Digital Beauty

Here are some photos from the past couple weeks. Our lap top got a virus and crashed last week, so a lot of pictures are currently being recovered by a techie at "Fantasy Video", which itself made for a comedic story in our attempts to find the store by asking directions. We got a lot of weird looks, but one guy looked excited and said he didn't know where "Video Fantasia" was exactly, but instead directed us to a store which, form the outside, was decorated with scantily clad women. Probably not what we were looking for.

Ah, the hospital stay...


No matter what toys are in front of her, Harper will always go for an empty soda bottle, wooden cooking spoon or the buckle on my Chacos.




It started out as an afternoon swim...



But then we got carried away with the bubbles...Jury is still out on whether she liked them or not.



Yeah, maybe not.

crawling...

Now that Harper is officially mobile, I’m quickly learning the importance of cleanliness. From my bird’s eye view, the floors look spick ‘n span. Then I see Harper inspecting a treasure she’s gathered off the ground. It’s a dead cockroach. So out comes the broom, and it seems it has to be that way every hour. Harper has an impressive way of finding the strangest, smallest things throughout the house as she happily crawls around; lint, old pieces of boiled carrot, bird feathers, dead moths, used tissue, etc. She seems very pleased with her new found independence, and loves to journey into all the off-limit objects, corners and crevasses that she must have been longing to explore all these months. Yesterday I ran to the loo for a quick minute and came back to find her surrounded by a pile of previously-unopened baby wipes and diapers with Desitin all over her face. Maybe I should have been upset, but she looked so content amongst the array of baby paraphenalia that I let her be for a while, cream and all.

Crawling definitely makes my job more difficult, but if she’s happy, I’m happy. Unless she’s happy eating a dead cockroach.

just call me the horse whisperer

Yesterday may have changed my life.

When Rivs asked me whether I wanted to borrow the neighbors’ horses, I was a bit scared. The last time I embarked on a horse ride was on the beaches of Guatemala, where I watched poor little blonde Kim from Utah flop around like a ragdoll when her horse decided to Geronimo off the beach and up the main street of Monterico. Horses, I learned, do whatever they please whenever they please, thank you very much. Despite this realization, I knew I needed to be brave like Tristan from Legends of the Fall, and so I enthusiastically replied that oh, of course I’d love to ride horses and yes it’s been a while but no I’m not scared and hey, can we even run them?

So Rivs called Mauricio and asked if we could take them horses for a whirl, to which Mauricio obviously replied, Si. I say obviously because this little town of San Gerardo is filled with some of the most generous and kind people I’ve ever met. And get this. They’re not even Mormons. Nope. Catholics.

Not long after, I watched Mauricio’s wife Flor and their 7 year old daughter Kaila come cruising down our dirt driveway on the two not-so-stallions, and I figured I would be okay. If those girls could ride them horses, then so could I. So I traded Harper for Pinto, saddled up and off we went.

The horses started at an easy trot which made me bounce up and down and to and fro. I looked over at Rivs to make sure it wasn’t just me, and there he was gently gliding along on Mochillo as though they were one. Okay, I guess it was just me.

“Rivs”, I call out. “What am I doing wrong?” I try to ask but my voice sounds like when you’re young and think it’s funny to talk while rapidly moving your finger up and down over your trachea. Rivs suggests that perhaps my stirrups are too low, and so he jumps of Mochillo and hands me the reins. So now I’m holding two horses that are fighting over some apparently tasty fern and I keep worrying that one of them is going to decide to book it at any moment, leaving me flailing behind them like an advertisement off the back of a Cessna. Luckily Rivs is stealthy as a cowboy and has my feet back in the stirrups before Pinto and Mochillo even know that they were on the cusp of freedom.

So off we go again, and I’m still bouncing away. “You must just have a bumpy horse,” Rivers kindly suggests. Do those even exist? Probably not, but yeah, I’ll take it. As we keep going I start to ease up and feel comfortable, despite the constant feeling of car sickness. When Rivs asks if I’m ready to run, I figure hey, why not. WWTD? Anyways, Rivers told me before we left that horses don’t really crash, so as long as I hold on tight I’ll be fine. So Rivs gives Mochillo a gentle kick and the horse takes off , Pinto following closely behind. And let me tell you, it was one of the most liberating feelings I’ve ever felt, even more than the two weeks I decided not to shave my legs. (That one was short lived. Not so liberating after all.)

It started to pour with rain, but we didn’t care as we raced through the mountains on our two makeshift mustangs to reach a beautiful waterfall. Poor fellas. In normal life Pinto and Mochillo’s primary duty is to carry cargo up to the summit of Chirripo slow and steady, and here we were treating them like Seabiscuits. Still, they were troopers and even though they stopped every few minutes to graze and pass wind, they were Black Stallions to me.

P.S Sorry about the lack 'o pictures. We're working with a dial up internet connection here, so uploading takes forever.

Bah Humbug

In a seemingly inexorable countdown to our return to North America, I find myself ignoring the beauty all around me. I never realized how much I truly enjoy the comforts of Northern lifestyle before I spent a year away. Of course I’ve traveled and done the hippie backpacking gig in my teens, but I guess things change when you’re actually living in a foreign land (and have a baby). After a while, exotic novelty wears thin, and all you’re left with is a longing for Food Network and a Big Gulp from 7-11. The irony is that I’ve always prided myself in not being caught up with the trappings of modernity, but in the midst of the rainforest I find myself daydreaming about pushing an oversized cart down the aisles of Costco and loading up on peanut butter and shredded cheese.

On the other side of the gringo continuum, Rivers is in heaven. Unlike my poser-self, Rivs is a hardcore-to-the-bone minimalist. Give him a pair of running shorts and a trail and he’s elated for hours on end. Actually, I bet he’d even forego the running shorts if it were socially acceptable. Yup, just give him a trail and he’s off soaring like the wind into the wild. The past few weeks he’s been working as a porter, waking at 1am every other morning to pack 40 pounds of cargo up a 13,000 foot mountain. As though that weren’t grueling enough, he sometimes runs the extra 5 km to the very summit, just cuz. And then there’s me at home, working hard through a “Big 6” (a series of push-ups, lunges and crunches. Well, maybe not a series. About 5 minutes worth.) and dreaming of Target. Sheesh. When did I get so soft?

Meanwhile Harper is also flourishing amidst her tropical surroundings. She’s started to crawl, point, wave and dance. Ok, maybe I’m getting carried away with a little prideful mom syndrome. I guess I should redefine each of these terms.

Crawl- Yesterday, on four different occasions, she took about 5 crawling steps on her hands and knees in pursuit of her Tigger ball before getting confused and reverting to army crawl.

Point & Wave- I put these together because as of now, they’re the same manoever: Semi-balled fist cocked sideways pointing in the direction of the person she is waving at (usually her own reflection) or towards the thing she wants to inspect up close (usually some kind of animal)

Dance- A few days ago I found Harpern shaking her head to her Baby Einstein music player. Yup, Harper was rockin out to Mozart.

So maybe it’s the abrupt end to my academic endeavors that leaves me feeling anxious to leave. Or perhaps it’s the lack of sun up here in chilly Chirripo. But really, I’m probably just craving some Baked Lay's chips and good old Haagen Daaz ice cream.

Dear Researchees

I know I should be doing this in person, but what I'm about to tell you is just too difficult to express aloud. I just feel so awful and...well...It's over. Yes, I'm breaking up with you. No, no. Don't cry. Please. It will be okay, I promise (I'm wiping a tear from your cheek). And just so you know, it's not you, it's me.

After outlining the extent of our blogging relationship with my thesis advisor, we both realized that this cyber relationship just wouldn't work in the long run. Too many variables, too little theory, not enough statistically significant data. You know how it goes. We just weren't meant to be.

I'm sorry I led you on for so long, thinking that this might actually flourish into something great. Believe me, I thought the same thing. But it looks like we'll just have to go our seperate ways. Thanks for all the people you introduced me to, and for making me beautiful (ahem, Lyndsay Johnson.) But this doesn't have to be the definitive end. Like any good ex-lover, you can still stalk me by reading my blog. I'll even start writing about politics again, and we can just have a casual relationship, no strings attached.

Again, I'm so sorry for leading you on. Please don't forget about me.

Love always,

Steph

Harp-Face Mushroom-Mouth Worm-Butt Drooly Puzey

Of course Harper had to wait until we moved an hour away from the closest doctor to get sick for the first time. And just to give a little perspective on how remote our new abode is, yesterday a man came a knocking on our door to take appointments for the dentist who is 'coming to town' next week. I guess the Costa Rican government gives subsidies to dentists who come from the 'big city' to work on the teeth of us country folk. Yes, I made an appointment. Well, all that to prove that we live quite a ways away from any medical care at all. That's why when a feverish Harper projectile-vomited all over me and a friend's couch a couple of nights ago, I started to worry. (Hypochondriac mom syndrome. Yes, I have a lot of mom syndromes.) Our neighbor friends tried to reassure us that the exorbitant amount of puke was a result of teething, however I decided against the theory when she threw up again once we arrived at home a half hour later. Luckily our landlord (who happens to be the owner of the couch Harper blessed with her cereal-fruit-and-vegetable montage) happens to be the nicest man in the world, and offered to drive us to a doctor's appointment the next day in the nearest town (1hr away).

When the doctor examined the uncharicteristically lethargic and whiny Harper, he found a vast array of white spots in her mouth and on her tongue. 'Ella tiene hongos en la boca', he said, which literally means 'she has mushrooms in her mouth'. "Mushrooms??? But she's never even eaten mushrooms before. That's not on the Gerber baby food nutrition list!" I thought as I pondered the ways in which one would acquire mushrooms in the mouth, and how such a strange mouth harvest would result in projectile vomit. (The aforementioned proves that a master's degree does not equal common sense). Luckily Rivers noted my nonverbal confusion and whispered 'fungus. She has a fungus in her mouth.' Ah yes, that made much more sense.

After the doctor gave us a confusing list of what may-or-may-not be wrong with our lil babe (because mushrooms-in-the-mouth does not usually elicit projectile puke), he told us to go home, and if she still had a fever in 2 days we should come back. Hmm...pretty inconclusive I'd say. Nonetheless we re-diapered our fussy girl and began walking out of the office when all of a sudden...Puke Power once more, this time all over Dr. Indecisive's floor. When the Doc observed the volume and velocity of vomit, he quickly changed his mind about his prior ambiguous diagnosis and told us that we should go to the hospital for observation and rehydration. 'It could be meningitus' he suggested, which I think is the last thing young parents - or any parents- want to hear.

So on to the next medical facility we went. When we entered the doors of the public hospital, there was a long line of visibly sick people waiting to be tended to, surrounded by a hallway full of visibly sick people currently being tended to all in the same room. To the right was another small room whose walls were lined with tiny hooks, each one holding up an IV bag which ultimately led into some poor, exposed patient's vein. I can only imagine the awckward conversations that ensue in that sad little quadrant... "Hey, whatcha got in there? Aw, morphine?! Lucky! Nah, mine's just saliene..." So despite my avid support for universal health care, this display of medical chaos was not what I was used to, even coming from Canada. After waiting in line for about 20 minutes, we decided to splurge (via my dear mum's credit card) on a private clinic. As we were leaving the dismal medical building, Harper started dry-heaving, which really got me going. I raced to the nearest taxi and yelled at the driver (in broken, desperate Spanish) to take us to the nearest private clinic. On the way there, Harper was literally lifeless in my arms. "She's losing consciousness!" I screamed in panic as we approached the doors of the next medical building. This proved to be a correct statement. Harper was losing consciousness, but in the form of a somewhat peaceful sleep. However at the time, I was sure she was slipping away to the hands of meningitus, so I ran into the private clinic only to find a total of 0 pediatricians on staff. WTF?

On to the next hospital we went.

When we arrived at Hospital Labrador, we were met by a calm and smiling pediatrician, which at the time aggrivated me furvently. How could he be so calm when my daughter was obviously on the cusp of death? However I soon recognized my overreaction when I laid Harper down on the examination table and watched as she tried with all her might to catch the stuffed toy on the doctor's stethescope with her little feet. Maybe she wasn't dying after all...

Despite Harper's obvious recovery, the doctor suggested that we spend the night in the hospital for observation and rehydration. Because we live so far away, the doctor was afraid that if she kept throwing up, she could quickly dehydrate, leaving us with little time to get her to a hospital. So they admitted lil sweet babe Harper into the building, strapped her down, and put an IV in her fat little arm. Sucky. Watching her writhe in pain was horrible, but the nurse was great and found a vein on the first try. Unfortunately said vein ruptured, so I pleaded with the doctor to let me give Harper a bottle, and if she vomitted again, they could retry the IV. So I fed Harper, and she fell into a peaceful sleep. By the way, this whole time Rivers had to take the hour-long trip back home because I had forgotten the credit card. When he returned, and after going out into the night to find me a hamburger and fries (what a great husband), we were transfered into a private room with a TV and airconditioning. Harper slept through the night and woke up with a smile on her face, visibly healthy and happy. After the doc came to do a follow-up check, he gave us a perscription for mushroom mouth and let us leave. As we were on our way out, the nurses joked that we hoped we enjoyed our stay at the Labrador Hotel. Luckily overnight ER stays at private hospitals in Costa Rica are cheaper than most hotels. The night in a private room + 2 doctor consultations cost $250 without insurance. Yeah, universal health care. You redeemed yourself.

So we went home with a healthy, happy Harper. The next morning I found worms in her poop, which is so common here that everyone takes anti parasite medication every 3 years. Take that, Dr. Meningitus. You really know how to toy with a young mother's emotions, don't you? Well, you succeeded. But just so you know, next time Rivers sees you, he's gonna punch you square in the femur. Why the femur? Just because it'll confuse you.

poop. (not to be read at the dinner table. or anywhere else, for that matter)

Harper has picked up some new and interesting habits in the past week or so. Her first newly acquired skill – which we all find rather amusing- is to growl while flexing her whole body as rigidly as possible. At first I thought it was her new pooping ritual, but after the results of the first few finger-in-the-diaper tests came back negative, I realized that she was just doing this full body stretch for the fun of it.

Her next trick is to get on her hands and knees and excitedly rock back and forth in her first attempts at crawling. After swaying for a minute or so while covetously eyeing a toy in front of her, she usually gives a confused look as to why her new motions are not getting her anywhere. Eventually she gives up by putting her face down in the carpet in a heartbreaking display of defeat. Don't give up, lil' Harp Face. Your time will come.

Her last trick is not quite as amusing, for me at least. Currently, Harper loves to poop in fresh diapers. It doesn't matter if it's morning, noon or bedtime (which is her favorite time to pull the fresh diaper maneuver), it seems that she waits until right after I change her to let it rip. I've recognized a 5 minute time frame which she allows to pass before proudly pooping her pants, which makes this new fetish at least somewhat predictable. The first time it happened, I thought it was a coincidence. I was putting Harper to bed (which is no easy task in and of itself), and when her limbs were finally limp and in spread eagle position I started to slowly creep away. As I was making my way down the stairs, however, I heard one of her shrieks of delight, followed by that telltale butt grumble...When I returned to her crib, I found her smiling up at me, blatantly proud of her latest accomplishment. I have to admit that, after all the trouble of getting her to sleep, the thought crossed my mind to just let her sleep in her own excrement. Luckily, it was just a fleeting thought, and I eventually bent down, took her from her crib, changed her, and put her back to bed. After some Mason Jennings lullabies, her eyes started fluttering and I knew it wouldn't be long before I was downstairs eating dinner with Rivs, when suddenly...ANOTHER GRUMBLE FROM DOWN UNDER, followed by a close-eyed smile. In disbelief I employed the trusty finger check, just to be sure that I wasn't just hearing things, or that my nost had been confused by the beans cooking downstairs (they have thrown me off before). Unfortunately the test came back positive, and so she was lifted out for one more change. It's been three days since that fateful evening, and at least once a day, Harper proudly pulls one on me, regardless of time, location or mood. She even did it yesterday at the grocery store, forcing me to change her twice on “Maxibodega's” excuse for a changing table made from an old cushion and held up by a thick metal chain. No guard rails, no concave nook, no anti-roll precautions at all. Actually, because of the makeshift chain, the flat cushion actually slopes downwards, which made quite the spectacle.

Don't worry. I haven't posted any pictures of Harper's new trick, just other cute photos we've taken over the past week. Consider yourselves spared.


This is a photo of Harper and her new amiga Bianca, our landlord's daughter.


The baby backpack is becoming our new hammock...