls are grander and the shopping a hot ticket. The new entertainment of the last few decades fills the parking spaces by 10 a.m.

A few days ago, I ran off to the mall before it opened. Though I had no idea what to get the kids, I marched in determined to keep that budget. Then in a toy store where all the items over the years begin to look the same, I pushed my little cart right in front of things that were perfect. I mean perfect. It didn’t take long to start justifying going over my budget: I’ll eat a 1/2 piece of toast for breakfast for a month and skip the coffee. I’ll squeeze another month out of that mascara. Oh, but won’t Addy have fun with this!

I lugged home a bag that was heavy and awkward. I am not sure if I’d won or lost. The budget took a hit and perhaps I’m too weak around the edges to resist toy stores at Christmas. It will take little time to blast through the presents Christmas morning and kick around spent wrapping paper. After the rush, we’ll get hungry and tired and the wait for next Christmas will start all over again.

(Photos of the thrilling event soon to come!)

Dressed to the nines, my daughter and I set out to the mall. It was time to do a little Christmas shopping. With leather jacket, and hat, and painted nails she looked like a girl, quickly growing up. “Wait I have to get something!” she yelled before we left.

She came back down the stairs with a stuffed kitten. She said she couldn’t go shopping without it.

As we walked into the mall, I looked down at my growing, modern girl, tossing her stuffed kitten in the air. She’s nine. And four. And will be twelve - oh so soon enough.

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.

The last thing I wanted to do was go to a birthday party. But then I remembered some one’s voice telling me in the background of my brain: Sometimes the not-so-easy stuff is where the most joy will come from.

So we went. And of course the kids had fun. Who wouldn’t? Coco conquered the giant slides. Addy attacked a medium-sized one. And the fun was fun. Then as I went from one corner of the warehouse to the next, checking on each child, I noticed that they were not only having fun, but making quick friends, sharing presents and snacks. If we’d had stayed home, it would have been a battle for how long the television could stay on. Or, Addison would have attacked his sister a few more times - as he’s decided to do lately - and actually ripped chunks of hair from her scalp.

The bags of candy were shoved into the refrigerator (a must in the tropics); kids took baths; and kids konked out. Ask me again, I still wouldn’t really want to go, but I most likely will. And, I suppose I must admit, going up and down the slide with Addison was rather delightful. Perhaps I’m getting closer to being the kid I always wanted to be.

In one shot, I see so much. Late one night, a drama ensued over finger polish. A little chip of red had flaked off her index fingernail and my nine year old daughter began to wail. Since I don’t wear red nail polish and barely get around myself to manicures, I didn’t have an extra bottle of red on hand to fix the damage.

I just stood there, not really sure what to do. Her face began to turn blotchy red, just like it did when she was little. She was born with a light birthmark between forehead that lit up when ever she cried or got mad. It’s faded over the years, but makes a come back with a good, ferocious cry.

I told her there was really nothing I could do. Then she asked if I could take a photograph. Much preferring to return to the “school lunch-making routine” so I could get the heck out the kitchen, I walked to find the camera and prayed the batteries had enough juice for just one more photo. It worked. She relaxed. Later she decided to paint her toe nails with a peachy pink that she had in her room.

“Look mami! I did my toes!”

She pointed her toes upwards to the sky and stood slightly back on her heels. Her face had returned to a duller shade of cream. But the red blotch between her forehead remained dark, reminding me how close she is to still being two, yet how old she is getting.

A hobby I have is to frame photos, hang photos. Like the books that surround me and sit upon my bookshelf, it is as if a thousand words shout out from from the bound pages to remember the time, the memories, and the feeling I got upon each turn of the page.

The same goes for photos, I guess I surround myself with photos to remember a blip of a moment that was good, captured for at least as long as the photo doesn’t fade or before the computer crashes and I loose I hard drive.

I hang pictures of our adventures in almost every turn of our house. It lightens the load as I butter the bread for dinner or throw another load into the laundry. And it some ways, it makes the next moment as good as the one hanging on the wall.

The musical Santa boxes are on display; the reindeer’s noses already shine; the candy canes glow proudly upon the damp evening grass. It’s Christmas in Costa Rica. We wait for no one.

Stores bring out the merchandise faster than a person can throw out the rotting pumpkin. And since Halloween really isn’t an event in Costa Rica, and we don’t celebrate the Thanksgiving in November, there’s no holiday to block our way to get the holiday juices flowing.

Coco asked me to sing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer when she got home from school. I refused. It was just odd. The leaves are still falling. It’s not windy yet. It’s six weeks away for goodness sakes!

She looked down at her shoes and twiddled her fingers in a face that resembled a slight tinge of despair. I found myself singing it despite feeling like a cheap ornament as I tripped over the lyrics. I flipped open the laptop and found several renditions on YouTube.

Just six more weeks to go.

One new shirt. That’s it. That’s all it took. One new shirt and the world lit up. Stepping back and looking at children, all off a sudden they’re a little more grown up.

Pants get short; cheekbones rise; and the fuzzy-bear-rattle slippers are tossed into a bag for another baby to wear.

Addison sprouted up. Not sure when. Could have been that birthday cake. Or good luck. Whatever it is, it sure looks good on him.

If the World Bank could hand out this kind of cash - whew, imagine the credit we’d have.