This writer, nurse, mother, adventurer, is busy adventuring with her family. With extremely limited internet access, there was no post this week. She’ll be back in all her writing glory soon. For now, get off the couch and go find your own adventure!
A glimpse into the life of a suicide survivor
“It was his life if he wanted to end it.” “Why did he leave me?” “He just wasn’t built to withstand the pressures of this world.” “How could he do this to me?” “He didn’t owe anybody anything.” “But didn’t he know just how bad he was going to hurt everyone.” “It was inevitable.” “This didn’t have to happen.”
The thoughts and the grieving process that a suicide survivor goes through is a long and complicated one. And one that never truly reaches a resolution. Like all grief, there is a complex cycle filled with an array of emotions from shock to anger to sadness to contemplative acceptance. But in the case of suicide, the grief cycle is much more complicated because the victim and the cause of death are the same entity. There’s no “Stop drunk drivers” “Cancer sucks” “Addiction is a disease” bandwagon to jump on. There’s no perpetrator to hate or blame or prosecute. There’s no “accident” to chalk up to fate or universal plan. And that is not to minimize the loss of persons via other means but instead to point out the fundamental difference of suicide from any other cause of death. In suicide, the same person you love and miss immensely is the same person who pulled the trigger, tied the noose, swallowed the pills. They did it electively. And it is fucking devastating. There will always be questions. Closure is very hard to find. And as a survivor, once you deal with “you”, then you gotta take on society and their lack of finesse and stigmas surrounding your loved ones passing. See my post on Death etiquette if you don’t want to be that person.
When my brother first died by suicide, after the shock of course, it was the “Why did he leave me?” thoughts that consumed me the most, followed by overwhelming sympathy for the horror that he lived inside his mind.
And then, as I reached my contemplative resolution, I decided that he owed no one. He was single, without children and his life was his own to end, if that’s what he wanted. And I accepted that the battle he fought daily in his mind was not for me to judge and was clearly a miserable one. And I reached an inner peace when I could say to him, “It’s okay. I know you had to go. I know it was too much. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
And then I became a mother. I watched my children grow and develop their own struggles. And like the flip of a switch, my thought-process changed and suddenly, it was all less “okay.” I wondered if my brother ever felt a sense of regret. Does he see how far the rest of us have come? Could he see his nieces and nephews and know what he missed? When he pulled the trigger did he wish he could take it back? The few people that have lived despite their suicide attempt, sometimes speak of feeling instant and overwhelming regret upon facing their death. If he hadn’t been drinking, would the outcome have been the same? Regret, to me, is life’s biggest nightmare. I don’t ever want to live with regret. The idea of my brother carrying the same was painful.
I also no longer viewed my children’s lives completely as their own. I grew them. I birthed them. I nurtured them. And me and my village have invested in them out of endless love. As the suicide survivor that I am, I have told my children, “You don’t ever get to check out. For the love that I brought you into this world with, for the love that your friends and family have carried you through different phases of your life with, for the reason you were put on this planet, you are obligated to continue living, always! I will stop at nothing to get you the help that you need and I will be by your side every step of the way. But you must always choose to live.” But is that fear or logic talking?
Choosing to live isn’t that simple, I know. Mental illness is a dark and complex illness and the stigma that is attached to it, is a heavy one. Even with my history and background in education and nursing, I feel it. I hear the comments, I sense the discomfort, I notice the change in tone of voice when people discuss mental health issues. And it is that stigma, that discomfort, that I believe, is killing people in droves. People with mental illness consistently feel alone and yet I can tell you, on any given night there’s rarely an open bed on the psych unit. As a person who has had to help someone through a crisis, I know I spent hours on the phone to avoid the emergency room. And most psychiatrists in my very populated area have wait lists that are months long. Further more, often the most recommended and more specialized psychiatric practitioners don’t accept insurance. But there are options, there are always options!
According to the CDC deaths by suicide are up 25% since 1999. The numbers were making a steady decline after the Great Depression but started to increase in 1986 and in the last 10 years it has skyrocketed. The statistics start at age 10. Girls aged 10-14 and males aged 45-64 show the sharpest increase. Firearms is most common cause of death. Suicide is now the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. The US! The land of opportunity! The land of the free! The land of milk and honey! Why when we have so much are we choosing to end it all? Whether the decision was impulsive or well thought-out and planned for years, persons who choose to die by suicide almost always feel hopeless. Why are we so hopeless?
Maybe it’s social pressures. Maybe it’s a failing mental health system. Maybe it’s unrealistic cultural expectations. Maybe it’s guns. Maybe it’s social media. I don’t know.
What I do know is that it has to stop. And the “pull yourself up by your boot straps” mentality doesn’t work! We need real solutions. We need real change.
While I understand the risks associated with medications and I don’t believe any pill is an easy fix … correcting chemical imbalances saves people’s lives. And when there isn’t a chronic and biological cause for depression or a mood disorder, sometimes medicine, combined with therapy, helps to bid the time to allow someone to get over a traumatic life event. When people publicly shun medication, they contribute to the stigma.
And if you’re not ready for medication, what is the problem with therapy? Why do people avoid seeing a therapist? I mean, if I had a nickel for every time someone said “Oh we don’t need that!”… “I mean, we’re not there yet.”… or “Oh no, it’s not That bad!”, I’d be a millionare! What are you waiting for!? A crisis?! Are you too good to talk to somebody? An expert in the field? And what does that make me? A headcase? An over-reactor? No, it makes me a sister, a daughter, a mother, who refuses to allow history to repeat itself, who refuses to wait until it’s too late.
My brother’s suicide, my uncle’s suicide and the many suicides I have now been personally made aware of since my brother’s passing have forever changed me. I will never be okay with it. I will never get over it. I will forever know the feeling of loss and regret. And I will forever have questions. But I will never ignore a warning sign. Never will I pass up an opportunity for assistance. Never will I rationalize that “We’re not there yet” or assume that we are better than anybody or immune to tragedy. Never will a person’s mental heath issues be a source of gossip or judgment in my presence. Never will I pass up an opportunity for someone who needs to talk. Further more, I will work to never minimize someone else’s struggle and always try to be kind.
Because where someone else sees a “weird kid,” I see my big brother. The teenager “looking for attention” could easily be my own. Who the world writes off as “crazy,” I know, was once a precious little baby that someone loved. And the old man who has “lived a good life” is my father whom I still so desperately need. My family was The family. None of these statistics are just numbers. They are lives, lives who are loved, whether they accept that or not.
I hope you join me in my work.
And to this note, if you want to help, if you want to make a difference, here are a few small changes that we can make to help to change the societal influences of suicide. In addition, consider donating or participating in Out of the Darkness, a walk and movement to help end suicide.
- Stop saying “committed suicide”, instead use “death/died by suicide”. It helps to remove victim blame. Save “committed” for crimes against society.
- Don’t use the terms “successful” or “unsuccessful” when referencing a suicide attempt. Suicide is never a success.
- Don’t share media posts that announce in the headline that the cause of death was suicide. This perpetuates normalcy as well as creates a hype that statistically leads to imitative behaviors. Teens especially, may look for attention in suicide attempts. Attention called to the act or to the details of suicide can encourage risky behaviors that could lead to suicide.
- Focus on the victims or in the case of suicide, the suicide survivors (the loved ones affected by the suicide). The same way school shootings can be sensationalized by the media (and by us) and then copycatted, suicide too, can lead to imitative behaviors. This is decreased when the focus is put on the pain of the surviving family members/friends instead of the cause of death.
- In moments of exasperation never say “Well just do it then” instead make a phone call and get help.
- Don’t refer to it as “an easy way out”-that can be attractive to those persons who are contemplating suicide.
- Take every comment about wanting to die, no matter how trivial or off-handed or passive aggressive it seems, seriously!
Lastly, don’t take life for granted and don’t ever think suicide won’t affect you. Regret is life’s biggest nightmare, save yourself and those you love by remaining vigilant. And always choose love. I pray you never know the pain of a loved one electing to end their life and I pray that you yourself never feel so hopeless that you consider such an end. But if you do, I am always, always here and I will always maintain your confidence and promise to lend an ear without judgement. You are not alone.
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When the little things become the big things and the big things become the little things…
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:
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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”
- 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!
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
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
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.
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.
