A note for future therapy sessions. Here are Jules’ and Liam’s favorite things to do in Costa Rica.
JULES: More than any other toy or activity, Jules loves to wear other people’s shoes. Particularly high-heel dress-up shoes (like silver glittery ones that have Barbie insignias on them) but really anything with a sole. He likes to wear large men’s sandals, small girls’ slippers and everything in between. Watching him parade around in nothing but a diaper and a pair of red rain boots three times his foot size is something the behold. He’s like a go-go dancer for Barney. And once he’s found a pair of shoes he wants on, there’s really nothing stopping him from getting them on his feet. He’ll scream like a banshee if you try to take them off or try to convince him to try on something else, or even if you try and put them on the correct feet.
LIAM: He’s obsessed with pretending. Which is probably normal for his age. But he’s mostly just obsessed with being pregnant. One second he’s a pregnant elephant, then a pregnant giraffe, a pregnant pig, a pregnant mouse, you name it. Is this normal? Perhaps, though I’ve never seen another kid pretend to be pregnant ALL THE TIME. I’m not bothered by the concept of his pretending to be pregnant. It’s really just the all-the-time part. Can’t he shake it up a little now and then? Maybe be a leopard with acne or a pigeon with gout? Or even a salamander with a fabulous smile?
I think what I found particularly odd was the scene he created a few days ago, in which not only was he a pregnant pig, he was a pig who was 108 months pregnant. And here’s the kicker. He was pregnant with me. My 3-year-old was pretending to be almost 9 years pregnant with his own father. Are there any psychologists out there? Should we be concerned?
In Utero in Costa Rica
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Max: Crap Bag
Costa Rica, like many other countries, has plumbing which lacks the industrial force we’re blessed with in the United States.
That’s all I have to say. America is great.
Oh wait, that wasn’t what I was going to say. I got carried away by patriotism. So the toilets here can’t handle toilet paper. Instead, you put it in a small garbage can or sack next to the toilet, and throw it away like any other trash. It’s not really so odd once you get used to it.
Only reason I mention it is because of our garbage disposal situation. Because there’s no dump or garbage service around here, we have to leave our garbage in the driveway and remember to take it into town next time we go. Where it is subsequently thrown in a pile and burned (see one of Sharon’s posts below about environmentalism).
Anyway, sometimes this trash—if left out at night—will be ripped apart and eaten by various raccoon-like mongrels. It’s a dumb thing to do (leaving trash out at night) but it continues to happen for some reason. Anyway, how desperate do you have to be ravage a bag which holds nothing but bathroom waste in it? Pretty desperate, I’d think. Anyway, it happened. Maybe those varmints mistook all the balled-up diapers as potatoes. Who knows. But we were left with a disgusting bathroom bag in tatters.
Yum.
That’s all I have to say. America is great.
Oh wait, that wasn’t what I was going to say. I got carried away by patriotism. So the toilets here can’t handle toilet paper. Instead, you put it in a small garbage can or sack next to the toilet, and throw it away like any other trash. It’s not really so odd once you get used to it.
Only reason I mention it is because of our garbage disposal situation. Because there’s no dump or garbage service around here, we have to leave our garbage in the driveway and remember to take it into town next time we go. Where it is subsequently thrown in a pile and burned (see one of Sharon’s posts below about environmentalism).
Anyway, sometimes this trash—if left out at night—will be ripped apart and eaten by various raccoon-like mongrels. It’s a dumb thing to do (leaving trash out at night) but it continues to happen for some reason. Anyway, how desperate do you have to be ravage a bag which holds nothing but bathroom waste in it? Pretty desperate, I’d think. Anyway, it happened. Maybe those varmints mistook all the balled-up diapers as potatoes. Who knows. But we were left with a disgusting bathroom bag in tatters.
Yum.
Sharon: Vaqueros
Today Marcos and Emilia and their boys took us out to the finca. We piled in their car (sans seatbelts, Liam begging to be buckled in), and drove out to the middle of nowhere. Arnaldo and Edgardo saddled up two horses, and Liam cautiously let Arnaldo take him up into the saddle and ride away.
Liam LOVED it (of course, I guess!), and spent a lot of time on the horses with both boys and me. Riding with Liam at a gallop down the deserted country road thrilled me, because, really, what could be cooler than sharing an important “first” like that?! We also took a spin through the farm, riding along the ridges, and down into the folds between the hills, looking for the newborn foals. What IS it about horses? Why is it such a thrill, especially, to be off the trail, to ride a horse out in the field, cutting your own path to arrive at a place that’s almost impossible to get to any other way (particularly with the foot or so of mud in places)?
True to form, Jules wouldn’t take the bait with the horses. He did, however, really seem to dig the quick spin on the ATV—the horse of the new millennium, apparently—with Max.
Liam LOVED it (of course, I guess!), and spent a lot of time on the horses with both boys and me. Riding with Liam at a gallop down the deserted country road thrilled me, because, really, what could be cooler than sharing an important “first” like that?! We also took a spin through the farm, riding along the ridges, and down into the folds between the hills, looking for the newborn foals. What IS it about horses? Why is it such a thrill, especially, to be off the trail, to ride a horse out in the field, cutting your own path to arrive at a place that’s almost impossible to get to any other way (particularly with the foot or so of mud in places)?
True to form, Jules wouldn’t take the bait with the horses. He did, however, really seem to dig the quick spin on the ATV—the horse of the new millennium, apparently—with Max.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Sharon: La Pajarita Se Escapo de la Jaula
That's what my friends here used to say when I'd get a chance to get out of the house and go play in town: the little bird escaped from the cage. So yesterday we escaped again, and how! We went to Amor de Mar in the morning, the hotel where I used to live in 1994, teaching English reading to their little boys. It's an amazing place, absolutely the best place in the world for a vacation, I'm sure. Ori, the German owner, was there, and welcomed us with big smiles and encouragement to come back and spend time on their lawn, hammocks, and tide-pools. Then we spent the afternoon with Emilia, three hours in which Jules ate two bowls of those neon-colored fruit loops things he's fallen so hard for, a few pieces of rum-covered flan, four cookies...hmm...surely there was more, but that's a pretty good summary. Max, for the record, has decided that he's not a fan of chicharones: pork rinds. Couldn't even choke them down to be polite.
Then Khalida and I went to a yoga class with a "special guest teacher" from San Jose. It was so disappointing. His style was Anusara (but such a poor substitute for Christina!), and I was happy for the workout, but he refused to listen to what I was telling him about my back injury. The class flyer had said "all levels," but it was definitely an advanced class, and very athletic, not at all like my usual practice. A few months ago, I would have left that class in agony (and I heard a few people talking about how much they had hurt themselves, which always makes me sad). But I have learned that an effort to follow along with the class in order to be respectful in a class like that ends up in a few days of severe pain for me. Several times during class I had to ask him to please respect my understanding of my injury and not adjust me into poses I wasn't attempting, even though I had approached him before class and described my issue. I couldn't believe his sweeping statements about back alignment, too, some of which were just anatomically wrong. All in all, though, I was glad to practice with a group of people in such an incredible setting, and I learned a few things about some poses I don't practice often. But I miss my teachers from Austin. Ori was there and when she heard that I taught a slower, more internally-focused form of yoga, she seemed disappointed that she hadn't gotten me teaching when I was here. Apparently, most local teachers teach a more athletic style.
FINALLY (still the same day!), Max and I went out for a night on the town. We went first to the one fancy-schmancy restaurant in town. Okay, not exactly fancy, since it's on the beach sand, very dimly lit by candles at a few tables made from driftwood and local hardwoods. But extremely gourmet, even a little outside the reach of our tastes, and pricey even by Austin standards. Didn't much matter, because as we got to the end of the menu we noticed the "NO CC" note, and realized we didn't have enough cash to pay for a full meal. The Italian owner very sweetly told us to go ahead and order a meal, and to come back some other day to pay, but the next day was Sunday and Monday was a bank holiday, and we didn't feel comfortable letting our debt go that long! Still, we had a fantastic evening on the town.
Then Khalida and I went to a yoga class with a "special guest teacher" from San Jose. It was so disappointing. His style was Anusara (but such a poor substitute for Christina!), and I was happy for the workout, but he refused to listen to what I was telling him about my back injury. The class flyer had said "all levels," but it was definitely an advanced class, and very athletic, not at all like my usual practice. A few months ago, I would have left that class in agony (and I heard a few people talking about how much they had hurt themselves, which always makes me sad). But I have learned that an effort to follow along with the class in order to be respectful in a class like that ends up in a few days of severe pain for me. Several times during class I had to ask him to please respect my understanding of my injury and not adjust me into poses I wasn't attempting, even though I had approached him before class and described my issue. I couldn't believe his sweeping statements about back alignment, too, some of which were just anatomically wrong. All in all, though, I was glad to practice with a group of people in such an incredible setting, and I learned a few things about some poses I don't practice often. But I miss my teachers from Austin. Ori was there and when she heard that I taught a slower, more internally-focused form of yoga, she seemed disappointed that she hadn't gotten me teaching when I was here. Apparently, most local teachers teach a more athletic style.
FINALLY (still the same day!), Max and I went out for a night on the town. We went first to the one fancy-schmancy restaurant in town. Okay, not exactly fancy, since it's on the beach sand, very dimly lit by candles at a few tables made from driftwood and local hardwoods. But extremely gourmet, even a little outside the reach of our tastes, and pricey even by Austin standards. Didn't much matter, because as we got to the end of the menu we noticed the "NO CC" note, and realized we didn't have enough cash to pay for a full meal. The Italian owner very sweetly told us to go ahead and order a meal, and to come back some other day to pay, but the next day was Sunday and Monday was a bank holiday, and we didn't feel comfortable letting our debt go that long! Still, we had a fantastic evening on the town.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Sharon: Jules, and Keeping House
So, Mom asked how Jules was doing with the nanny, saying she assumed that since I hadn’t mentioned it, everything must be going okay. Well…actually, I’d just been holding out, not wanting to complain amidst our otherwise great fortune, and still hoping things might turn around.
Background: Jules is one of the easiest kids I’ve ever met in almost every regard. Never minds a stranger, never minds a babysitter. Loves to socialize with random folks at the pool or in the store. Sleeps well for naps and nighttime, loves to play with other kids. In all of our planning for this trip, we never considered that he might not be amenable to our plans. Never.
Well, he’s not amenable to them. He just didn’t like Lady. In her defense, I think the Spanish was distressing for a kid who is so verbal, who loves to narrate his world to a rapt audience and depends on being able to easily communicate his needs. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly perky or engaging, and exuded a lack of confidence. After 8 days of trying desperately to get them used to each other, we officially gave up.
It’s not so bad. Max and I can at least take turns having a morning out to relax. Plus, we had a few lovely mornings alone together, more than we have in months at home, so I’m very grateful. We’re saving some bucks. And I’ve also realized that I’m kind of into housework, that I need to be rooted in the care of the place where I live. So.
Jules actually doesn’t seem to like much of anything about our plans for him this trip, come to think of it. He wasn’t going to be “potty-trained” in three days like Liam was at the same age, so we gave up on that, too, for now. He doesn’t want to sleep well anymore, preferring instead to wake up many, many times each night and be up for good around 5:00 a.m. He has started climbing out of the pack-and-play (and toddling out, quite proud of himself), so we put him in a bed, and now he asks for the crib!
The thing is that I needed a guru for this trip. Max and I have both felt a little aimless, unused to all this free time, but also a little greedy. Jules has reminded us that as much we want a vacation from the kiddos, parenting little children is our life right now, even in a tropical paradise. He’s also helped us remember that they know when we’re trying to ditch them, and they don’t like it; as soon as we stopped having Lady come and started making Jules a big part of our day, he got so much happier overall.
But it takes a lot of housework here to keep nature from taking over, and Lady was supposed to be helping with that, too. There’s gecko poop on the living “room” floor in the morning, scorpions to shoe out, dust and leaves everywhere. Our clothes get covered in mud before noon, and there’s salt water on an outfit a day. Today’s my day off and Max has Jules at the beach, but they’ve been gone for two hours and I’ve only just been able to take a break, having swept and mopped the floors, done the dishes, done a load of laundry. I found myself thinking about how in a Buddhist monastery, the most menial chores are given to the most senior monks, and I mopped with care and contentment.
Background: Jules is one of the easiest kids I’ve ever met in almost every regard. Never minds a stranger, never minds a babysitter. Loves to socialize with random folks at the pool or in the store. Sleeps well for naps and nighttime, loves to play with other kids. In all of our planning for this trip, we never considered that he might not be amenable to our plans. Never.
Well, he’s not amenable to them. He just didn’t like Lady. In her defense, I think the Spanish was distressing for a kid who is so verbal, who loves to narrate his world to a rapt audience and depends on being able to easily communicate his needs. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly perky or engaging, and exuded a lack of confidence. After 8 days of trying desperately to get them used to each other, we officially gave up.
It’s not so bad. Max and I can at least take turns having a morning out to relax. Plus, we had a few lovely mornings alone together, more than we have in months at home, so I’m very grateful. We’re saving some bucks. And I’ve also realized that I’m kind of into housework, that I need to be rooted in the care of the place where I live. So.
Jules actually doesn’t seem to like much of anything about our plans for him this trip, come to think of it. He wasn’t going to be “potty-trained” in three days like Liam was at the same age, so we gave up on that, too, for now. He doesn’t want to sleep well anymore, preferring instead to wake up many, many times each night and be up for good around 5:00 a.m. He has started climbing out of the pack-and-play (and toddling out, quite proud of himself), so we put him in a bed, and now he asks for the crib!
The thing is that I needed a guru for this trip. Max and I have both felt a little aimless, unused to all this free time, but also a little greedy. Jules has reminded us that as much we want a vacation from the kiddos, parenting little children is our life right now, even in a tropical paradise. He’s also helped us remember that they know when we’re trying to ditch them, and they don’t like it; as soon as we stopped having Lady come and started making Jules a big part of our day, he got so much happier overall.
But it takes a lot of housework here to keep nature from taking over, and Lady was supposed to be helping with that, too. There’s gecko poop on the living “room” floor in the morning, scorpions to shoe out, dust and leaves everywhere. Our clothes get covered in mud before noon, and there’s salt water on an outfit a day. Today’s my day off and Max has Jules at the beach, but they’ve been gone for two hours and I’ve only just been able to take a break, having swept and mopped the floors, done the dishes, done a load of laundry. I found myself thinking about how in a Buddhist monastery, the most menial chores are given to the most senior monks, and I mopped with care and contentment.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Khalida: Chicken in a Bag
(Here's a Guest-Post from Khalida):
Ring ring.
"What's up?"
"Stop by my mom's house to pick up the chicken."
"Okay."
Sharon and I have escaped from the little monkeys and are running around Cobano unchaperoned, buying groceries, getting milk from Asan's grandmother (from the cow, but though some might say it tastes like grass, others, who shall remain nameless, say it tastes like a rubber glove), and saying hello to yet more of Asan's family in town. (He is related to half of the town. At least.) I finally mention to Sharon that we have to stop by my mother-in-law's on the way out of town to get a chicken. Finally, they have caught one for us of the 100-some-odd chicken running around their yard. Sharon groans, imagining a long drawn out visit, yet again, with Rosa Leda. I promise we will be quick. I imagine popping in, picking up a plastic bag with chicken pieces in it, and jumping back into the car.
Well.
I find my mother-in-law at the back of the house talking on the phone. She whispers that the chicken is right over there. I look. I see a wooden crate, upside-down in the yard. I look at her suspiciously. I look back at the crate. Ah, there seems to be a live chicken under the crate. I look back at her horrified. She tells me to just put it in a sac and take it home. Huh? Okay, first of all - it is alive? And second of all, sac? Where? She chuckles at me and tells me to have Millo, their gardener/helper show me what to do. He laughs and tells me to put it in a sac. What is the deal with the sac? Should I have brought one? I shrug apologetically, I'm a gringa, c'mon, they know I don't know what to do with a chicken if it isn't wrapped in plastic wrap, denude of skin and bones in the refrigerated section of the supermarket. Gimme a break! They do, chuckling to themselves at the poor gringa, innocent as a baby. It occurs to me that they have orchestrated this entire scenario to see me squirm. He shows me how to tie the legs and brings me a sac and puts it inside, all the while repeatedly explaining graphically how to kill it though I keep reassuring him that there is no way that I am going to be the one to kill it. That is what my Tico husband is for.
I walk back to the car, barely able to suppress the smile on my face. Sharon looks confused, then horrified as the bag starts to wiggle around. I say, "A trip to Costa Rica wouldn't be complete without a live chicken in a bag."
NOTE FROM SHARON: A few months ago in Austin, we went with friends to visit a farm, and I had a conversation with Misty (and maybe others?) about processed chicken. I remember telling her that I just didn't want to know where my chicken came from, that I could barely bring myself to eat it as it was, from a package. The conversation stuck with me, because I knew as the words came out of my mouth, that that was one of those positions I'd some day evolve out of. Barbara Kingsolver's book, coinciding with this trip, made me look it square in the eye. I decided that I shouldn't be eating meat if I can't reconcile myself to the reality of where it comes from (not just from an ethical standpoint, but also because of the complicated health and political implications of industrial meat farming).
I didn't watch the whole butchering and cleaning process this time, but--I swear!--I'm going to do it before we leave. And I bet I'll be a little more grateful about my food for having seen it.
Ring ring.
"What's up?"
"Stop by my mom's house to pick up the chicken."
"Okay."
Sharon and I have escaped from the little monkeys and are running around Cobano unchaperoned, buying groceries, getting milk from Asan's grandmother (from the cow, but though some might say it tastes like grass, others, who shall remain nameless, say it tastes like a rubber glove), and saying hello to yet more of Asan's family in town. (He is related to half of the town. At least.) I finally mention to Sharon that we have to stop by my mother-in-law's on the way out of town to get a chicken. Finally, they have caught one for us of the 100-some-odd chicken running around their yard. Sharon groans, imagining a long drawn out visit, yet again, with Rosa Leda. I promise we will be quick. I imagine popping in, picking up a plastic bag with chicken pieces in it, and jumping back into the car.
Well.
I find my mother-in-law at the back of the house talking on the phone. She whispers that the chicken is right over there. I look. I see a wooden crate, upside-down in the yard. I look at her suspiciously. I look back at the crate. Ah, there seems to be a live chicken under the crate. I look back at her horrified. She tells me to just put it in a sac and take it home. Huh? Okay, first of all - it is alive? And second of all, sac? Where? She chuckles at me and tells me to have Millo, their gardener/helper show me what to do. He laughs and tells me to put it in a sac. What is the deal with the sac? Should I have brought one? I shrug apologetically, I'm a gringa, c'mon, they know I don't know what to do with a chicken if it isn't wrapped in plastic wrap, denude of skin and bones in the refrigerated section of the supermarket. Gimme a break! They do, chuckling to themselves at the poor gringa, innocent as a baby. It occurs to me that they have orchestrated this entire scenario to see me squirm. He shows me how to tie the legs and brings me a sac and puts it inside, all the while repeatedly explaining graphically how to kill it though I keep reassuring him that there is no way that I am going to be the one to kill it. That is what my Tico husband is for.
I walk back to the car, barely able to suppress the smile on my face. Sharon looks confused, then horrified as the bag starts to wiggle around. I say, "A trip to Costa Rica wouldn't be complete without a live chicken in a bag."
NOTE FROM SHARON: A few months ago in Austin, we went with friends to visit a farm, and I had a conversation with Misty (and maybe others?) about processed chicken. I remember telling her that I just didn't want to know where my chicken came from, that I could barely bring myself to eat it as it was, from a package. The conversation stuck with me, because I knew as the words came out of my mouth, that that was one of those positions I'd some day evolve out of. Barbara Kingsolver's book, coinciding with this trip, made me look it square in the eye. I decided that I shouldn't be eating meat if I can't reconcile myself to the reality of where it comes from (not just from an ethical standpoint, but also because of the complicated health and political implications of industrial meat farming).
I didn't watch the whole butchering and cleaning process this time, but--I swear!--I'm going to do it before we leave. And I bet I'll be a little more grateful about my food for having seen it.
Sharon: How to Catch a Tarrantula
According to Asan, you chew up a piece of gum really well, and tie it on the end of a string. Then you drop the gum into a tarrantula hole in the ground (looks like a fire ant hole, apparently, but bigger). The little critter bites down into the gum and gets stuck, at which point you can pull him out. Then you and your five-year-old male Tico friends can set them up to fight each other.
Oh...and many thanks to Doug and Debra for initiating us into the world of tarrantulas and scorpions, because Khalida sure didn't warn me to turn on a light and look around before I reached my hand into the laundry bag!!
Oh...and many thanks to Doug and Debra for initiating us into the world of tarrantulas and scorpions, because Khalida sure didn't warn me to turn on a light and look around before I reached my hand into the laundry bag!!
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