Jessica Smock

  • HerTake: Your Friend, Not Your Free Editor

    Today’s question comes from a writer who feels that friends and acquaintances who ask for “quick” editing help for their writing projects or their teens’ college essays, for example, are taking advantage of her friendship. We bet that readers from many professions can relate.

    Do you have a question for Nina? Use our anonymous form. You can read Nina’s answers to past questions here.

    Ask (1)

    Dear Nina,

    I am a writer with print and online credits and a blog. However, I think my question applies to lawyers, doctors, nutritionists, physical trainers, or really anyone with a business that relies on expertise.

    Let me start by saying that I consider myself a generous and attentive friend, but I am struggling to know where the line is between allowing myself to be taken advantage of and helping my friends.

    Here’s the situation: Friends and acquaintances often ask me to “take a look at” (in other words, help with) their writing or their kids’ writing. I’m talking about college admission essays, special occasion speeches, blog posts, articles, or even basic emails. I also have acquaintances who want to get into the publishing business, perhaps as a blogger, who send me their essays to read, ask for detailed feedback and sometimes for the names of the magazine and site editors I’ve worked with in the past. Sometimes it truly is a just quick read and I’m happy to help. Other times, the editing or publishing advice requires much more of my time and energy than I am comfortable giving, but I have a hard time saying no.

    I don’t want to resent my friends, but I don’t feel comfortable asking for some kind of payment, especially since I’ve never set up an official editing business. Do you think it’s okay to charge my friends/acquaintances for this type of help even though I do not run an editing business and do not necessarily want to run an editing business? I’m not sure how I can explain to a friend that at some point as I’m helping her kid with a college admissions essay, for example, that I’d want to be compensated for my time.

    As an aside, I have a few “go-to” writers who edit my work every now and then, but it is almost always reciprocated eventually. I look over their work, they look over mine. It’s an unspoken, equal arrangement. I am referring to something different with these other requests. My main question is this: What is the best way to let a friend know that she (or he) has crossed a line from asking for a quick favor to taking advantage of me?

    Thanks for any advice,

    Your Friend, Not Your Free Editor

    Dear Your Friend, Not Your Free Editor,

    Thank you for this question! I have the same problem, but receiving your question really pushed me to think more about how I want to handle these writing/editing favors in the future. People ask me for the same sort of help you’ve described: “the quick looks” that include emails back and forth for days even when I think I’ve said all there is to say; the college admissions essays that I don’t feel quite right about helping with anyway; the publishing and blogging advice; and in my case, advice about Twitter and other detailed social media questions. I don’t mind giving a quick read and an overall opinion or a quick look at a site or a Twitter feed, but when it starts getting to the paragraph-by-paragraph questions or more involved strategy questions (for social media or blogging), then I feel like I’m spending time that could and should be billable, or spent on my own work, or not spent on my computer.

    To tell you the truth, I had a hard time even writing the previous paragraph because, like you, I consider myself a generous and helpful friend. Also like you, I’m not particularly interested in starting a business nor am I all that good at saying no. Alas, you and I have the same questions. How do we charge our friends and acquaintances if we weren’t intending to run a business? But, how do we not charge them if we want to help without resenting the time we’re spending?

    Since I’ve had little success solving this issue before now, I asked a version of your question on Facebook. Several writers chimed in to say they have the same problem. It’s no surprise that the most solution-oriented answer came from a friend who is not a writer!

    My friend Steven said: As a lawyer I am somewhat familiar with the situation of being asked for advice. One thing that I think helps is knowing what you and/or your time is worth (and having it written down). That way, when someone asks you for help, rather than saying, I’ll think about it,” you can say, “I’d be happy to help, I typically charge $50 per hour or $100 for a project, so let me know what you think would be in your budget.” Even if you end up charging a lot less, or nothing, it sends a powerful message that you are doing more than a favor.

    Steven also suggested the following as another possible response to a request for help: “My hourly rate, is over $150 per hour. For a friend I’m always happy to give you the first hour or two of my time, but after that I really need to charge.” Again, this creates a much better dynamic between the professional and the potential client. Another thing often done in billing is to charge the full amount, but then give discounts. This again reflects the true value of the service you’re providing.

    A professional writer and editor I know, Hila Ratzabi, also said something that felt right and showed how taking ourselves seriously and valuing our expertise and time is the first step. Hila said, “Friends who respect my work insist on paying.” I suspect that Hila respected herself and her time before she expected anyone else to do the same. I think Hila’s and Steven’s responses go hand-in-hand.

    A related story: one writer friend (who is also a lawyer) is the only one who has ever insisted on paying me for my editing time. We set up a structure for her to pre-pay for a few hours, which made her feel more comfortable emailing with revisions and questions and cover letters. My level of help to her was significantly better and more helpful than my free “quick looks” that I did as favors. She encouraged me to make a page on my site to advertise my services, but I was nervous that I’d end up doing more editing than writing. Your question, however, reminded me that having that information organized and written down is important, even if I just take on a few clients a year.

    Your Friend, Not Your Free Editor, I’m giving us both an assignment.

    1. Recognize the monetary value of our time and experience. We must recognize that the years we have spent writing, editing, blogging, and getting our work published is worth something. To echo Steven, it is more than a little favor when a friend asks for that expertise for free.
    1. Pricing! While it might be hard to put a number on our experience and time, we can certainly research what is standard in the freelance editing and social media consulting world and charge accordingly. (I’ve seen anything from $50-200/hour.) I liked Steven’s idea of giving discounts or giving away the first hour, but making it clear what our time is worth.
    1. Write it all down! We need to create a one-page document that lists our services and our rates (on mine, I would also include the social media piece). That document can exist on our sites or simply on our desktops to forward to anyone who inquires. I don’t think that creating this document or sharing it means we are now editors by trade instead of writers. It’s simply a logical solution to a problem. Also, the extra cash would be nice!
    1. Learn to say no! If we absolutely do not feel like we can charge our friends, then we both need to get better at saying no to the request in the first place. Easier said than done, I know.

    Good luck to you! And to me!

    I know there are readers out there who can commiserate or can tell us how they solved this problem. Please let us know in the comments.

    Until next time,

    Nina

    Keep reading

  • And Then We Meet (In Real Life, Yes for the First Time) at #BlogHer15

    My heart flutters. My hands are a little sweaty. I play with my phone. I scan the crowd of conference-goers again and again.

    Oh, my gosh, I realize. I’m nervous. And then I realize that I was also experiencing deja vu.

    I’ve done this before. Not in a decade. But the feeling returns immediately. The sweaty palms. The racing heart. The nervous scanning of a crowd.

    This is just like a blind date, I think. I’m excited and hopeful about the potential of this in-person meeting. I’m also anxious and worried. What if we have no chemistry? What if her hand gestures annoy me? What if she doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like her? What if she smells bad? Should I have worn a different dress?

    Then I see her. Our eyes meet. Her eyes are friendly, and her smile is tentative at first and then wide. She’s taller than I thought, but this is okay. We approach each other and hug. Both of us giggling sort of nervously, we stand there. Awkwardly at first. Then we both talk at once about silly stuff.

    Our first selfie!
    Our first selfie!

    And I realize that it’s okay.  This isn’t like a blind date at all. Because I already know Stephanie. I know her voice, I know how she thinks, and I know her many of her hopes and fears.

    She’s already my friend, I think. And we spend the next 24 hours laughing, talking, meeting other friends, working, and presenting. I’m nervous about our personal essay writing lab. It’s one thing to like a person and know her; it’s another thing to present well together.

    But that goes well too. I leave New York City less than 24 hours after I arrive, and I can’t wait to get back to work with Stephanie, my friend and business partner.

    – Jessica

    Some of our favorite online (and real-life!) friends
    Some of our favorite online (and real-life!) friends

     

    It’s the morning of our presentation. I am only mildly anxious about it, because we’ve covered this material over and over in our online essay courses for the past year. Still, it feels like we should have some sort of game plan. Who’s going to say what? Do we take turns covering bullet points? Do we need to practice or something? I drink too much coffee at breakfast, trying to compensate for the ill-advised combination of anticipatory adrenaline and the dull fatigue of having stayed up too late singing karaoke in my pajamas. Yikes.

    The previous evening seemed sort of like a baptism by fire: if we decided we still liked each other after the surreal first meeting in an over-crowded expo hallway, a late-night of signature BlogHer cocktails, and my requisite change into my comfy uniform (read: T-shirt and sweatpants), then we would be totally fine presenting together, right? After realizing that our face-to-face interactions were simply an extension of several years of regular phone calls and email conversations, I relaxed. Our two and a half years of working together wouldn’t need to be scrapped because of real-life social incompatibility.

    11760182_1140132119336030_7875313568388678492_n

    The hour between breakfast and our presentation was a blur. There wasn’t much time. We needed to prepare our writing lab tables. I already knew it would be too loud in the room, that we would feel crowded, and that we’d have a handful of our online friends there to support us. But all the other details were still unknown. Who would show up? Would our table be embarrassingly sparse compared to the other writing lab centers? Were we prepared enough? Would those who attended feel like they were wasting their time?

    In spite of these thoughts, I felt strangely calm. When both the tables we’d pushed together filled up, I relaxed even more. We can do this. Our presentation flowed smoothly as we naturally shifted leading the conversation, filling in details for each other, and at times practically finishing each other’s sentences. The mood at the tables was light and yet focused. It was even more fun than I thought it would be. As soon as it was over, I immediately thought, “When can we do this again?” I was so energized, not to mention relieved that there wasn’t even an ounce of awkwardness in our dual presentation style.

    (Want to see a slideshow outline of the presentation? See it here.

    Want to sign up to receive notifications about our next classes? Click here.)

    IMG_0772

    When you work long-distance with a partner, you think you know each other. You think you have a sense that you make a good team: your areas of weakness are her strengths, your skills and personalities balance in a way that is both cohesive and complementary. And it’s absolutely gratifying when you’re able to validate those beliefs in real life. Now that I know we make just as good a team face to face as we do online, I can’t wait until the next time we get to work side by side.

    – Stephanie

    We’d love to hear about your first meetings with online friends!

     

    Before the writing lab...
    Before the writing lab…

     

     

    Meeting our She Writes Press publisher, Kamy Wicoff!
    Meeting our She Writes Press publisher, Kamy Wicoff!

    Keep reading

  • HerTake: Dropped From a Group of Friends

    Today’s question comes from a college student who feels that all of her friendships are falling apart at once and she’d like to go into the next school year feeling better about herself and her social life.

    Do you have a question for Nina? Use our anonymous form. You can read Nina’s answers to past questions here.

    Ask (1)

    Dear Nina,

    I just finished my second year of college and I’ve been noticing that a lot of my friendships are falling apart–a number that seems way larger than normal. Some of these friends are people that I saw regularly in class or on campus because we had the same schedule. And some are people I know as part of a group.

    The group of friends still spends time together, but they seem to avoid me. This has occurred with at least six friends from the group who I was very close with. It’s been making me think that I’m a bad friend or a bad person. I have always tended to be someone who is worried about taking time from people or disturbing them. I understand that people change and that at points in life friends are busy and don’t have time for everyone. But after a while, even though I make time for them, they just seem to be ignoring me.

    Signed,

    Time to Make New Friends? (Or am I over-thinking it?)

     

    Dear Time to Make New Friends,

    If you’ve read a few of my answers to friendship questions, then you might expect me to say that you’re reading into your friends’ distance. While I stand behind my tendency to err towards encouraging the benefit of the doubt, not assuming everything is about “us,” and taking more time to assess a situation before jumping to relationship-changing decisions, I find your case requires a different take. My sense is that yes, it is time to make new friends. I’m referring more to the group of friends, but I’ll get back to them in a moment.

    As far as the friends from class go, I would not read too much into that situation. It’s common in college (and forever after those years) to have friends that start out of convenience and end soon after the circumstances of convenience change. If you meet a friend from class and the two of you truly click on a deep level, then it’s more likely that the friendship will exist beyond that semester’s study sessions and walks to and from class. I think it’s great when that happens, but there’s also no shame in enjoying friendships that stay in a boundary. It’s wonderful to have a buddy in a class (or at work) who makes those hours more enjoyable with no expectations from either party about what that friendship will look like outside of the circumstance that brought you together. My advice for next semester’s classes is to make a real effort with one or two people that seem like good outside-of-class friend potential, but do not assume that every friendly face and study partner will remain in your life after the semester.

    Now back to the friends from the group. As I said, yes, you need to make new friends. Why such a rash answer? My feeling is that even if your friends have a good reason in their minds for giving you the cold shoulder, I would hope at least one of them would have mustered the courage and decency to tell you why. Also, I believe that our gut feelings about relationships are important and I find it hard to imagine that your sense of being left out of the group activities is completely off base. I don’t have to know you to say with certitude that you do not need that kind of drama in your life. The ganging-up-on-one-friend behavior is best left behind in junior high. Steer clear of this crew.

    I know it’s painful that a group of women is not accepting you for reasons you’re not clear about, but that does not make you a bad friend or a bad person. You have not found the friends that are right for you, and the search for them next semester may not (and perhaps should not) involve a whole group. Take it one friend at a time. And remember, one or two close friends might be more than enough.

    One final bit of advice, I do not want you to waste your time worrying about why this particular group wants their distance. I see too many people overanalyzing why certain friendships do not work. You still have more years of college ahead of you and this time in your life is rich with potential for new friends. You’ve asked yourself if you’re a good friend and just asking yourself that question means you’re thinking about what matters in friendship. Beyond the basics of making sure you’re doing as much (if not more) listening as talking, being trustworthy, and acting with kindness at the core of each interaction, I think it’s safe to assume you’re not doing anything wrong. The rest may be up to chemistry, which takes trial and error.

    Good luck and go out there next semester with an open mind and some excitement about a fresh start.

    Nina

    Keep reading

  • HerStories Voices: One Child

    This week’s HerStories Voices column is about learning good news that brings back tough memories.

     

    HerStories (3)

     

    I clutch my cell phone. It reveals what looks like a black and white peanut, or a shrimp, or a tiny alien – if I didn’t know better.  My daughter just texted me a picture of her sonogram, and it’s a girl.  On the train while riding to work, I cup my granddaughter in the palm of my hand.  And I start sniffling.  The woman behind me taps me on the shoulder, offers me a tissue and asks if I’m all right.  I assure her my tears are happy, that I just found out I’m going to be the grandmother of a baby girl.  “Oh, how exciting for you,” she says.  Then comes the inevitable question as our train lunges forward: “How many children do you have?”

    For more than a quarter of a century, this question has clawed at my mind like a rake against a dusty, leafless ground. I haven’t been able to answer without squirming. I shift in my seat. I can’t tell this well-meaning stranger how hard it is for me to answer her.

    To begin with, I never saw my own daughter at this stage of creation. I never knew the sex of my baby because I never went for tests. No, I can’t let the woman behind me on the train know that when I was pregnant, my marriage was its own Third World country – unstable, violent, abusive, toppling.  I froze in the middle of that turmoil.  I never made a doctor’s appointment until I was almost due to deliver.  I ripped out the Yellow Page listings for adoption agencies and hid them under my bed, just in case I didn’t keep the baby.  I didn’t talk about it.  I bought bigger clothes while my friends and co-workers, aware of my history of yo-yo dieting, assumed I was in a fat phase.  It was easy to hide from my parents and close friends because I had moved several states away after college, and I didn’t schedule a visit home after my fifth month.

    My daughter was born healthy by an emergency Caesarean two weeks past her due date, after my toxemia caused my blood pressure to spike at 150 over 100.  Lifted calmly from her womb-spa, my baby was smooth and silent.  She looked Yoda-old and wise, as if she sensed that she belonged even though I had kept her existence hidden.  We looked at each other, alone at night in a bare white hospital room smelling of baby wipes.  I placed her between my knees, and in the valley of the bed sheets, I knew I could not give up this eight-pound-four-ounce bundled mummy in a pink knit hat.  I didn’t know how I would raise her, but I had spent enough nights at Al-Anon meetings to have memorized the “one day at a time” mantra. I couldn’t imagine the next 24 years, but I could manage the next 24 hours.  My baby spent her first night home in my underwear drawer while I dialed my parents and close friends to tell them the news and ask them to forgive me for not telling them sooner.

    Three years later, I was divorced. I was broke. My car was repossessed.  I filed for bankruptcy.  But my little girl and I were a team by then, and nothing would separate us.   Friends brought bags of groceries and called with employment leads, and my daughter’s grandparents paid for day care so I could work at a better job.  At the same time, my daughter started to talk about another little girl with her in a place where she lived before she was born. I had heard and read about other young children talking about life-before-birth. My daughter’s recollection of “the other girl” stuck in my mind.  Was I supposed to have had another child?  Was there another baby in that place before birth, calling my name?   My daughter stopped talking about the other girl by the time she was five, and settled on being an only child in a household of two.

    Fifteen years later, remarried, when life had the harmony of a Barbershop Quartet, I wanted to find that other girl my daughter had referred to long ago.  I tried to get pregnant but couldn’t.  Publicly, I joked about it and said, “I guess you can’t teach old egg new tricks.”  Privately, I felt guilty about having considered giving up my daughter for adoption, and I thought my inability to get pregnant meant that I didn’t deserve another child. I envisioned babies coming and going, to and from the land of life-before-birth, and telling each other, “Skip this mother and move on. She was too screwed up the last time.”

    My second husband and I tried to adopt a child.  We designed a glossy brochure about our lives so that birth mothers would choose us from among all the waiting couples. With a little photo-shopping to color our hair and wipe away wrinkles, we hoped we would show well to the young women making decisions about choosing parents to raise their children. Our case worker had encouraged us to market ourselves, so we were sure to include pictures of our daughter’s birthday parties and trips to Disney.  One morning, while waiting on the adoption list, I shot out of bed with the conviction of a cattle prod.  I sensed that a birth mother was about to choose us.  I hauled the crib, changing table, dresser and rocker into the would-be nursery, picked a carousel horse wallpaper print from a catalog, and asked my friend to sew neutral-green curtains and pillows.  My intuition was right.  The next day, the adoption agency called to say that a birth mother had indeed chosen us from the parents’ list for her baby who was due in three months.

    Room ready, day care chosen and notice given to my boss, we waited.  We chose a name for this baby – a boy would be Jesse and a girl would be Jennifer – both with a strong initial J that looked as sturdy as a soccer player or as graceful as a ballerina.   We got the call when the baby was born. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” our case worker said in her scripted way.  After giving birth, the biological mother had decided to keep her child. I flashed back to my own despair and hopelessness a decade and a half earlier – remembering how I needed to know during my pregnancy that there was an escape hatch if I couldn’t take care of my baby – then knowing when the baby was born that this child was mine. I grieved for the loss of Jesse and Jennifer.  But I understood.

    Our agency case worked had warned us that adoption would be a roller coaster. I had buckled up my Type A personality and braced my peri-menopausal emotions for the uncontrollable ride. But after six years, we couldn’t stomach the ups and downs. I never said this aloud to anyone, but I sometimes wondered if this was my punishment for almost giving up my daughter and denying my family and friends the joy of my pregnancy and birth.

    The woman in the seat behind me is distracted for a moment by the announcement that our train will be delayed, but she quickly turns back to hear my answer to how many children I have.  I could explain that my fears during pregnancy made me wonder if I needed to give up my child for adoption. Or that I wanted more children and waited on an adoption list for six years, but that the birthmothers who chose us decided to keep their babies.

    Instead, I simply smile back at this curious stranger, because none of that history matters now.  Today, a new baby is on her way into my life. I see her outline floating in the shadows of my phone. In my mind, I trace the letters of a text message back to her:  “I love you already.  I can’t wait to meet you.”  My guilt is gone, erased by a text message telling me that I am worthy of a granddaughter.  A text message telling me that my daughter loves me and wants to share this baby with me.  A text message telling me that there is no punishment for whatever I may have considered doing years ago.  A text message letting me know that the other girls in the land-before-birth took a vote and decided that I would make a perfect grandmother.

    In a flash, I answer the woman behind me on the train.  “One child,” I say, without flinching. “I have one child, my daughter.”

     

    FullSizeRender (1)Gloria Barone Rosanio is a writer, wife, mother and grandmother living in New Jersey. She wrote a children’s book about her daughter and reads it to her granddaughter. She can be followed on Twitter @gloriabarone. 

     

     

    Looking for a way to improve your blogging this summer? Learn about our Write Your Way to a Better Blog Course… back by popular demand. Learn about blog writing from some of your favorite bloggers! Learn more here

     

     

    Keep reading

  • What To Do When Your Friends and Family Make Racist Comments

    What would you do if a friend makes racist comments? How do you deal with friends or family members who make offensive generalizations or display outright racism? Today’s question deals with that exact issue, and it’s a tough one to answer.

    Do you have a question for Nina? Use our anonymous form. You can read Nina’s answers to past questions here.

    friend makes racist comments

     

     

    Dear Nina,

    I’d love to know how to handle a delicate situation that has arisen with a few friends (primarily comments made on Facebook or overheard at school pickup) and with some family members in person. In a nutshell: how do I handle both overtly racist remarks, and the more subtle stereotyping that likely stems from ignorance more than anything, said by people close to me that I cannot carve out of my life? I am white, and the people making these statements are white as well, though we all live/work in diverse areas.

    Given the relationships I have with these people (especially in the case of family), they are unavoidably in my life for good, which aside from these kinds of comments, is otherwise not a bad thing. Ignoring these kinds of comments to avoid confrontation or an awkward situation doesn’t seem right. (I also don’t want to seem like I agree.) But it also does not seem like a good idea to have a full-blown discussion about the history of how we got to this point (i.e. Ferguson, Baltimore) and how I completely disagree with and am stunned by what the person on Facebook or person at a family dinner just said.

    Is there a middle ground that will make my position clear and perhaps educate my friends and family to be more open-minded? Maybe a one-liner that sets the record straight about my thoughts about what they just said?

    Moreover, sometimes these things have happened in the presence of my elementary school-aged child, and I do not want to create an impression that those kinds of stereotypes, prejudices, or feelings are acceptable. We teach and live a life of equality, compassion, and understanding for all people, and these kinds of remarks undermine that when said in front of my child. Not to mention, it makes me completely uncomfortable to even be around such close-minded people.

    Lastly, I have one family member who married into the family and who is of a different race. There have been a few times when another relative of ours has made racist remarks in her absence (mocking the accent of people from that region, making stereotypes about the kinds of jobs they hold, etc.). I feel like I should speak up, but am not sure how to do so without making the commenter defensive or putting other family members in the middle. I don’t mind being the heavy, but I have to consider that it may affect other family dynamics too.

    Signed,

    Speak Up Or Stay Out of It?

     

    Dear Speak Up Or Stay Out Of It,

    This is a hard question to answer. While most of us would like to stand behind our values at all times and always do what we think is the right thing with no shades of gray, delicate relationships require much more finesse.

    First, let’s separate these delicate relationships you’ve mentioned because some are more fragile and crucial than others.

    SCHOOL FRIENDS

    When you overhear people talking at school or anywhere, I think you ought to stay out of it. Should it be a “note to self” about ever taking the friendship deeper with the people speaking in a way that makes your skin crawl? YES. But it is definitely not a good idea in those cases to lean over and state your case, or the facts, or your opinion on their opinions. This is not because your point of view is invalid. It’s because the school pickup line or the sidelines of a school event is simply not the time and place. Also, you won’t change their minds in quick sound bites anyway.

    FACEBOOK FRIENDS

    Facebook is another animal (an untamed one!), but I would caution against engaging too often there as well. In some ways, responding with your two cents on Facebook is easier than doing so in person because you can drop your facts and opinions in a comment and close the screen. Done. But it’s never done. In some cases, those relationships exist off screen as well so you have to be careful. Not to mention, policing the conversations that happen on Facebook could easily become a full time job. And . . . now I’m going to repeat what I said about the parents in school: you won’t change their minds anyway in quick sound bites.

    CHANGING THE MINDS OF OTHERS

    Regarding the school and Facebook examples, I know that my advice to stay out of it is hard and goes against your convictions. Every so often when I’m in a coffee shop with a laptop, I will hear people at a table nearby saying things about Israel that are flat-out untrue or extremely biased. (Same goes for Facebook.) It makes my blood boil, and I desperately want to pull up a chair and present the other view, or in the case of Facebook, respond with links to every factual article that would present my point of view more articulately than I could. What I usually do is leave the coffee shop or hide the Facebook conversation because I can’t stand doing nothing, and I know I cannot change their minds. I don’t feel good about that choice, but given the alternative of a big confrontation that will not make a difference anyway, it seems like the best option.

    Do you see a theme here? It is very hard to change the minds of others with deeply held beliefs. I want to highlight a study completed by the journal Pediatrics; the researchers found that when multiple strategies were used to get parents against vaccinations to change their minds, there was not a single method that worked. Not one.

    YOUR EXTENDED FAMILY

    Now it’s time to address the most difficult part of your question. Dismissing it when a friend makes racist comments is one thing, but standing by while your child hears such remarks from family members is another.

    I understand why you’re upset. At the very least, I would use each instance as an opportunity for you and your husband to speak to your child immediately after an incident where something offensive has been said to the group, or in passing, or in any capacity.

    I also think it’s okay to say, right there in front of everyone, that you do not agree, but that you don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it. This way you’ve let your child know that you disapprove, but you also avoid engaging too much with your family on the spot. Even that kind of response from you will likely ruffle some feathers, but I do see it as a middle ground. It’s better than doing nothing, and not as bad as starting a family feud.

    Don’t Get Into An Argument (Most of the Time)

    You do not have to remain neutral in the face of words and actions that go against your values, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to get into an argument. As I’ve mentioned (100 times), you’re not likely to change the minds of anyone in your extended family, but you do have significant influence over your child’s views. Take some solace in knowing you are adding one more open-minded person to the world.

    As far as the comments made about the family member of another race who has married into the family, I’m curious why that person’s spouse has not spoken up? If all the comments are also made behind the original family member’s back, then I get it. But if the comments are ever made in the “original” family member’s presence, then he or she is the person who ought to be taking the offending relative aside to have a little chat.

    Readers, have you been in this situation? What advice can you share with our letter writers.

    Best of luck, Speak Up Or Stay Of Out It! I feel for you.

    Nina

    FULL RES - Badzin-03 copy-1Nina is a contributing writer for Tcjewfolk.com, Kveller.com, and Great New Books. Her essays have appeared regularly at Brain, Child Magazine, The Huffington Post, The Jewish Daily Forward, and have been syndicated in The Times of Israel as well as Jewish newspapers across the country. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband and four children. Contact her on Twitter @ninabadzin and on her blog.

    Keep reading

  • HerStories Voices: I Am Here

    Today’s HerStories Voices column is by Suzanne Perryman, who blogs at Special Needs Mom. It’s a lovely meditation on the relationship between Suzanne and her oldest daughter, as well as the triumphs and struggles of her entire family.

    Sometimes our most precious moments with our children take place with them asleep, beside us.

    My daughter Olivia is breathing gently in a rhythm I know well. For almost 14 years I have studied her stages of sleep.  With her hand tucked in mine, I stay stretched out beside her. In the shadows I study the new curves on her body and the way she fills her childhood bed. The way her long curly hair falls in thick bundles off the ends of her pillow, the dark hiding its rich reddish brown. She called me here me tonight, overflowing with excitement and anxiety, unable to sleep.

    “ Lie with me, Mama,” she used to say. When her curls were just a cap of copper penny red and still shooting in all directions.  And I would resist then, empty and exhausted by the end of my day. Wanting the touch of my husband’s skin next to mine, wanting my own turn.

    Her curls grew into a mop of deep red during the years she favored Strawberry Shortcake. The feather-light weight of her five year old body made her steps small and almost silent in her Strawberry Shortcake slippers, and I could barely hear her coming each early morning when she slowly shuffled down the hall .

    She would find me at my desk most quiet mornings and climb into my lap, whispering in a sleepy sing song, “Whatya doing?

    Looking at pictures,”  I replied one morning, as the softness of her body settled and snuggled into mine, she reached for the photo I held in my hand. “My favorite,” she sighed.

    She studied that image of her four year old self, dressed in pink and red, raincoat and boots, standing in our backyard holding her umbrella. 

    I woke up from my nap ..” she began, “and Zoe was still sleeping and we snuck outside to the play in the rain. We ran all around my playhouse and splashed on the patio until we were wet! You remember, right, Mommy?” She questioned with her eyes wide. “I can’t see you in the picture but you were there.”

    You were there.

    She didn’t say it, but with her subtle reference, I know that she remembered those times when she woke up and I was gone. Beginning when her sister Zoe was born and I disappeared into the night, returning home a week later. My first night home, when I had finished singing and rocking her to sleep and after quietly tucking her in her crib, she awoke screaming and crying for me, and then finally flung her body out of her crib and across the room.

    And times after that, when Zoe fell sick during the night and I had no choice but to take her to the hospital, and Olivia would wake up with her Mommy missing. Her mommy wasn’t there. 

    In Pre-k, the psychologist called it a slow-to-warm temperament, the way she would wrap her arms around my legs, and refuse to say goodbye. The way she would clutch and climb my nearly six foot length, from bottom to top, the way a child can scurry up a tree. While I stood solid with the weight of Zoe in my arms, the weight of the guilt in my heart made me weak.

    Slow to warm, like the careful way I would warm her maple syrup for our pancake lunches. She would stand then, hugging the back of my legs as I poured the pancake batter and then start to giggle as I carried her plate to the table, over the silliness of our eating pancakes for lunch. Pancake lunches were special, for the days we missed our pancake breakfasts. For the days she woke up and I wasn’t there. 

    Kindergarten at an early age was a better choice for my smart and spirited happy child.  A smarter alternative to spending her day visiting Zoe’s specialists and therapists or playing quietly while her sister napped.

    And like a fragile flower, well-nurtured, she flourished within our simple family life.  She grew strong until fall came along every year, and with new transitions and new teachers, she would falter and wilt a bit, until slowly opening wide again strongly rooted again by spring, and warmed by the season’s sun.

    Until one spring, when she didn’t. And I grieved for her. I missed her smile, her charm, her affection, the way she shimmied across her bedroom floor as she sang her favorite songs. And that way she always started her day by sleepily climbing into my lap where I too found comfort in her body still warm from sleep. I missed her then and I tried everything. I went back to my mothering basics: more attention, more love, more sunshine, more backyard time.

    And when nothing worked, I sat down at my computer and Googled “how +to+make+my+daughter+happy+again.” And knew then I had reached my rock bottom, and her anxiety had outgrown me. It was a psychiatrist who helped her to find the right words,  to identify the panic attacks she was experiencing, and it was the medicine that eventually brought my happy girl back to me.

    Olivia just kept growing, taller and smarter. The color of her hair began to turn an auburn brown. She took to reading big books, piling them in her room, and carrying three or four in her arms to school with her each day, admitting quietly the comfort they gave her, how they helped to ease her anxiety.

    With growth came more truth. One day Olivia asked if her sister Zoe would ever get better, when Zoe might begin to walk, without using her walker and if she would ever someday not need her pink power wheelchair.

    I looked at my oldest then, knowing she had outgrown her little girl eyes. I took our routine each day for granted and never realiized that Olivia believed the medicines, the therapies, and the doctors would someday make Zoe better, help her learn to walk and speak clearly.

    I watched Olivia’s eyes fill with tears as I explained that although Zoe’s body would grow taller and maybe stronger, her condition would never change. I waited for her words of grief.

    “Does Zoe know, Mom?” was all she said. Protective  of her little sister, she was trying to imagine if Zoe knew this truth too, if Zoe, who was full of life and laughter, always smiling knew this to be her truth or if there was more hurt to come.

    Through her middle school years there were times when Olivia hurt, feeling the pain of her anxiety and in those moments, I felt even worse. There were other times too, with friends and pool parties and school, her first concert. Through these years she found comfort in our family, and at her school.

    My “fix-it” years of motherhood filled with research, identifying problems and then applying my best mothering skills, were soon coming to an end. We gave up the medicine and I worked on developing a specialized set of coping skills. I started thinking about the tools Olivia would need to take with her one day. What she would need to know about herself, how she would need to be the one to “fix” things in her future.

    I never imagined lying beside my teenage daughter like this, thinking that someone else will lay next to her one day, someone else will love her this fiercely. Thinking about how her world will grow beyond this home, beyond her father and me, beyond her sister who will always stay here with us. That I will still be here, but the someday is coming when she will be gone.

    She is in high school now and everything is new. The scratchy uniforms, her friends, the community, the higher expecations, the honor classes and study load. I am here for you, I tell her. I try to comfort, try to help her to pack and prepare the toolbox she will take with her when she someday goes. I watch her struggling for social approval when even her most familiar becomes uncomfortable, like when she straightens her hair, as if denying her true self, and can erase the memory of her corkscrew curls like they were never there.

    She raises her voice in anger when she is worried, anxious. I raise my own voice in fear and frustration.Then I pull her into me saying, “I am here.”

    She cries many different tears, raindrop tears that trickle, as she slowly tells me her story. Tears of a thunderstorm that come fast and furious lashing out that it is my fault she feels this way, and finally with no warning, the torrential downpour that falls hard and steady and seems to have no end. “ I am here,”  I tell her as I try to be her shelter from the storm.

    These moments of darkness, like weather, sometimes come with no warning, are unpredictable and follow no pattern. They interrupt the sunniest days of sweetness, and light and the calm of our family life.

    No storm clouds follow. The outburst comes and passes, and with frustration I accept that she has outgrown my own ability to fix it. I can hug and hold,  coax and plead. After, we talk about what worked, what helped to guide her through it and soothe her fears. And we pack that too into her toolbox, to take out and use again someday.

    It is late when she calls me to her bed tonight. At first I sit, listening to her talk about her day. I hear hesitation in her voice and then it grows stronger and then smoother. High school is hard but she is finding her way.

    Lie with me, Mom,” she says and I hear that little girl voice again, I can see her little girl curls.

    I don’t resist because I know my turn with her is coming to an end.

    Her hand reaches for mine, and our fingers find their familiar places wrapping around each other. We lay connected.

    I close my own eyes and now it is my little girl I see, the way her curls fly as she runs. The way she likes to hide behind me, her body aligned perfectly with mine.  I see my husband, waiting for me time after time, his eyes full  with care and understanding as he too chooses to put Olivia’s needs before his own.

    We do all we can to prepare our kids, to pack their tool box full for someday. We push them out into the world — when really we want, for just a little while longer, to pull them back in.

    Olivia’s fingers are still wound tightly through mine, and I know that years from now, she will be gone, finding her way in the world with her confidence in full bloom, and it will be this moment I will miss: the simple joy of being the one who holds her hand, late into the night.

    I am here, I whisper in the dark.

    suzanneperrymanSuzanne Perryman began blogging at specialneedsmom.com to celebrate the simple, inspiring every day, one story at a time. Her work has recently been featured on HuffPost Parents, Brain,Child, BlogHer, Mamalode, Project Underblog and QueenLatifah.com and was chosen as a BlogHer Voice Of The Year.

     

     

    -Mother.Writer-We still have a few spaces in our “Mother, Writer” class starting next week! Find out more here….

    Keep reading