I went for a break to the mall. I had to get a few groceries for brownies I needed to make for Addy’s school function in the morning. It’s been a rough few days of stomach flu at our house. The details, though colorful, are not worth repeating.

I sat on a bench with my espresso in a styrofoam cup and read. It was so peaceful not to be around a screaming daughter or coughing son. I’ve spent the last few nights running from bed to bed, calming woes.

As we all know, Thanksgiving doesn’t happen in Costa Rica, so decorations have been going up full tilt for the last few months. When I arrived here twelve years ago, the Christmas decorations were a cross between Halloween characters and snow monsters. They’ve improved, though as one can see, corporations have a lot to do with the set up.

It didn’t matter that I was in a mall and that my entertainment came from watching Latin women walk by in heals I’d never stand up in. I was out of the house for a few moments where I’ve been a slave to sickness.

Then, I decided on a whim, to bolster the economy in a little way and show my vote of confidence that us humans can overcome falling stocks. I went to Carrion and bought myself two shirts (reasonably priced of course) and the kids a stuffed toy and the nanny some desperately needed hair clips.

Though Costa Rica isn’t suffering like the U.S. economy, we’re slowing if only from overly-cautious thoughts of: what’s going to happen next?

I went home and made the brownies; tended to more wounds; licked the batter clean and topped it off with some Doritos.

What’s going to happen next is only what we know will happen next. If we know doom, so it shall come. If we know happiness, so it shall come. It’s actually not a mystery. Heck even Santa knows that.

Last night, at about 2 a.m., we had an earthquake. By earthquake standards, it was mild. In fact, their were two.

I was up because Coco was throwing up. She came home from school with a fever and starting throwing up not long after. She continued throwing up - here and there - literally everywhere a few more times until she woke again just before the earthquake.

My daughter is a difficult sick person. One habit she’s gained is screaming my name out loud whenever she feels pain, which is often. She also wants me to sit with her until she gets better, which could be a few days.

As she drifted back to sleep last night, the bed shook. Whenever we have an earthquake, it takes a second to be sure it isn’t my imagination. The first one didn’t last long. There was a pause, and the second started. The bed shook; my eyes shot open; and I began to weigh whether or not to get the kids out of bed and run out into the courtyard. I

It kept going. I placed one foot on the floor. Then, it finally stopped.

Coco didn’t feel a thing. She’d dosed off. I gently began to depart from the bed so I could return to mine.

Mami?

The kid can sleep through an earthquake, but the moment I make a move, she’s all over it.

Airplane travel is akin to pregnancy and childbirth: After some times has passed, I forget how painful it is, yet I end up doing all over again. I even get nauseas. Really, we are just cattle in the sky. Shipped from one ranch to the next. It is an amazing feat, getting us all there in one piece. The leg from New York was a long one. A one hour delay in the airport was nothing compared to the one and one-half hours sitting on the tarmac. I’d run out of things to do after an hour and watched the time tick away. Instead of landing at a reasonable hour, I became faced with lugging two - no three- exhausted humans home.

Once up in the air, we whiled away time looking at Coco’s new Ninetendo DS. The little Husky puppy can do all sorts of things that delight a younger brother. The meal came and I took all three (I did pay for three seats!) with the hopes that something would be edible on the compact tray. Addison was unable to eat anything, so he got quite pissed and tossed two of the trays in the isle. Coco was quick to follow by dumping her salad all over the airplane wall. The great thing was this was her first attempt at salad and of course she dolloped lots of dressing on top. I managed to recover most of the plastic wrapped items before someone stepped on them, and Coco found most of her lettuce pieces and wiped the dressing off the wall.

Then we sat with those half-eaten trays in front of us for 45 minutes. I perked up when the movie began. Then I remembered there was music on the headsets. Since the first flight had no movie, music, or headsets, I figured it was another airline cutback. I wrapped the headset around Addison’s ears. He began to rock out. Then Coco rocked out. It bought us enough time until the trays were taken away. As if on cue, Addison hit the wall and decided NOTHING would do. NOTHING could make him happy. Not even that little Husky. Then, I smelled something. Yes. He pooped. It was inevitable. Since the seatbelt light was on, I was stuck. I could deal with diaper rash, I couldn’t deal with changing him. Possibly the bowel activity calmed him down because he sat in his seat and began twirling his hair. This meant he was going to fall asleep. I buckled the seat belt around him and tucked a blanket against the metal arm rest. He zonked. Coco managed thirty minutes of sleep before landing.

When we arrived, I went to the immigration line and felt so content knowing we could go to the resident/citizen’s line. The tourist line snaked back into a coffee shop. However…..however…..I hadn’t gotten any forms. I asked the man for some. He pointed over there. I turned my head to see a gaggle of wandering tourists looking for someone, anyone, because they needed forms too. Since I was the only one who spoke Spanish, I asked anyone with a badge to help. Finally a guy gave me one.

Don’t I need three for my family?

He assured me no. After returning to the line, I was told I needed three forms. No one could find any, and it meant squat that I was the only one with children (let alone that special needs thing). I walked up to the counter with my properly filled out forms, and the man walked away. He walked away. So I began to change lines and just as he came back, I asked him if he was working or should I go to another line.

Whatever you want, he said.

Want? I wanted to be in bed and not have my child’s rear end caked with poo that surely by this time has given him an incredibly rash. I wanted to stop lifting and hauling and being around airplane things. I pushed the stroller back to his desk and watched him slowly address an envelope and put some things inside. Seal it and then walk around his office for a bit. Coco was having an uncontrollable shaky fit because she had never been that tired in her life. I felt as helpless as I did on the plane. Yelling at people who work in immigration cannot be a recommended thing, and I would venture to say possibly land you in a small room for a round of questioning. I took it as a challenge to stay calm. Even getting angry on the inside was only going to use up my last ounces of energy. All the people I’d help to get forms were through the line and picking up their luggage.

I was the LAST person to leave the airport from our flight. Back on the plane - I think it was when the dressing hit the wall - I swore I wouldn’t fly again. But I think anyone who has more than one child or has bought those airline tickets yet once again, understands all to well that it sucks us back in. As soon as I walked outside I smelled the fresh green and wet life of Costa Rica. Isn’t it funny how quickly we can forget the pain? Thank goodness or many of us would have been born.

My nannies would go wacky for the playgrounds we have in the States. Just the sidewalks leading to the playgrounds are a luxury. Addison climbed and navigated everything as my sister and I took turns making sure he didn’t fall and break all those soft little bones.

After navigating the gym set, he walked over to the swing set. After grooving on the swing, he sat in a little elephant.

This special needs thing takes a toll on my back. On everyone’s back. Addison sat soundly - we thought - in the wiggly elephant. After about two minutes, we turned around to see Addison hanging half out of the thing like a parachuter who’s just realized he doesn’t want to jump and wants to get back into the plane.

The screaming ensued. My sister ran over and got him out. The little guy quickly recovered, so we thought. I took over as only a mom can do. I placed him back in his stroller. We called Emma - the dog with the very long tongue - and our group set off for home. The day had been hot and it felt good to sit in the cool living room. I counted three gashes on Addison’s face, but figured we’d managed well since no human or canine in our group ended up with a broken head or a severed thigh bone. That is….until Addison threw up on me. I’m glad most of the green pea mush/white slime (that could only be digestive juices!) landed on mine and Addison’s shirt and not my sister’s couch. The shirt was new of course.

This is just one of those “special” things that tend to round out my days and bump up against my nights.

Every so often, my daughter breaks into tears about leaving her dogs behind. It’s only been ten months since our family fell apart, and some of the wounds are still fresher than I’d like to admit. Quite often her sadness will start out as something else, like getting mad at me. One evening, about 5 o’clock, Coco starting talking tursely with the nanny and her brother and me. Then, she began assaulting our dining chair. Hmmmmm…I thought. I bet this is not about the chair. When we sat down to eat, IT all came out. Whenever that “all-encompassing” job description is written for mothers, it must include - emotional sponge. I can see it now on my resume:

October 2000 - present: Emotional Sponge. From the birth of my daughter until present, I have grown large pours in my soul to absorb, process, and assimilate every feeling felt by every household member, which includes nannies, husbands and ex-husbands, and other children I occasionally care for.

Because mothers are there - even if they’re working moms - when we’re on the job at home or away (ever witness the flood of phone calls mothers get at work?) - all tears, anger, fright, fear, disappointment, confusion, joy, and boredom (the list is too long to name here) are directed towards the mother figure.

You seem a little angry Coco. Did something happen at school? I asked her. She squished up her face as though she’d just looked into the sun. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mommy, I miss Buddha! Why can’t we have Buddha?

The tears opened wide. There’s not much I could say. And every time this happens, I’ve learned it’s better to not act directly on the subject and start looking for Golden Retrievers in the Want Ads. Thus, I become a spong. I listen without trying to judge; without getting angry myself because I’d rather be eating in peace. She went on and on about how she missed her pets. When the tears ebbed, I saw a chance to steer the conversation over the hump. I made her laugh about something, and she used her skirt to dry some of those tears.

One time, I opened my mouth during one of those “sponge” moments. A moment I’m paying for to this day. When my daughter was in the midst of a tantrum at two years old, I opened my mouth and agreed to take home the stray guinea pig cradled in the vet’s hand. There’s no doubt cavies are cute (the more scientific term for us piggy owners), but all these creatures, from dog on down, poop. If it wasn’t for the pooping, I’d be thrilled with the little critters. But since they deposit their minerals in every corner of the house, they don’t come out of their cage often. But this night, I agreed to a “running of the guinea pigs” to help ease this pain about her dogs.

Addison was of course thrilled. He scooted around trying to catch them. He started out petting the animals, but after awhile got a little too excited and began picking them up by their hairs. When they got tired, we snuggled them up into a towel. Guinea pigs can live from 3 to seven years. Of course mine will most likely live until their thirty. It’s quite a price to pay for being a sponge and not knowing when to keep my mouth shut. So, I clean the cages and feed them a few times a day….wait a minute…did they get fed this morning??….sorry, I’ve got to run!

I consider the bathroom a small torture chamber - a place I want to get in and out as quickly as possible. After years of “toilet training,” puking, and bath after bath after bath, I prefer the other side of the bathroom door. Yesterday, my daughter dutifully washed her hands after using the servicio but left the door ajar, just a “titch.” Most homes in Costa Rica have loads of bathrooms. They’re easy to install during construction since no ventilation piping is needed. For example, my little condo has five bathrooms. All of them have a shower, except one. One has a shower and bathtub. The bathroom Coco uses frequently is the guest bathroom on the main floor.

I walked by and - as they say in Spanish - oooffffa! It’s amazing how grown up kids can be about some things. For a seven year old, she can pack a might punch when it comes to the delicate subject of elimination.

Man girl! I said as I waved the all natural air cleaner through the air, pumping the liquid wildly toward the ceiling.

Mommy you smell too! she said.

Are you kidding? I emit only the smell of fresh spring roses, I said.

Really? she said. No you don’t. Really?

Next she’ll discover they took gullible out of the dictionary.

The sun always sets, whether we see it or not. The ocean’s still there, regardless of my location. Gravity keeps me from floating into space and jumping out of buildings, and even with all “that” education, I couldn’t really tell you I completely understand the formula for gravity or string theory or relativity or chaos or even electricity. When I push “send” on this computer, I’ll be darned if I can explain how those little pixels, dots, and vibrations get this message to work. But I remain on the ground and the light turns on, regardless of my beliefs or limited thinking.

Copernicus had a heck of a time convincing his fellow humans about that earth-sun thing. Science is great at proving what we know; the things we’ve figured out and arrived at conclusive conclusions for. The laws of life, the ones we understand and the ones we don’t, keep working with or without me. We’ve stopped burning people at the stake for “wacky” beliefs and theories. Or have we? If I came up with an engine that would burn fuel on horse poo, would someone hear me? Smell me sure, but listen?

So, as the rainy season takes hold in Costa Rica, it’s easy to forget that the sun sets in glory every night. I’ve got to think there’s a whole lot of things we do not understand. It’s comfortable to stay in the dogma we’ve all created - you know that fear based web of goo stuck on the bottom of our shoes that hold us back. It was meant to be changed, challenged. When I look to the west, I can be sure around 6 p.m. (Costa Rica time) that ball of fire is right where it should be.

P.S. Who is John Gault anyway?

The International Art Festival has hit town. Costa Rica is flooded with theater, exhibitions, dance, and music for the month of April. Right on the heels of the Cow Parade Inauguration, Costa Rica hits the arts with a splash. One great event for the family is in la sabana - Costa Rica’s mini-mini Central Park.

I love this park. For a few years, I lived quite close to it and walked with my daughter on my back every day through the trails and around the lake. For the International Art Festival, vendors set up booths and food is served. There’s a theater for children, concerts performed on a huge stage in the middle of the lake, rides, and lots of crafts fashioned by the locals from paintings to sculpture to jewelry. This year, there are special exhibits put on featuring Chinese art and culture.

After a good run through the park as vendors set up tents, I retrieved my daughter from her gym class. We sniffed out the food right away. Then, we mingled among the tents to browse the wares and find a suitable treat to satiate Coco’s sweet tooth. She passed on the huge ice cream sundaes and decided on Chorros - these fried grease sticks sprinkled with sugar. They are kind of the Latin mini-donut.

We walked across the park back to our car. We’ve decided to return next week when I remember some money. I’ve eyed a cute bracelet, and Coco’s long overdue to spend some of her allowance. Now these Chorros are batter blobs. I mentioned deep fried? I’m kind of allergic to wheat, but I can sneak a tidbit here and there. Deep friend grease sticks with sugar? Refuse this? I reached for one, and Coco screamed.

You’re actually going to deny your mother a Chorro?

She chomped the tops of the sticks off, “nubbing” them down one by one. I ate one and reached for another.

Hey! she screamed.

Hey! I screamed back.

I’m just trying to stop you from eating wheat mommy!

Gee thanks, I said, still eyeing the bag. She was going to eat them all!

As we drove home, Coco took a slug of water. She started to choke and up came the last Chorro, chunks of sugar, water, and wheat poured onto my just-cleaned car and her brand new pants (less than 24 hours old).

I remembered a painting back at the festival. It was a surreal face, mouth open wide. Perhaps the figure had just thrown up too. So which comes first the life or the art? Next week, we’ll be back, and we’re brining her brother. I’m a glutton for punishment.

*The Festival Internaciona de las Artes Costa Rica runs April 11 until April 20, 2008.

Yoga; run; walk; meditate; pray; tai chi, write down your three pages of your thoughts; write down your dreams; gargle; juice; drink tea; coffee? - and while I’m at run up the mountain. While I was oil pulling this morning (more on that in a minute), I contemplated all the things suggested by theories, dogmas, paradigms, and mothers.

B.C. (that’ s before children), I could do one or more of the above with vim and vigor; connecting to the great source of the Universe. A.C. (yes, after children and including pregnancy), I’m lucky to squeak out going to the bathroom before someone needs something from me. Once and awhile, I get really determined and will forge ahead with that morning yoga, meditation, or dream recall. After about three days running, I run into problems: that child that was sleeping soundly until 6:30 a.m. now gets up at 5:15 a.m.; that child free of colds or flu starts vomiting. I’ve learned to forget it all for awhile only to try again a few weeks or months later.

On my bookshelf are at least 50 self-help books (not to mention the ones I’ve given away). The authors are brilliant, and the titles shimmer with such hope: Co-dependent No More; Seat of the Soul, Emotional Alchemy; need I mention Carlos Castenada? Ever since having children I’ve felt separate and apart from this movement. How can it include me when it takes all my energy just to keep snot, bile, and other fluids either inside the child or properly disposed of?

When Coco was almost two years old, our family took a trip to the Netherlands. I was covering a convention for a radio station on peace, spirituality - groovy stuff I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. We had a few days to "see the town." But, even pleasures like art and music take a back seat to this incredibly physical profession. I sludged through the Anne Frank house with Coco on my back. I mean I stood in front of the hidden closet; gaped up at the attic stairs; and tried so hard to completely give myself to this intense story, energy and place. Instead? I jiggled up and down and zipped quickly through the exhibit so my daughter wouldn’t wail and ruin the other visitors experience.

We trudged on to the Stedelijk Museum and before even entering, I knew Coco needed a diaper change. I see the Stedelijk is under construction, however at the time, the bathroom wasn’t exactly family friendly. I sat down outside of the bathroom while Coco mashed her sweaty hands against the spotless window, and wrote this poem:

Museums are poop.

Spirituality is for THEM.

Not award winning, but it was short and to the point. Back at the conference, I kept on jiggling, chasing, and jamming cookies into my daughter’s face to get a few moments of silence. After my son was born, I sucked deeper into the "dark hole" of mothering as I faced Down Sydrome, surgery (his and mine), and respitory problems. But he’s two now, and I’m at it again. I’ll dabble in yoga, but only when I see a moment in the day when kids aren’t around. I’ll just sit and smile contently and call it meditation.

One of my nanny’s is suffering terribly from wisdom teeth coming in. Since she hates taking pills, I looked up on the Internet for some ideas to help her until the caja - the slow but sure medical social system in Costa Rica - can squeeze her in for an appointment next Tuesday around 6 a.m. She furrowed her eyebrows when I suggested oil pulling: sucking unrefined sesame back and forth in your teeth for ten minutes. Since I had a cold, I thought I would try this cure that supposedly removes toxins from your body - thus no more cold, tooth pain or whatever.

Do it first thing in the morning said the instructions. I forgot that, and waited an hour until the kids were gone to school. As I sucked this oil through my teeth (and tried not to gag), I remembered a moment back at that conference in Holland. After an awful morning of managing my child and so-so interviews (thank goodness for editing!), I sat on the floor outside of the cafeteria as Coco smudged the windows and toddled under the tables. A woman, Carolina, hunched next to me, and we started talking. She told me about a woman who had eight children and had this bliss about her. Carolina asked her how she could be so content. The woman simply said: This is IT.

So, that’s IT. Parenting may be the highest form of spirituality there is. From the moment I wake up and Addison twinkles his eyes my way, I’m living in the moment. Even if I’m grumpy, hunched over, tired, or frustrated I am in THE moment. And, isn’t that what all those writers, all those books, all those paradigms are hoping for: mindful consciousness? I spit out the oil, which turned from a cinnamon brown to a foamy white; started the laundry; did the dishes while promising myself I’d do yoga right after lunch.

After changing Addison’s diaper, I threw away the old one, which was full of yesterday’s lunch and dinner, and searched for a new one. When I returned he obviously hadn’t finished the job, because he unloaded more onto the clean sheets. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and decided if I pick the child up and carry him to the toilet, I could put the goods right where they belong. When I got to there, something was missing. I had Addison, but the flattened BM once stuck firmly to his buttocks, was no where in site. I held him over my head, tipped him to and fro, nothing. I retraced my steps. IT was no where to be found. Then I looked down and there IT was: stuck to the top of my shoe. And, of course I was wearing Crocs - the kind with all sorts of holes on top.

Who do you clean up first in this situation? I decided on Addison; threw my shoes in the tub; and carried on with my day. This wasn’t going to set me off to a bad start because we were going to the beach. Later that day the kids and I arrived at our destination in paradise around sunset. We all tripped on our way out of the car, junk tumbling behind: DVD player, empty water bottles, suitcases, clean diapers, dirty diapers, stuffed animals, wet wipes, and about 100 other big and small items we couldn’t live without for a weekend. We looked like we’d been dragged behind the car, and we smelled as if we’d been living in the vehicle for a week.

The air was lush and the plants green, something I love counting on when I visit the Caribbean. We stretched and came to life. Coco and I discovered a howler monkey about 10 feet in front of us. We walked under the tree and this young female looked down at us. Remembering they often pee when humans come near them, we stepped back a bit. The howler grabbed the fan of a large palm and traversed across to another sturdy branch. She turned her back to us and hung her behind past the limb.Look out! I said.The monkey peed. Then….the monkey took two large poops. Wasn’t this how I started my day? Coco laughed so hard she started to pee in her pants. She took off running to the cabin yelling: I’ve got to poop!

I felt oddly complete, as if I had come full circle.