Author: amandameneses0101@gmail.com

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When the little things become the big things and the big things become the little things…

chalk board pic for blog

When I was 5, it was learning a new letter, skinned knees, and rain storms that were “big deals”. When I was 10, it was breast buds, a new school binder and a trip to the beach. At 15, it was my own phone line, name-brand jeans and a boyfriend. At 20, it was a new car, a new apartment, a new job. At 25, it was a baby, a new house and a wedding. At 30, it was an ADD diagnosis, a family trip across the country and finally getting date nights again. At 35, it was starting a blog, expanding my career, learning how to raise a teenager and finally feeling really good at the things I did well and completely humbled by my challenges.

Life is forever a journey.

In addition to writing, my followers know, I am also a veteran OB nurse as well as a clinical nursing instructor, perinatal bereavement coordinator, a mother, and a wife. (I know… I know… lots of hats). While I love bedside nursing, am driven to help bereaved families and find writing therapeutic, it’s teaching and raising kids that keeps me mindful of life’s stages and the way those stages formulate our priorities. Through my interactions with my students and in watching my children grow, in all their selfish glory, it is clear that what is meaningful/overwhelming/significant (whether good or bad) to a 10-year-old is very different from that of a 20-year-old is very different from that of a 40-year-old… from that of a 60-year-old.

I was recently talking to someone 10+ years my minor who was horrified that someone mistook her father for her husband. I had to giggle as my own father has aged well and my husband is 18 years my senior. And I told her of the same mistake being made for myself… as well as my husband being mistook for my father. “Doesn’t that upset you?!” she asked. And I had to laugh. You can’t marry someone 18 years older than you and get upset when someone thinks he’s your Dad. He could be! And if my own father’s genetics serve and allow him to appear much younger than he is… Hallelujah! Perhaps something in my genetic make-up might just benefit me.

My flippancy in this moment wasn’t born overnight. It was born from the last 10 years of challenges and experiences which have formed my hierarchy of importance. This conversation is just one of many that reminded me of life stages and priorities and it had me reflecting on my youth.

I remember when I was around 18, I paid almost $200 for a pair of shoes. They were completely impractical, but they were cool. They had these huge wooden platforms that were carved into these psychedelic swirls in the middle. You could literally stick your hand through the swirl in the base of the shoe. The shoe-salesman convinced me that the edgy accessory matched my edgy personality. And I was convinced that I needed to have them. They were so high that walking in them was like walking in stilts – time-consuming and painful. I think I wore them to the club once and spent most of the night sitting down.

I remember when making a statement with apparel was more important than making a statement with words or life choices.

I remember when my money was my own and I had no one to spend it on but myself. I was raised to buy many of my own things from a young age. And in that, I was a step ahead of many. But still, my phone bill, clothes and toiletries, were such little things. But they consumed me. My parents talking about “bills” sounded like background noise. They were always talking about money. But electricity and insurance wasn’t “my problem.”

I remember when I cared what some random girl thought about me; like her nameless opinion held any weight or at all defined my character. Those stupid words could make or break my day back then.

I remember when the highlight of my year was an all-day music festival and I camped-out all night to get tickets. That festival consumed me. I missed some really good acts because I was too drunk or too tired to make my way to that stage. But my friends and rebellion was more important than artistic experience.

I remember my older colleagues talking about the fiber content in food and jokingly asking “At what age will I start to check the fiber content in food?”

I remember listening to parents talk about their children with concern and being so flippant in my response, “Don’t worry about it.” “They’ll figure it out.” “They’ll survive.” I remember seeing mothers cry over their children getting into the same nonsense I was getting into and thinking, “What’s the big deal?”

I remember thinking drugs were cool and psychiatry was amusing.

I remember being hardened and unfettered by virtually everything.

I remember disrespecting the people I love the most and catering to simple fools.

I remember when I trusted that things would “just work out” and when they didn’t, I convinced myself that it wasn’t “important anyway.”

I remember when everything little thing… was a big thing- my clothes, my car, a cute guy, gossip…

And every big thing, seemed so little… like raising kids, medical problems, marriage and finances.

It seemed at times, that adults just over-dramatized things.

And now…

Raising children is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Medical problems literally end lives. Marriage is immensely complicated and yet more rewarding than I ever imagined. And finances? Shit! I wish I could afford those platforms again, but I need a new roof!

The people I once aspired to be, haven’t gone anywhere in life and the old folks who were “outdated,” are my closest confidants.

And I wonder, when that will change again.

Because you see, the last new shoes I bought were for work. I got tennis shoes (I can’t remember how long I went without wearing tennis shoes) because, “fuck what’s ‘cute'”, they help my chronic back pain. And I scoured Amazon to get them for $89. The kids meanwhile have outgrown 3 pairs of shoes that cost just as much.

Bills are the phantoms that haunt my dreams and rob the world of all things “fun”. And I find myself saying all the same things my parents said to us about “Turning off the lights” and “making do” and explaining the cost of all the things children take for granted… and I cringe at myself. Finances are a monthly juggling act and sometimes I wonder how my parents didn’t swallow a bullet when the electricity got turned off, again. I have an education and job security. My parents had odd jobs and 4 kids. My life is full with 2.

I couldn’t care less what people say about me unless I have genuinely hurt their feelings or it taints my professional reputation. Then, I’ll hear them out and prepare my apology or my rebuttal. Thank god my skills and reputation usually speak for themselves.

I can’t remember the last concert I attended, or even the last new movie for that matter. The highlight of my year is usually our family vacation or even just a really good day when everyone is happy and unconsumed by life’s challenges.

Fiber?! Ha, along with the sugar content and protein, salt for my hypertensive husband, artificial dyes for my ADD kids… no wonder grocery shopping takes so long! The nutrients my family consumes is a direct link to their health and longevity. And it all falls on my shoulders. And still, some days I only have energy for Chik-fil-A.

Worries for my children keep me awake every night. It’s not an 18 year commitment, it’s a lifetime commitment. And the love I have for them, no one could have ever described. The fairytale life you envisioned for them isn’t reality. They make their own choices and sometimes those choices are painful. They all come with their own issues and there’s no handbook.

That simple little ADD diagnosis that I once blew off with “Pfff … everybody has that!” has me sitting with my children sometimes 4 hours at a time and e-mailing teachers daily. They cry and I cry when I go to bed. Even with that and a new school and a 504 plan (I’d never even heard of a 504 plan before I had kids!) B’s are a struggle. Why does it seem like everyone’s kids get honor roll every fucking report card!? Keeping up with the Jones’s?! Pfff, most days I’m just in survival mode.

And still ADD is far from the worst diagnosis you could get.

Drugs are a death sentence. I see the casualties at work and in the neighborhood. Those once “cool” kids, no longer have their teeth and they leave their children parentless. And I know them. Please god, don’t let my kids think they are “cool”.

And psych?! Fucking terrifying. I mean the way the mind works is in fact fascinating but with my genetic history, I’m afraid, afraid for my children and what their future might hold. Knowledge might be power but that power can be unbearably heavy at times. Psych is fascinating until it affects the people you love the most. And then it’s heartbreaking.

I used to be so hard. And I’m still pretty damn tough… but 15 years ago, I allowed someone to love me. And in allowing that, I had to take down walls. Those walls are what made me hard. Now I am vulnerable and weak, sensitive and easily hurt, but only by those I hold close. And that isn’t a bad thing. Euphoria does not exist behind steel walls, it is grown when the walls come down.

My profession has taught me to speak to everyone with respect and to find respect for every walk of life. But I don’t cater to anyone. Nor do I have time for petty gossip.

So many things that were once so big feel so small now and the big things in my life now, feel overwhelmingly oppressive… and I wonder when that will change.

I find myself talking to the people who have survived, the “wise owls” and the veteran parents. The people who have maintained a happy 40 year marriage and successfully raised children to become contributing members of society, are the people I look up to now. I’ve learned that “out-dated” often refers to “adaptability” over decades and “class” has little to do with money.

And perhaps, some day, that will all change again.

Sometimes the things that my kids lose their shit over seems so small. Whether it’s a video game or a mean girl at school, I want to tell them, “Honey, this ain’t nothin!” But in order to honor and respect them where they are at right now, I have to remind myself that it’s big to them. 10 years from now, they probably won’t remember who hurt their feelings or how hard their math homework was … but if I support them and respect them instead of dismiss them, they’ll remember that their Mom was always on their team and made them feel important.

And for me, I need to remember that what feels oppressively huge to me right now, might only be a bump in the road when I’m 60. Challenges when they’re new always seem harder. With hard work, we usually survive. And building memories is more important than meeting deadlines.

If life’s patterns serve, my priorities will one day shift and the house repairs, job juggling and my children’s struggles will no longer consume me. Maybe my life expectancy will change my view on long-term planning and finances. And “comfort” will become even more relative. Maybe one day, the projected prognosis of the people I am responsible for raising, will no longer feel so overwhelming; and the little things like matching socks will one day matter again. I believe that what is “little” or “big” is all relative to your life stage.

For now, I’ll try not to roll my eyes at tween drama, I’ll still giggle at the college kids, sympathize with other middle-aged parents, look to the 60 year olds for their wisdom and pray that I die after the kids are grown but before I lose my mind 🙂

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The meaning of Memorial Day … and a cocktail

While summer doesn’t officially start this year until June 21st, many people are feeling summer has now begun. Memorial Day weekend has long been considered the ‘unofficial’ start of summer and is often riddled with activities and excitement. The pools open. Work places use it to differentiate summer holiday versus off-peak vacation time. And even the fashion world has made silly rules about wearing certain colors before that date. Businesses close while others use it as an opportunity to advertise big sales. And everybody looks forward to a good cook-out.

And while I love sales, the pool and a good BBQ as much as anybody, it is critical that we remember the purpose of this holiday. For many service members and their families, it is a solemn day of remembrance for their loved ones- those who have fallen while protecting the liberties we so often take for granted-those who have given their life for their country and left their loved ones feeing broken … proud, but broken.

Be it out in the field or as a result of the overwhelming burden combat has on the human mind (and a failing mental health system) the price our military pay is a heavy one. Few of us go to work accepting the idea that we will be willing to die for the cause in which we defend, including the hardworking and selfless profession of nursing. And yet somehow, we’ve become almost immune to the number of lives doing just that.

And of the soldiers who do walk away, rarely will you find one who hasn’t lost a comrade or whose mind, body and soul, aren’t marred by the scars of their battles. Our service members pay life long prices for their commitment. And it shouldn’t just be those closest to the fallen who feel that pang of loss. Every American should feel it! Memorial Day is a day for all of us to recognize the sacrifices that have been made by our soldiers.

The lives lost are many and their work is nothing less than heroic. Remember them this weekend, and every time you catch yourself taking liberty for granted. Because when you are picking up hot dogs, a wife is trying to pick up the pieces. While you stare at the TV, a mother is staring at a perfectly folded flag. And while you laugh and play, a GI silently goes through his list of losses, again. Where you see the start of summer, others see the faces that are now gone.

While this cocktail may not seem very “American” to some, I chose it for this weekend because its components spoke to me … and it’s delicious! The tropical fruit welcomes the upcoming season. The spices embody the cultural inclusion that this country was built from and fights to defend. And the heat and the burn from the pepper and alcohol remind me of the pain and burn that comes with loss. And yet, it’s the sweetness of life that allows us to tolerate the heat.

Tajin is a lime-chili spice blend often found in the international section of many groceries now. You’ll find it nearest the Latin foods. It is customary in many Central American countries to put chili powder on fruits like mango. Many cultures, Latino and Asian especially, love the way sweet and spicy combinations play on the palate. It is crucial to this recipe. So don’t leave it out! And due to our close proximity to Mexico, we have access to good tequila in the U.S too! I just love the exposure to foods and cultures that we have here.

So here’s to culture, a day off and of course to the men and women who paid the ultimate price for our liberties. Those liberties that allow me to vote, to dress the way I choose, to speak my thoughts and share my ideas … right here on this blog in fact. It allows us to worship, to protect, to create and to build in this wonderful country we call “home”. Bless this country and the lives lost to build and defend it.

Mango-jalapeño margaritas

  • 3 oz tequila
  • 1oz triple sec
  • 2 ripe mangos, juiced and pulped
  • 1 jalapeño, roasted
  • 2 Limes, juiced
  • Salt
  • Tajin (a chili lime seasoning found in the international food aisle)

Roast the jalapeño pepper (oven, grill, gas flame…doesn’t matter) until the skin blackens but not so long that it gets super soft). Once roasted, cut it in half and take about 4 slices from the center (with the seeds) and soak the slices in 3oz of tequila for several hours.

Combine the jalapeño infused tequila with the juice and pulp of the two mangos, 1oz of triple sec and the juice of the limes. Blend with an immersion blender until smooth.

Rub one of the juiced limes along the rims of the glasses and then coat the rims with salt and Tajin. Fill the glass. Serve with the top half of the roasted jalapeño and a sprinkle of Tajin as the garnish. Serve over ice. Makes 2-4 margaritas.

This recipe inspired by freutcake.com.

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The Warrior

He never wanted to be a soldier.

He didn’t ask to be called.

He wasn’t trying to save anybody today. That was the martyr’s job.

He didn’t sign up for this shit show.

He just wanted to go to work, stop for lunch, kiss his wife, have a normal day.

What he didn’t know was,  the grass he was walking on was a battlefield.

He didn’t want to fight.

But when the news came reeling, like a studded bat along his right side. Smacking him in his flank, crushing his ribs on contact …. he had two choices –

To lay down and die, or get up and fight.

For the ones he loves, for the sake of continuance, for humanity … he knew no goodness could come from allowing his will to be shattered or his life to be taken.

He choose to fight.

So he clambered to his feet and took a swing.

A pathetic attempt at first, but with each one, and each one after, he gained more power and more precision.

With every painful blow, knocking the wind out of his breath, he fought harder to breathe.

With every slicing cut, he lost more of the vital liquid that sustained his body, his mind and his heart.

With every loss, he created another scar, another endless ache, another painful memory.

And when the blows stopped coming and he collapsed on the ground in respite, getting back up seemed an even harder feat than withstanding the assault. And he hoped that somewhere there was a hand that would reach down to help him off the field.

With tougher skin than he once had, dirt on his face, scars on his heart and the experience of a battle survived but not won, he picked up his weapon. And moved to a safer place.

And the bystander who saw the fight that he fought, calls him a “Warrior” now – a worthy and respectable title.

But a title that he never wanted. From an attack he would’ve done anything to stop. In a fight, he couldn’t run from, though he tried.

Those in the trenches and on the battlefield know, that the resiliency and might that is seen by day is equally shared by wailing at night. And underneath that harden outer shell is a tender organ that still aches when the warrior goes back to that place.

While the world will see his strength; the darkness, knows his weakness.

Warriors don’t just wear camo, they wear heels and skirts, sweatpants and tennis shoes, ties and jackets, skinny jeans and flats, studs and leather.

Heartache and misfortune know no age, race or locale.

Dirt is oftentimes invisible. Pain is misconstrued. And our skin is just a very thin barrier to the life we try to protect underneath.

Everyone, at one point or another will find themselves on a battlefield. For some it is rare and brief and they come away with a few scratches. And others, just can’t seem to escape that scene and their many battle wounds tell the story of a life that has been unfair.

Though the battlefields of life are often hard to see at first glance, if we are astute, if we can look outside of the bubble of self-consumption, we might just see a comrade with pain in his eyes, who is working harder to succeed, to survive, than we are.

If you can’t join him in his fight, at least be the hand he sees when the battle is over.

If your own leg is bleeding, give him your shoulder to lean on.

Cuz one day, it’ll be you … looking through the smoke, asking for a break, hoping for a friend.

Life is one hell of a battle and the amount of times we will find ourselves out in the field, under the barrage of ammunition, isn’t known to us now. But if we are to survive, we must always be prepared to get back up and take another swing, another try. For when we lay down, we die.

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Strawberry Wine

“I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child   

When one restless summer, we found love growing wild   

On the banks of the river on a well beaten path  

It’s funny how those memories they last 

Like strawberry wine and seventeen …

I still remember when thirty was old … “

Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine,” was a country favorite of mine when I was a teenager. Back then, it was the love story attached to it that I enjoyed. I remember belting out the lyrics in my room, in my mother’s home. I remember wondering if Boone’s Farm counted as strawberry wine. And I remember thinking “Well, thirty IS old.”

And then I got caught up in college. My musical tastes changed a bit. I no longer lived with my mother. And my free time for singing in my room, was taken up with four jobs and 18 credits/semester and boyfriends who distracted me. Love was less of ‘a fantasy’ and more ‘real life’ than it had ever been before. And strawberry wine wasn’t even a thought. Beer pong, shots and rum and coke were the tastes of my college days.

But before I could graduate, before I could even make-up my mind about life and love, I found myself, quite surprisingly, a “Momma” at twenty-one. Love was complicated and so was life. Walking the stage with a one-year-old, working nights, I was too exhausted to drink or sing or even think about how old I was or what music I liked, or what anything I liked. I liked sleep-something I never got enough of.

By my mid-twenties, life and love were starting to make a little more sense and we added number two to the brood. Within two months of becoming a family of four, we bought a house and got married. And then we got a puppy. I was chasing two tots now, plus a pup and still working nights. I was painting the new house and signing up for preschool. The only music that played back then was nursery rhymes and Nickelodeon tunes and the screams of my two small children. Every night I flopped into bed, again exhausted. And wine and age still didn’t matter.

At twenty nine, I started to find myself again. My husband and I had our first getaway, eight years after becoming parents, to Chile, to meet his family. Everyone told me how “young” I was, surprised I guess, at how settled I was for my age. And in the country where wine is cheaper than water, I fell in love with the fermented fruit beverage. We even found a winery in our home state that made wonderfully sweet fruit wine. Our favorite, was of course, Strawberry.

And now, in the later half of my thirties, somewhere amongst the busyness of career and family building, I passed that mile marker that I so often sang about. I passed thirty. And I know I’m not old. Yet, somehow I’m the mother of a high-schooler and a middle-schooler. And gray hair is beginning to replace my mousey brown. I’m back to four jobs again; but this time, each one addresses a talent or identifies a component of myself, instead of just serving monetary means-though that certainly matters as well! My body is slightly less tired than when my children were tots but my mind is overwhelmingly so. I like many genres of music. I have a few close friends. My family means the world to me. I don’t have time for bull shit and I don’t apologize for who I am. Fighting for the greater good is always important to me. And my vacations are just as fulfilling as my careers.

Love and life, I’ve learned is never mastered, ’cause it changes as we age; but I’m thankful that I have both lived and loved well.

I love wine, but I’m more of a Cabernet girl now-dark and bold and just dry enough to make you smack your mouth without tasting oaky. But sometimes my husband sweetens it up by adding diced strawberries and a sprinkle of sugar and turning it into Chilean Borgoñia (recipe post below).

A lot has changed in the last 20+ years, since I first sang those words. Life, love and motherhood have taken many twists and turns. Most of which, I could have never predicted. No longer a child in my mother’s home, but a mother myself in a home that is my own, with a husband that sustains me, the meaning of the words hold a different weight now. And the love story is less significant than the theme of loss and remembrance.

My husband will hear the tune come on and say “Go ahead babe, take it away….” He’ll turn up the volume and the kids will roll their eyes. And I will once again belt out the lyrics of “Strawberry Wine.” For those few minutes, I’ll remember what it was like when I was seventeen, “caught between a woman and a child.” I’ll remember those “restless summers” and the ‘bittersweet taste’ of life and love and the ‘loss of innocence’. And I can never decide if I feel closer to seventeen or thirty or eighty.

Whatever your stage of life, love, or motherhood, I hope you find yourself on your journey. I hope you take time to belt out lyrics. And I hope, just once, you taste the sweetness of Strawberry Wine.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Strawberry Wine Fizz

  • 2 cups strawberries
  • 2 cups lemonade
  • 1 TBS sugar
  • white wine, chilled
  • sprite, seltzer or tonic water for fizz

Blend strawberries, lemonade and sugar in a blender and pour the mixture into ice-cube trays. Freeze. Once frozen add a few ice cubes to a glass, top with wine and a splash of your choice of sprite/seltzer/tonic for fizz. Drink as is, or blend. I used tonic and I blended it.

This is light and easy for anyone to drink. What’s even better, is that ice cubes are non-alcoholic, so kids and non-drinkers can easily make the virgin version by simply leaving out the wine.

And as referenced above, a Chilean version of borgoñia using fresh strawberries and wine:

It’s Strawberry Season! Let’s drink!

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Amanda’s Ruby Slipper

Ever wanted to click your heels three times and just go away for a little bit? Maybe not run away forever … but just a little break – A little rendezvous with a tin man, a dance with a scarecrow or a little adventure with a lion? Ever wished your cracked driveway was paved in gold instead sprouting weeds? Or that you lived in a land with some wonderfully royal name like “The Emerald City” that was ruled by a wizard instead of a royal buffoon. Sorry, I couldn’t help it! That’s the liberty portion of the blog LOL!

Maybe the kids screamed just one too many times today. Maybe your spouse came home from work grumpy, again! Maybe work sucks and the electric bill doubled. Maybe the dog took a shit in the living room, the fridge is leaking or the car won’t start.

Well in lieu of taking a nap in a field of poppies, here’s another little break. This is my version of Ruby Slippers. You don’t have to click three times, you just pour and then shake or stir … same difference … no weird Oz to fight with and the only wicked witch is you if you don’t intervene.

A google search yielded another recipe for a “Ruby Slipper;” but the name was too perfect for this cocktail as it contains Ruby Red Grapefruit vodka and juice and martinis are my “take me away”. So I created and dubbed this:

“Amanda’s Ruby Slipper”

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  • 1 oz vodka
  • 1 oz Deep Eddy’s Ruby Red Vodka
  • 1/2 oz Ruby Red grapefruit juice
  • 1/2 oz unsweetened cranberry juice
  • 1/2 oz spiced cranberry simple syrup

It is sweet enough without being overly-so. It is strong enough to be enjoyed by drinkers and mild enough that a less-experienced drinker could also enjoy it-or add a little more juice. I love both cranberry and grapefruit and the combination of the two with a hint of cinnamon and other spices in the simple syrup, hits the mark for me. I hope you enjoy it as well!

The grapefruit vodka and juice came from my recent post:  https://lifelibertyandlibations.com/2018/04/15/grapefruit-the-strangely-large-citrus-taking-over-summer-drink-recipes/

The unsweetened cranberry juice and spiced simple syrup are left over from my holiday libations posts :

Keepin it Festive … the historic and brilliant cranberry … in a cocktail!

The Bitterness of the Holidays

Yes, I am that resourceful. Yes, the juice and simple syrups keep that long.

Enjoy! I hope it gives you the “take me away” that you need, even if it lasts just a few sips.

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Happy Wife … Happy Life

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It's an age-old saying amongst satisfied, wise-old, married men, the advise my husband gives at every wedding he attends (when requested) and it's inscribed on a wooden plaque that sits in my living room. "Happy Wife, Happy life" aka "When Momma ain't happy, ain't no body happy!"

We are the matriarchs. We run the household, ensuring the family is well fed, well dressed and safe. And given the standards of today's living, we also work outside the home. I don't know if it's because we're biologically better at multi-tasking or because culture takes a long time to change or if it simply has to do with our propensity to control the environment around us; but most women I know carry the majority of the load when it comes to the family’s needs. From signing permission slips to making costumes, knowing what days the kids need a clean P.E uniform to coordinating the baby shower at work. Few women I know come home and play video games or read the newspaper. We work and we care and we nuture, constantly! And while the income gap amongst men and women still exist, women are working just as many hours outside the home as men are, whilst still maintaining the majority of the household chores. Mothers and wives today are doing even more than we ever have. And we are tired and burnt out and many marriages are suffering.

We all say "It's the little things that matter." So, put your words into action! … Here's a whole list of little things that you can do if you want a happier wife.

If you want a happy wife …

Start with a kiss when you leave the house, whether she's sleeping or not.

Then, when you know the time in her day when she's up and at 'em and just getting going … or, if you both leave at the same time, maybe her lunch time … send her a text that says "I love you babe!" You will stop her in her busy tracks and enter her thoughts while you are away from one another. It's a way to let her know you think of her without taking her time and attention away from work.

Tell her she's beautiful – every day! EVERY DAY!

When you see her in the kitchen or cleaning the house, ask her if you can help. And even if she says no, find a way to help her anyway, even if it's pouring her a glass of wine.

Thank her for your meal every time she cooks, even when it's terrible.

And speaking of wine, don't get yourself a drink without asking what she'd like. Offering someone a drink is as chivalrous as holding the door. And stop with your "but feminists…" BS. We all like chivalry.

When she gets all quiet and tense – rub her shoulders, kiss her, let her fall into you if she wants or walk away if she needs. We can't always talk and don't often have the energy to handle another human when we are stressed, but we don't want to be alone either. Let her know that you see her and are there for her but you don't want to burden her. Don't taunt her with "Ohhh … somebody's icey/bitchy"… women often keep their worries to themselves and you don't always know what burden she's carrying.

If she's doing quiet work while you watch TV or play games, come to her and ask if she'd like a snack or a cup of tea … 2 min, and she'll know you notice her and think of her.

Find little ways to surprise her: Make the bed and turn her side down. Leave her flowers. Pack her lunch for her. Fill up the gas tank. Leave work early and offer to pick up the kids.

Ask her to sit next to you and snuggle when you sit to watch TV – even if you're uncomfortable, tolerate it once in a while.

Ask her how her day went.

Kiss her before bed.

When you make love, think only of her and how to rock her world.

Tell her that you love her.

 

Still worried about you? Do all these things in the absence of yelling, name calling and accusations. Do it without a time line or an expectation of getting anything in return … make it an indefinite change. You'll amazed at how she loves you back!

 

Want a happy husband?

Start with a kiss when you leave the house, whether he's sleeping or not.

Then, when you know the time in his day when he's up and at 'em and just getting going … or, if you both leave at the same time, maybe his lunch time … send him a text that says "I love you babe!" You will stop him in his busy tracks and enter his thoughts while you are away from one another. It's a way to let him know that you think of him without taking his time and attention away from work.

Tell him he's wonderful – every day! EVERY DAY!

When you see him working on something or outside doing yard work, ask him if you can help. And even if he says no, find a way to help him anyway, even if it's bringing him a beer.

Thank him for your meal every time he cooks, even when it's terrible.

Don't get yourself a drink or a snack without asking what he'd like, it's only considerate. And respect and mutual consideration is the key to a healthy relationship.

When he gets all quiet and tense – rub his shoulders, kiss him, let him rest on you if he wants or walk away if he needs. They can't always talk and don't often have the energy to handle another human when they are stressed, but they don't want to be alone either. Let him know that you see him and are there for him but you don't want to burden him.

If he's doing quiet work while you watch TV or play, come to him and ask if he'd like a snack or a cup of tea … 2 min, and he'll know you notice him and think of him.
Find little ways to surprise him: Make the bed and turn his side down. Leave him a special little treat. Pack his lunch for him. Fill up the gas tank. Leave work early and offer to pick up the kids.

Ask him to sit next to you and snuggle when you sit to watch TV – even if you're uncomfortable, tolerate it once in a while.

Ask him how his day went.

Kiss him before bed.

When you make love, think only of him and how to rock his world.

Tell him that you love him.

And do it all in the absence of yelling, or nagging, or expectations.

 

Sometimes, despite our very best efforts, we can't make someone happy. Maybe they've already checked out and maybe their unhappiness rests inside of them and is untreatable by others. But before you say "I've tried", "I've done what I can." "I can't make him/her happy." Start with this very simple little daily list and see where it takes you. Think this is too much work? Then you don't know the fulfillment of a happy marriage. Trust me, it's worth it!

 

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Grief

crying angel

Grief is feeling as though you’ve lost your soul; but knowing that without a soul, you wouldn’t hurt this bad.

 

It is a pain that can’t be numbed by any pill, bottle or syringe.

It is a monster that can’t be out-run or out-smarted. And there is no place to hide.

It is wishing that you could die, but knowing that your death would only cause more grief.

It is being lost in a maze of shadows and not knowing where the fuck to turn.

It is being so consumed by darkness that when a sliver of light sneaks in, it hurts your eyes and burns your skin.

It is begging for a way out and being answered with unbearable silence.

It is the weight of a thousand bricks on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

It is the angst of being buried alive. And just talking, you feel as though you are choking on dirt.

It is lead on your feet, making it hard to get out of bed. Every step is painful, every step is work.

And lead on your heart, cold and stiff, making it hard to feel again.

It is panic and feeling your pulse race … and then devastation … feeling so empty that you’re sure your ventricles no longer contract.

It is a flood of feelings and thoughts so overwhelming that you can’t begin to hear all the voices screaming at you … and in the next minute it is an absence of thought and a miserable feeling of being alone.

It is worry and nagging uncertainty for the future and everything you know.

And it is sorrow and an unbearable longing for the past.

It is anger and impossible frustration for a change that will never happen.

It is pain that has no cure and a journey that seems endless.

And

It is evidence that you loved and lived.

It is a sign of your dedication and humanity.

It is the first step in healing … A long and painful process that leaves scars.

Like waking up out of surgery with no anesthesia on board. Or waking up out of a nightmare, still screaming, before you realize it was a dream. But this isn’t a dream.

It’s the hardest and longest journey, but an inevitable one.

It is the opportunity to sit with your pain and commune with your demons. To make peace with your weakness and to allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It is finding solace in your sorrow. And then,

It is finding the courage to start to crawl. It is finding the strength to break the lead away from your feet … and your heart. And to feel the aching relief as you stand and take your first step. It is breaking down the walls and breaking out of the maze of misery. It is allowing light to pierce your eyes and seeing the world from a different view.

In time, your heart will regain a normal rhythm. Your lungs will learn to breathe again. And the light will one day, no longer hurt your eyes or burn your skin. Your steps will lighten and your stride will hasten.

Your memories will remain of a life you once knew, a life that was simpler and brighter and more comfortable. And those memories will both soothe and ache.

And the impression from the lead on your feet and your heart, the taste of dirt in your mouth, the scars from a loss you will never forget, will always be there.

But they will fade with time.

And as they fade, you will realize the strength and the wisdom that you gained, from surviving your greatest loss.

 

Grief is wishing that you never had a soul … but knowing that without a soul, you never would’ve loved. And sometimes, you just don’t know which is worse.

 

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Grapefruit … the strangely large citrus taking over summer drink recipes

Grapefruit … it’s the big, awkward yellow ball in the fruit isle. Too big really to sit next to its other fruit counterparts; like a 3rd grader, in the Kindergarten classroom. It’s peel is an illusion to the fruit it hides inside – either pale like a lemon or bright pink. And unlike many others, it’s not a grab and go fruit. It takes preparation before consuming. A slightly tedious job, cutting out each individual segment of the separated halves, it’s almost ceremonial. The flavor is sour and bitter at the same time; but add a little sugar and I find it to be amongst my favorite flavors. It’s been a love of mine since I was a child and nowadays, I rarely take the time, but when I do, I always wish I bought them more often.

Famed for a diet named after it in the 80s, its been less thought of in the last 2+ decades. But this summer it’s big again and it’s making its mark in the drink world!

Deep Eddy’s Ruby Red Vodka is on fire right now! A sweetened and deliciously flavored vodka, it pairs well with tonic, sprite, and club soda or quite frankly, could be sipped over ice all alone! Throw some juice at it – like pomegranate or a berry lemonade for a fruity spritzer, use it to flavor a margarita, or even turn it into a mule by combining it with ginger beer. It really is a versatile liquor.

Grapefruit beers and radlers (a beer: juice/soda combo) are also quite the thing right now! I stumbled upon Shock Top’s Ruby Fresh and it reminded me very much of a grapefruit hefeweizen I drank in Epcot’s Germany pavilion. It was delicious and it had me wishing I could buy a 12 pack of just that flavor instead of the variety pack-but the other flavors were good enough too.

Then, I discovered that that German grapefruit hefeweizen I was referring to is made by Schöfferhofer and is now being sold in bottled 6 packs! So, I ran out to buy it as well. I love them and want to stock up in case they pull them after the season!

And while all of these are excellent and easy choices. I decided that I also needed an actual cocktail.img_4568

Here goes my version of :

The Charleston Fizz

  • 3 oz Red Grapefruit Juice (I used Trader Joes)
  • 2 oz of Gin (Tangueray is my go-to)
  • 1/2 oz Elderflower syrup
  • mix and top with ice and seltzer to taste

I enjoyed this cocktail for a few reasons. Mostly, it is my new preferred breakfast drink. As a grapefruit lover, I’d much prefer this over a mimosa. It’s not overly heavy or sweet. The elderflower syrup complements the grapefruit nicely without over-powering it. And for me, Gin is better than Champagne any day! The original recipe calls for fresh tarragon, which I didn’t have – not sure how that would change my opinion of the drink.

And for those who are looking for a simpler-to-make but worthy cocktail:

The Petite Fleur

  • 1 1/2 oz white rum
  • 3/4 oz triple sec
  • 3/4 grapefruit juice

This cocktail has been dubbed “an award-winning pre-dinner cocktail”. I find it lovely; but true to a good martini, it does pack a good punch. If you’re not a drinker … stick with Deep Eddy’s and a mixer.

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Kindness

holding hands pic

I don’t know if it was the last week, or the year, or the last 36 years … but I found myself, after recently being the subject of a lot of anger and verbal abuse … self reflecting. And in my reflection, I contemplated this last week, this last year, the last 36 years. And what I discovered was that amongst all the things I disdain, a lack perspective, a lack of empathy, a lack of effort, self-entitlement, self-absorption, complacency, selfishness … the thing that I dislike the most, is a lack of kindness. And if I could pick just one thing that I desire the most from humanity, Kindness would be it.

Nurses often times find themselves as subjects of unkindness. Our patients are ill. They are in pain. They have lost independence, control and the life they once knew. Their families too, have lost these things. Sometimes we have to stand alongside their doctor while they are given a devastating diagnosis, or told “I’m sorry, we did everything we could.” And sometimes we stand alone when we clean their wounds or bathe their dead loved one. My worst days at work, are the ones that despite my best efforts, to love, to heal, to minister, to analyze and to advocate, end in ridicule, accusations, and insults. They are the days that I have given of myself until I have nothing else left to give … and what I gave, still wasn’t enough.

Mothers often times find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our children are learning. They are growing. They are seeking independence and experience and wisdom. Sometimes my advise and restrictions, my love and my best efforts are met with push-back, lack of appreciation, criticism, and disrespect. And when our children don’t perform at their best, the world too, loves to blame mothers. They love to give unsolicited advise and suggest inadequacy. They look past the individualism of the offspring and place all responsibility on their mother-as if the mother is the child themselves. If only we had been home more -or- worked harder, made stricter rules -or- hadn’t been so strict, loved them more -or- hadn’t coddled them so much. I always feel the worst for the mothers of children who hurt other people, like school shooters; because not only has that mother lost her child in a most horrific event, there is a whole army of people hating her and judging her because of her child’s very poor choice/illness. The guilt and the ostracization must be unbearable.

People in any role, find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our beliefs, lifestyles, appearances and our mere existence, open us up for judgement, opinions, prejudices and contempt. Sometimes it is an intentional attack and other times we are merely the victim of an unwarranted unleashing because we were the one standing there when someone had a bad day, got bad news, objectified us as their momentary punching bag. Regardless of the who, what, where and why, it is enough to ruin our day, our week …

A careless act of cruelty is for some, enough to ruin a life.

And yet, a simple act of kindness, can be enough to save one.

What I realized in my self-reflection was that it’s not the hard tasks, it’s not being pushed to my physical limit, it’s not managing one’s anxieties or handling one’s fears. It’s not giving the bad news or wiping the tears, establishing restrictions or confronting death. It’s not moving past the judgement you want to make and choosing love instead – Those things are not what I find to be the hardest. I don’t seek the easiest patient, the easiest kid or the easiest life, but what I do seek, is for kindness to be met with kindness. And when it isn’t, it hurts.

Maybe I am more vulnerable than I once was. Maybe, living my life in a safe place with a family and a husband that love me, has made me weak. Maybe the hardships of my past have weathered me. Or maybe I’m finally past them and I’ve become accustomed to my security. Maybe I’ve reached exhaustion and I just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. I want to use to my energy to help instead. Truly, life is still hard but the army of people that I have built, help to carry me. In order to build that army, I had to open myself up to people and soften my edges. And the angst I now carry, seems to sit under a thinner skin than I once wore.

I try to remember that others just aren’t there yet. That others are still very angry and lack the support that I now have. Whether its politics, or waiting in line, a diagnosis or a lack of therapy, some people use other people to release their frustrations and to gain power. And the easiest way to process pain, is to blame and hurt others, so as not to allow the pain to penetrate one’s own heart.

Regardless of their reason or their story, it fucking hurts.

It hurts when people aren’t kind.

When I was a kid and other kids teased me because I was skinny or because I didn’t have the same name-brands they did, it hurt.

When I was a teenager and I didn’t have a car, or the same cute styles or perfect teeth and I didn’t live in the same affluent neighborhoods as the other kids, and that made me “not popular” … When people knew me as the “girl whose brother died” instead of as “Amanda”, it hurt.

When I was 21 and a new mother and people no longer wanted to hang out with me because my “baggage” no longer allowed me to go to the club, it hurt.

When someone makes negative assumptions based on my religious views, political persuasion, or my physical appearance … when they insult my children, talk about others in a derogatory fashion, mistreat the less fortunate, or tell insulting jokes, it still hurts.

And after 13 years of nursing, 14 years of motherhood and 36 years of living a life that has had more tragedy than I often care to divulge, I just don’t want anymore hurt.

The truth is, life works better when we are kind. People are more apt to meet our requests, to cooperate with one another and to consider another perspective. Kindness yields a cohesion that conflict and aggression simply cannot.

Some of the people who I love the most, have religious and political views that differ greatly from mine. I am a strong personality and a self-proclaimed free-thinker. You won’t find me bending to anyone’s will if it doesn’t sit well with me and I am no “ass-kisser”. I am known to say what I mean and mean what I say. And I am oftentimes abrupt in my delivery. But I hope my ways are never misconstrued as unkind. If we can be kind and respectful, we can express our views and explain our perspective without insults or scoffing. If we’re lucky, it’ll lead to compromise and if we’re less lucky, it might still yield a gained perspective by both parties. Kindness never leads to broken hearts, a loss of a relationship or hurt feelings. Kindness never destroys.

We are all on our own journeys. We all face challenges and adversaries, bad days and bad luck. We have all said things that we wish we hadn’t and we’ve all made choices that we wish we could undo. Each of us carry a cross – perhaps of different weights and of different woods, but it is heavy nonetheless and burdensome. And we just never know what someone else is carrying. Sometimes, those who appear the strongest, carry the heaviest crosses. And sometimes the weak, are weak from a long journey.

It might be harder some days, but it doesn’t use any more energy to be kind than it does to be angry. And it doesn’t have to be attained with some Noble Peace Prize sized effort.

It’s a smile. It’s a “thank you”. It’s an “I understand.” It’s not accepting an undo defeat or stooping to lower standards but respectfully pointing out that, “I appreciate your efforts, but this will have to change.” It’s not weakness, but strength. It’s maturity. It’s wishing someone well, whether you like them or not. It’s making eye contact and giving them just a minute of your attention instead of ignoring them. It’s stepping away for a moment so that you can gather yourself instead exploding insults all over everyone. It’s self-expressing that you yourself are frustrated, afraid, anxious, or overwhelmed and that your angst has nothing to do with the person you are interacting with. It’s saying, “I’m sorry.”

People need to hear that. People need to see that.

“There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my hearts are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.” – Dalai Lama

In a world where you can be anything, Be Kind.

 

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Tradition is the Chocolate Egg in my Easter Basket

IMG_3482

 

In my house, Easter egg dying was always a family affair. A day or so before Easter we’d boil, cool and divide up the eggs. And the four of us kids would spend a solid hour or two dunking our eggs and decorating them with stickers or a magic egg-writing crayon. Some of those brightly colored eggs always found themselves in our baskets. And it was obvious, at least later in life, that our baskets were always hand-prepared, never the store-bought variety. The contents were always economical, but thoughtful. And when the Easter bunny came, he hid them in various places in our home. When we awoke, we scampered through the house excitedly to find them. If you accidentally found someone else’s, the rule was that you quietly put it back so as not to ruin the discovery for your sibling. My parents got a basket too, which my playful father always managed to find and hand-over to my Mom.

After baskets came a yummy breakfast. And after breakfast was church. After church, we’d run home to eat more candy and my mother would finish her side dishes to bring to my grandparents house. We’d parade over to my grandparents house in our Easter clothes, which usually had chocolate on them by that point. And there, the whole family would gather. We feasted on ham and scalloped potatoes, green beans and fruit salad. And we talked and we laughed and we played. The kids compared the goodies in their baskets and ran around on sugar highs, while the adults enjoyed a break from their weekly stressors and shared stories.

And so tradition would have it that my children too, have hand-prepared baskets that are hidden in the house. The same rule applies for finding your sibling’s basket and the same parent basket finds its way there too, with a few dark chocolates and maybe some coffee. Over a yummy breakfast, we excitedly anticipate the change in the seasons and we start making our warm weather plans. And while my children get just as excited about candy as any other kids would, they always ask, “Where are we going for Easter?” Easter dinner is what they’re referring to … because they know that holidays mean family. And if ever they spent an Easter without at least some of their cousins, they’d be devastated. And my children know that regardless of where we go, we never show up empty-handed. Mommy always has dishes to prepare; and the kids, anxious to play with their cousins, hurry to get ready and help carry the items out to the car. And when we arrive at our destination, we feast and we talk, we laugh and we play.

Some things have changed. My grandparents are no longer living and Easter is often rotated. Some family have moved out-of-state. And as the family grows, so too does their experiences and their extended family. Some, like me, have also changed our religious beliefs and practices. But we all still treasure tradition.

 

Living my life as a self-proclaimed non-believer, every holiday that rolls around, there’s always someone who has some sort of remark about why I am celebrating a “religious holiday.” I then feel compelled to educate them on how most Christian holidays started out as Pagan holidays and practices, which the Christians essentially re-purposed and re-named in an effort to more easily convert the Pagans. And I’m usually met by blank stares as few people who make such remarks actually know the history of world religion and culture.

The truth is, egg decorating and fertility festivals pre-date the first “Easter” or “Resurrection Sunday” and eggs and bunnies have virtually nothing to do with Christ’s resurrection. Rabbits, who reproduce readily, have been a symbol for goddesses of fertility since ancient times. And the first “Easter bunny” most likely came from a German fable. Easter as we think of it, culturally, has much more to do with German traditions and the Pagan “Spring Re-awakening.” And these customs and practices have been largely adopted by Christians and re-configured to suit the needs of Christian teachings.

Similarly, many of the customs surrounding Christmas, stemmed from German roots and Pagan festivals. Decorating cut trees came from a custom associated with the “Feast of Adam and Eve”-a tradition based on the Old testament, not Christ. Whereas, decorating outdoor trees, particularly, evergreens, was a Pagan practice. In fact, in the early Christian Church, decorating with evergreen was banned during the Christmas season due to its associations with Paganism. The Pagan Festival of Lights involved lighting homes and tombs in honor of several gods and goddesses. And the gift-giving festival for the Roman god Saturn, which coincided with the Winter Solstice, was a widely celebrated festival that early Christians sought to replace. Jesus’ actual birth is unknown, though some historians believe he was likely born in Spring.

So why do I keep getting blasted with “Jesus is the Reason for the Season”?!

Well, that’s because Christians decided long ago, what they would celebrate and when. Christianity holds the majority in many countries, including the United States. Those religious meanings have become their tradition, and for them, these holidays hold great religious significance. The world and the U.S. is a collection of people who hold various beliefs and various customs. If we want to peacefully co-exist, we must learn to have a mutual respect for one another. We must learn to accept that different holidays, different customs, have different meanings for different people. Those of us who choose to celebrate a holiday or a custom simply for its tradition, should respect the sacredness that the holiday holds for religious observers. And those who find religious significance in their holiday celebrations should acknowledge that many of the holiday traditions are a collection of both religious and non-religious customs, many of which have ancient roots that have nothing to do with their current beliefs.

In the U.S. in particular, one will find a mosaic of cultural influences which create the holiday celebration as we know it today – much like a holiday table is a mosaic of familial recipes. Everyone in my family agrees, we have to have my father’s mother’s rolls and my mother’s grandmother’s corn pudding and my grandmother’s pineapple salad. My children will hopefully continue these and then add a Chilean dish or my self-invented marshmallow-jello parfait. Just like family recipes can come together to create a wonderus feast that satisfies all who come to it, religion and culture too, can coexist and fulfill our needs.

So, if Christians can take their egg-filled baskets into church to be blessed and their parents can use the fertile symbol of a hard-boiled egg to instead illustrate Christ’s empty tomb … than non-Christians too can use the traditions associated with a holiday to teach and celebrate with family. While Easter Sunday does not include a church service for my immediate family, it does include family togetherness, the celebration of life and generations of tradition. And those traditions are the sweetness of life. They are our comforts and the things we look for above all else in an ever-changing world and an ever-changing life.

Tradition is your grandmother’s recipe. It’s a monogrammed stocking or a basket that you held year after year and the one that you look for. It’s the cookies and milk for Santa. It’s reading the same story or poem on the same day every year until you can practically recite it yourself; but you don’t, out of reverence for the moment. It’s candles on a cake and a song that you sing. It’s a routine you expect … a custom you’ve adopted. It’s the threads of your past that are woven into your soul and tie you to your ancestors; and it creates a beautiful and varied textile that you can’t help but to wrap yourself in. And it didn’t come about overnight or from one single source but from many places and many people over many years. It is comfortable and familiar and exciting. It’s the chocolate egg amongst all the other candies and tiny gifts that change with time. And without tradition, there would be a void that is as palpable as a hollow chocolate bunny … or an empty tomb.

Happy Easter! Happy Passover! Happy Spring Re-Awakening! Happy Jelly Bean day! Happy Traditions … whatever you want to call them!

 

Below are articles I referenced and ones that are worth reading if you have interest in holiday traditions:

http://www.wisegeek.org/where-did-the-tradition-of-the-christmas-tree-come-from.htm

https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/easter-symbols

http://listverse.com/2012/12/15/10-remarkable-origins-of-common-christmas-traditions/