So one mask says to the other mask while hanging out at the park the other day:

My friend’s wife’s cooking is so bad, I broke a tooth on her coffee.

So the other mask says:

If a parsley farmer is sued can they garnish his wages?

Then the other mask says:

Say, so you know when you’ve drank too much coffee?

The other mask says: No, when?

When you forget to open candy bars before eating them.

The other mask says: Dude, you got to get out more often.

(The above text is clear evidence I spend way too much time with kids. Wait, wait, just one more! Click here to see one of my favorite cartoons - like ever!)

One night my daughter couldn’t sleep. There’s been a few of those lately. I think “we” parents can too quickly overlook the intensity that children feel over things. Sometimes divorce isn’t so easy to take: a new life, house, and family order. Who are her parents anyway? Who is she?

We all know that pesky little ego begins it’s march into our brains around 5 - 7, perhaps earlier. We start getting attached to all those labels we’re given and begin to give them meaning. Whereas, when a child is two, you can call them a “bubble-headed-goofball” and they aren’t going to understand all the ramifications of those words.* It’s not very nice, but it passes without sticking. I watch Coco get older and deal with bad days, name calling, and a small circle of kids that just don’t behave all that well. Basically the same circle we form as adults, more or less.

I remember being almost mortally wounded at the names kids would call me. Clutzy - because it rhymed with my name. One time in 6th grade, one of the boys in my class called me over to his desk after we’d gotten our class pictures back.

Everyone looks good in this picture except you, he told me pointing my photo. You’re hair is greasy, and you’re ugly.

Can you tell I’ve carried that with me for years? And the bag of others: skinny, fat, short, slow, never going to be able to write -you’re bad at English! - poor, and that overbite!

What’s going to change in the world? Maybe the tools I can give my children to lessen the blows and not react to those words that are really people’s unhappiness about themselves. So when Coco came into my room, I told her the story of the names kids called me. I made fun of myself, and it helped her see that with a little humor and distance those awful words and crazy thoughts in our heads can go away.

When Mr. Ego comes around and tells you to believe all those things kids say, you know what you can do? I said.

What?

Look over on your shoulder, because that’s where he hangs out, and give a quick blow and say: Bye Bye Mr. Ego! And watch him tumble right on his bum and fly away.

He lives on you shoulder?

Well it’s really in your brain, but when he comes out he sits on your shoulder because it’s harder to see him, I said. Then, when he’s gone try saying this: I am.

I am?

That’s it Coco. You are.

I am what?

You just are.

I am?

You are a beautiful beaming light and beating heart and pulsing breath and that is.

I am, she said a tad more resolved and looking sleepy. She blew the ego away over her shoulder and rolled in bed with laughter.

The next day when I went up to my office, she’d made me a snow flake and wrote: Mama I am.

It’s still going to be a ride for my daughter. And I worry that my son, who looks “different” and has special needs will suffer even more at the cruelty that we all harbor inside ourselves. But maybe when the dog bites and the bee stings we can say those two words: I am. And it’ll feel like a little nip rather than a huge bite out of soul that never heals.

*Of course the case of real verbal abuse changes a child no matter what age and a something that must end immediately.

The rainy season has started. Some years, we get ushered in softly. One weekend it rains; then it stops for a few days; starts again. This year, in Costa Rica, the rain is following a schedule. In the afternoon it rains. And with the rain, the kids can’t go out to play.

After finishing up the laundry, I sat back on the sofa and the idea of squeezing in that Yoga before bedtime was a pipe dream. My daughter, now seven, can easily entertain herself for hours with a scissors, felt, paper, bits of cardboard, pens, or just about anything. But after awhile, she’s need some “hanging out” time. Before the rain, she’d linger in the garden in her imaginary tree house until dinner. Last night, she hauled down Candyland and Chess. We split on the Candyland and she won in chess.

Her yellow kitty blanket was still warm, and we crawled under it and watched Mother Earth/moon- on our coffee table that is. Andrea Boccelli was playing on the stereo.

Should I dance? asked Coco.

Of course, I said.

She kept looking my way, a little self-conscious. I told her to forget about me and dance to the moon. Soon she was spinning and doing moves I envied. I could see where the ballet was paying off. But there was more: she has a natural grace. Her head tilts gracefully, just so; her toes point with strength; and her legs follow her body as if they were given a script and already knew what to do.

Should I be a dancer?

You can be anything you want, I said, as long as you follow your heart and dance to the moon.

No one needs to tell a parent that time flies. Downtown San Jose stays pretty much the same. The pigeons; those stone seats by the National Theater; the people selling bags of corn for a few pesos under the trees. And my child? Today Coco looks like she was replaced by aliens with a taller version of herself and a smaller version of me.

Those little red slippers? Her first pair of velvet red slipper I found at a used clothes store. She wore them so often she scraped the toes off so I had to color them in with magic marker. Now she won’t wear dresses. But she’s still got those chubby cheeks and squints the same in the bright sun.

Every day I’m torn between moving ahead and holding on. But I can’t stop the earth from spinning. Though goodness knows I’ve tried.

My daughter is planning a “sleep-over” with her friends. This is quite the ordeal. At seven, these girls are beginning to eye what it’s like to be an “older” girl. While putting Coco to bed last night, she read me the list, which was basically illegible because she’s spelling phonetically and bunches the words so that eventually they’ve formed a ball in the center of the page. Half way through the list, she got frustrated.

I can’t read it! What am I going to tell the girls at school tomorrow? I was supposed to have the list ready!

I was amazed at how many tears appeared in a matter of seconds. I promised her at breakfast in the morning, I’d help her rewrite the list.

In the morning, as promised, I took out a yellow pad as Coco dictated to me the list while she spooned cereal into her mouth:

Sleep Over List

1. Pick up girls.

2. Show them around. (Got to know where the bathroom is!)

3. Play outside.

4. Yoga.

5. Eat.

6. Watch Bee Movie.

7. Wake-up.

8. Eat.

9. Trot outside.*

10. Yoga.

Sound like fun doesn’t it? Especially that trotting part.

*I swear this is her word, not mine.

There are these graces that come with Down Syndrome that are kind of a benefit of a slower paced life. For example, since Addison doesn’t yet walk I can take him places and know exactly where he is at all times. We all know restaurants are actually large rooms with lots of chairs and tables disguised as torture chambers. Ever get a child to eat all that expensive food you just ordered? Or not spill? Or not run around and slap other customers? Or not crawl under the table to eat that French Fry that just fell on the dirty carpet beneath your feet?

On the other hand, my little guy is pretty easy at restaurants. I still avoid them, but having someone cook for me is an "extra" I need once and awhile in this single parenting orb. There never seems to be a moment when it all stops spinning. But at a restaurant - as long as there’s a play area for my older child - the world stops spinning for an hour or so. If we can find a high chair that Addison won’t slip out of, I can nice men and women bring me things for a change.¹

I bring along some sort of green mush that is Addison’s food. He’s got so many allergies and such a tender tummy, we don’t risk letting him eating strange and exotic things like pasta or crispy tortilla chips. He’s content with his mush and the other day we ventured into the wild side by letting him eat creme bruleé.

I ate three. We both asked for more.²

<sup>1. High chairs in restaurants will often be wooden and made by a guy with a workshop down the road in Costa Rica. You can even buy them on the side of the road. Beware when using them, they are tricky little buggers.
2. The last photo is sign language for: more. The sign is actually those chubby little fingers coming together and touching tips. He was a bit off here, but we knew what he meant. MORE!</sup>

Some days I just have this little boy. A boy who likes to swim and then bask in the sun.

Some days I just have two children. And, they are the same in all their differences.

Some days I just have it all.

Some days are every day.

Some days are.

La Bamba performs magic every day in our house

admin on 22 Mar 2008

Awhile ago, I wrote about the miracles of the song La Bamba. Now, the song has appeared again in our lives, quite by accident (the debate of whether anything is an accident…well for another time…). A friend that was leaving for the States gave me this stack of wonderful CDs. We love them for the car. And I much prefer the group singing over DVDs. It reminds me of singing away to Loretta Lynn when I was young. (Again I’m dating myself!)

One of these CDs was by a guy named Red Grammer. I had no idea who this guy was, but he can sing. His voice is like a smooth milkshake - vanilla - with the real beans. This CD is a bunch of folk songs. Addison will not eat a meal without the CD. The folky-folk songs like Gary Indiana, America the Beautiful, and Day-O are pressed upon my brain like a vice grip. The nannies can sing them - and they speak Spanish. Since La Bamba is in Spanish, the nannies really belt this one out.

About 3/4 the way through the CD - just about the time Addison gets cranky - La Bamba plays on the CD. What is it about this song? Red Grammer’s voice bellows the tune with such joy, no one can resist swinging their hips or at least singing along. Everyone’s got their own rendition. This is my favorite part:

Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba se necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia para mi, para ti
Y arriba y arriba
Y arriba y arriba por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere

To dance the bamba
to dance the bambe you need a bit of thanks
and up and up
and up and up for you I will be, for you I will be (there)

And I love this one:

Para subir al cielo
Para subir al cielo
Se necesita una escalera grande
Una escalera grande y otra chiquita

To rise to the sky
To rise to the sky
Big stairs are needed
Biig stairs and another little one (just in case)

It’s just a happy song about going up to the sky. Looking up. Being up. As it goes on, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But to me it makes perfect, complete, and true logic. And after Addison swings his blond hair back and forth like a true rocker, he finishes his dinner.

Coco walked out on me while we were watching the Decorating Channel. I was resting my back, which is still crooked and bent out of shape. She returned with two large books: A.A. Milne the Complete Collection of Winnie the Pooh and All About Animals. I bought those books dreaming about all the hours we’d spend reading and giggling over Tigger, Pooh, and Piglet. But at that moment, I wanted to see how the remodeled kitchen was going to turn out and then maybe sneak a bit of Oprah.

Coco sat on the floor and said:

I’m going to iron my hair.

She leaned over; placed a chunk of locks between the two books; and remained still for about one minute.

Coco has long, beautiful thick goldy-brown hair. The kind that in slow motion would fold upon itself like a shimmering waterfall (when I can get a comb through it). She may have a wave here and there and gets a few cute little flips when it’s humid, but her hair is far from curly.

Where does she get this from? My daughter observes Costa Ricans, Americans, Europeans, and those in between almost every day. Women iron their hair here. I don’t, but I use a hair dryer. Most women here don’t even own a hair dryer. I only wonder on which way she’ll swing with shaving.

Is my hair flat? she said.

Perfect! I said, just as they pulled back the curtains to reveal the gorgeous kitchen on the Decorating Channel.

I’ve dabbled in cooking, but it’s been awhile since I’ve created anything more than dinners with yogurt, lunch with tortillas and dinner with tortillas. I had this romantic image when I was pregnant with my first child that I’d transfer all that culinary experience I had into delicious, savory meals for my daughter. She’d grow up eating sautéed gold squash, clean her little dish when I served her pesto artichokes, and giggle in delight when I again served our her favorite Indian curry for the second time that week.

Ha! laughed the gods of parenting. Ha! Ha! Ha!

I made that squash, froze it; and threw it out. One time when friends came to visit Costa Rica, they had two children. Touring is a challenge with kids. Even in a car; even with DVDs; even with Nintendo; even with the scenery. Kids get hungry. ALL THE TIME. The gods of parenting forget to tell us that basically kids are hungry ALL THE TIME and that they will prefer sugar - in any form - over any other type of food. I struggle with my daughter when I travel, and I live here. This mother valiantly braved the switch-backs, Spanish, and hot weather with her two children. We received our lunch at a coffee plantation we’d stop to take a tour of, and the youngest child didn’t like the sandwich. Plain old white bread sandwiches are tough to find here. And this one came with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise! Imagine the horror! The sandwich was returned, and about 15 minutes later, the slab of carbohydrates (notice it’s sugar) came back to the child. He snubbed his nose at it. Everyone else was restless and had finished eating.

The mother promptly reached over the table, opened a pack of sugar, and poured it onto the child’s tongue. Then, she opened the sandwich and put it on the meat. The boy took a couple of bites. You bet I was judgmental then. Sure, my attempts at sautéed squash failed, but this? I was above that. Oh, how I learned.

My two children drop me to my knees about an average of once a day with another lesson in parenting. On a long road trip, I might not carry white packets of sugar, but you can bet I’ll pack a few candy bars or lollipops. At home, I continually shrug my shoulders at the bag of candy Coco - and now Addison - will come home with. I fight it. I give in. I fight it. I give in. (Repeat until thoroughly confused and blended).

So, the opportunity to cook for a few friends was a joy. The ingredients in Costa Rica are so fresh and bountiful. I sautéed the curry chicken and inhaled the smell as it mingled with the figs. The marinated Italian vegetables snapped with color. The Parmesan crisps filled my house with the aroma of a Pizzeria. All the while, I listened to the radio (one of my favorite pastimes) and felt this subtle joy that I was creating something with a snippet of spirit and a touch of arty flare.

I could have been mistaken for someone on the Food Network up until that last hour. I kept slipping in oil that I’d spilled on the floor; burnt a pan of Parmesan crisps; and I forgot to put the Feta in the dip. (I always forget the Feta!). The meal was delicious, and I think I ate more than anyone else. Good food serves the soul and appeases the gods all at the same time.

The networks should be calling any day.