Deep in the heart of the jungle, I gave birth to a child. Well, o.k., I delivered at the hospital down the road with the newest technology imported from the , but I did bear my first child in . I immigrated to a little over eight years ago. My daughter is Tica (Costa Rican) and American. I am an American acclimating to life as a mother while living side by side to the wily jungle.

My family lives in a semi-rural (soon to be suburban) city outside of San Jose, . Across the street is a family that I rarely see. They live in a yellow/orange house with a gray dog that squirms in and out of the gate during the day.

The backyard of this house is a canyon - a gorge that drops 600 feet or more to a rushing river. Sheath cliffs jut out of every crevasse, ledge, and crack. Animals, insects, amphibians, serpents, and arthropods creep up the canyon in search of a snack or dry land. I’m reminded daily of how close we are to nature - of how little I am compared to the powers that be.

Earthquakes rattle through frequently, but big ones happen only every few years. The National Theater and the railroad suffered major damage in the earthquake of 1991. Renovations for the Theater took years. The railroad became impassable, and though talks always rumble about running new lines.

I know people who can feel the slightest tremor.

"Did you just feel that?"

a friend asked me once at a meeting.

"No,"

I said, as I tilted my head as if that would help me feel the quake.

Some earthquakes feel like a dog bumping into my chair. Others, like a few weeks ago, shake the ground we walk on and rattle all sensibilities. This earthquake was the third largest one I’d experienced in - the second at 2 a.m.

The earthquake mixed with my dream. I thought my husband was falling out of bed, which is pretty tough considering we have tile floors over poured cement. The windows shook like someone was banging to get in; dressers and nightstands jiggled as if they were trying to walk across the floor by themselves.

A few hours before the earthquake, my daughter, Coco, had wanted to dance in a room where we have several sculpture sitting on tall stands. My daughter and I battle about who’s in charge. I know she’s testing her boundaries and that I’m the rubber mat that she bounces the desires of her ego against the need to find a true inner self.

At 6:00 p.m., I ‘m tired, and I’m in charge, and I don’t care about self-development. I salivate at the idea of reading a book (without fluffy bunnies of cuddly bears) and having a glass of wine. Every night after dinner, the battle begins.

On the night of the earthquake, Coco rolled on the floor and whined,

Please! I want to dance to my music.

Instead of fighting, I gave in. I moved five wooden and bronze sculptures to the dining room table; pushed the stands aside and turned on the Nutcracker. My daughter danced to Tchaikovsky until she fell to the floor.

I’m tired,

she said out of breath. She brushed her teeth without a fight and went to bed. Coco is a light sleeper. It took me three years to get her to sleep through the night; waking her is not something I choose to do if I do not absolutely have to.

The earthquake didn’t stop, so safety outweighed a good night’s sleep. I flipped the covers off Coco and lifted her up (when did she get so big?). In order to carry her from the bed, I used the inside of my thigh for leverage and pushed all my weight against the shaking wooden frame.

Wood furniture can be made in for incredible bargains. My husband and I brought a catalog home from Holland, which pictured stoic furniture a minimalist would love. We showed the bed we liked to a carpenter living in a village up the road from our house. He replicated the frame and headboard for a king size bed (plus end tables and delivery) for $600. Overseas, this set would cost $3000, at least.

The bed is beautiful; the bed is dangerous. Luckily, our daughter was past the fall-over-her-own-feet-twenty-times-a-day stage when we installed the modish set. I’ve whacked my knee and shin several times on the corners and edges, but we’ve managed to keep anyone’s head from cracking open.

The earthquake rumbled on. I scooted to the edge of the bed; stood up and ran for the door.

Do you have Coco?

my husband yelled while steadying a lamp. In all relationships, each person takes care of certain things. Some tasks fall, almost without choice, to one person or another. I breastfed; my husband worked. I bandage and tourniquet cuts; my husband drives and waits in the emergency room. The task of getting out bodies through emergencies fell on to me as naturally as milk leaked from my nipples.

This adage included our pets. One morning, one of my dogs started bleeding, spontaneously, from a black, bulbous pouch on the end of her elbow. My husband wanted to call the vet. I chose to save a little money and perform the procedure right in our own back yard.

I pinched the sac and wondered if a torsalo, a worm, was gestating inside of my dog’s elbow. This worm begins as a fly, which bites dogs, cows, horses (and people!), and then deposits the eggs into its victim. The larva grows; snug in its perfect pouch - until one day. The torsalo either forges out a hole on its own and flies away to continue the cycle of life or has to be popped out manually. Farmers often spray a purple antiseptic on cows and horses, which kills the larva. The carcass still has to be cut out so as to stave off infection. Cutting out the larva would be easier for me than watching a worm burrow out of my dog’s leg.

I gathered towels, iodine, hydrogen peroxide, a razor, needle and water. My husband tackled the dog as if she was mad (she has been known to nip). He barked short commands at me and comforted the dog.

Don’t worry,

he said to the dog,

Mommy isn’t going to hurt you. This is for your own good.

When I drew blood, my husband grew pale. He tossed out the idea of calling a vet again. I sent him away to play with our daughter. I wrapped my leg around the dog and poked more holes into the sac with a needle. When I squeezed, long strands of white, wormy things wriggled out of the black sac. I pinched, poked, squeezed, and poured hydrogen peroxide on the elbow until the dog decided she’d had enough. I wrapped her sore in gauze and tape and begged her not to bite it off.

I repeated the routine about once a day for a week until I felt the sac would no longer start leaking either white wormy things or blood. While I was at it, I pinched and squeezed other sacs on the dog (including one on her eye). The vet, on a routine visit months later, and I decided the sacs were not egg larva, but just greasy fat deposits that accumulated over the 11 years of the dog’s life.

This dog slept through the entire earthquake. I asked my husband what he was doing during the tremors while I hauled Coco out of bed. He said he had no idea:

I guess I was trying to figure out what was going on.

Seven people died in the earthquake, six from heart failure. I had a bruise on my thigh that looked like I’d been hit with a metal pipe. It hurt to walk. My daughter didn’t like the earthquake (she did wake up for a few minutes). She tried to convince me it was a birdie hitting the window. I told her mother earth had gas and just needed to burp.

Costa Ricans don’t talk much about the weather or weather related events. It either rains here or it doesn’t. But everyone talked about the earthquake, which measured 6.2 on the Richter scale. Relatives called loved ones and friends (even at 2 a.m.) to see if all made it through the tremors without harm. All my family friends, their homes, and even our sculptures, survived the earthquake with little or no harm.

The next night, a small tremor rattled the house for a few seconds. My eyes shot open, and I waited for more. Nothing happened. I rolled over and hugged my daughter. She’d gone to bed without a fight and slept as sweet as chocolate. Between a child and mother earth, I’m reminded daily of where the true power lies and that I must never forget who’s really in charge.

see more stories like this at Mother Jungle’s Home Page.