Beloved called me this afternoon to say the wood floor guy called, like, a few months early to say our wood is in, and could he bring it over tomorrow?

Except that meant I needed to clear out six floor-to-ceiling bookshelves between dinner and the work left over from today. With MY BABBEE'S childhood memorabilia, along with my master's thesis, gifts from family members, copies of three books (one out of print) and photo albums dating back to college.

Oh, and in the space I used for eight lovely years when I worked for BlogHer from my house, where I greeted my daughter each day when she got off the big yellow bus from kindergarten through sixth or seventh grade.

This won't take long. 

The biggest thing I noticed, though, in scooping out books I loved from writers I used to email daily to my daughter's early elementary accomplishments, is how far away I've grown from the daily documenting of my own life. In leaving BlogHer, I left blogging, and tweeting, and really ... all of it.

In some ways, it's okay, because the little angel does not want me documenting her life anymore. It's her life, after all, not  mine. My dad always says your right to swing your arm ceases when it connects with someone's face, and writing about my teen feels like that. Like telling you the story of my current parenting situation would be stepping out of the bounds of my experience and treading on hers. I'm not interested in doing that. 

There are, however, some things I've forgotten to write down.

1. I always thought teenagers would hate me. She doesn't. Unbelievable.

2. Watching your child drive is both terrifying and awesome.

3. I owned a horse as a kid. My daughter seems more confident than I ever felt on horseback. That's pretty cool. But as she's lost interest in the horse we've leased since she was a preteen, I've taken over. He's my horse now. I didn't see that coming.

4. I cry over all the things, because I can see the moment where she leaves looming on the horizon. I thought eighteen years would take longer.

5. I always thought I would be so old when she left, but now I realize I will have probably 20-30 years of life left after she starts hers. Whut? I did not plan for this. I need a second act.

6. I don't want to put on her that I hope she has babies. But I hope she has a baby, because I want to talk to her about becoming a mother. I'd love to talk to her about what that feels like. I'd love her to know how much I truly love her.

It must be very difficult to be the child of a blogger. It was a grand experiment, this parenting blogging thing, and we navigated it by making a lot of mistakes, trying to figure out as we went along how much of ourselves to share and where the line was between us and our babies. 

In SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK, I wrote a lot about the struggles of parenting. I didn't write enough about the joy. Now the parent of an amazing fourteen-year-old girl, I've waited too long to revisit what it feels like to be a mother.

I've often told my daughter that she can't possibly love me more than I love her. I still believe that to be true. The love I feel for her goes beyond human love to being love. It is both intellectual and instinctual in that I wouldn't have to actually think about throwing myself in front of a bus for her. I wouldn't be able to make the choice not to. I love her too much. 

But it's intellectual, too, because I love her not only because she's my child, but for her intelligence, her humor, and her resilience. She's bravely survived both my husband and I losing jobs and all the financial uncertainty and sacrifice that came of that. She bore my cancer without complaint and wrote a heartbreaking poem about the experience that showed me not only her writing talent but the depth of her maturity at such a young age. She has understood the world better as a very young child than many adults do, and that understanding gives her empathy for others -- and for me -- that I don't deserve and shouldn't be able to expect from a teenager who's still growing up and going through so many changes.

I love her because she's funny. I love her because she's kind. When she was a tween, she bought a younger friend a stuffy with her own money because she said, "I know what it feels like to fall in love with something." That's not a perfect quote, but it's essentially what she said. That empathy, that kindness, that wisdom, takes my breath away. 

She's brave. She rides the horse we lease better than I do and with more confidence. She charges into most situations fearlessly even as I twitter and wring my hands in the background (hopefully hidden from her but probably not). 

Many parents think their kids just know that they love them. I think that. But it's good to say it, too. Say all the ways. These are not even all the ways I love my daughter, but I only had a few minutes this morning before my first meeting, and I realized on my drive in that it's too easy to just say you'll do it later when you have more time. Days and months and years pass, as they have for me, and I don't want to let one more minute pass without writing this down and publishing it. I'm sorry I didn't have time to make it better writing, but that's actually not what matters about this post. I love you, Lily. More than you will ever know. 

There are so many conversations that have transpired since I've taken a "normal" job that I'd like to process here. But my girl ... she is 13. She gets to curate her online self. There are lines as parents we should not cross.

Perhaps it'll work its way into a novel someday, as so many of my existential thoughts do.

Suffice it to say, I always thought I'd use her real name at 13. Let her own her identity. But now I wonder if the world has moved on to the extent that who I am matters zero percent to who she is. My identity is different now. It's just not that important to make any sort of statement.

I'm kind of glad.

The world has moved on. I listen to short stories on my commute and I don't read Facebook because for some reason it always makes me sad and I have realized that my girl is her own person who has only by birth to do with me and that is a cause for celebration, not remorse.

I'm changing, again. Not sure what happens next, but I know two things: I am her mother. I am a writer. I will find a way to safely reconcile those things.

(Editor's Note: I met Bonnie years ago via the blogosphere and love her work. I hope you'll enjoy her post on body image and motherhood, and please check out her collaborative video project on The Shape of a Mother. - Rita)

When my daughter was born almost fourteen years ago, I was utterly unprepared for the extent of physical changes that would come along with the pregnancy. Afterwards, I felt torn between the awe and pride I should have been feeling for what my body did, and the shame I actually felt for looking nothing like the pictures I saw in magazines.

I assumed I was the only one dealing with this so I kept it to myself for a long time. And then one day, almost four years later, I happened to catch a glimpse of another mom’s belly and in that instant I knew this was actually a totally normal thing. It was such a relief to be able to let go of that self-hate I had spent so much time focused on and I wanted to make that knowledge available for women worldwide.

I wanted everyone – mothers, women who aren’t mothers, and men – to know mama bodies are normal. So I started The Shape of a Mother. It’s been just about a decade now and I’ve published the stories of about 2,500 moms in that time. Here are the top five things I’ve learned working with women and body image.

1. We’re harder on ourselves than on anyone else. Probably the most common comment people leave on the submissions that are posted is something like “Wow! You’re my body twin! But you look way better than I do!” Logically, if two people look that much alike, we can assume they probably both look equally lovely. And, certainly, if you saw two friends of yours who looked alike, you would think that neither was more beautiful than the other, right? But when it comes to ourselves, we are far more critical. How I have learned to handle this in my own head is to change my internal conversation. I pretend that I am talking to a friend, or that a wise friend is talking to me. Suddenly the words I think to myself are much kinder and over time it has made a huge difference in how I feel about myself.

2. What seems like a curse to some is a longed-for blessing to others. There are women who would do anything to be able to have their body blemished by pregnancy. Some women are struggling with infertility, others with miscarriage. There are mamas who have had stillborn babies and who wished there was some stretch mark or loose skin or something to mark the fact that they became a mother. This logic follows through to general health, too. Some people think their legs are ugly, others wish their legs worked at all. This isn’t a competition for who has it worse and I don’t intend to make it seem that way, but it can be helpful to remember to keep your own worries in perspective. It can remind you to find beauty and wonder in what you do have.

3. There is no one right answer. There is no one right body shape and size. There seems to always be competition between moms (or women in general, really). One mom’s body doesn’t change too much after pregnancy. A second mom’s does, but she works very hard at eating a certain way and exercising a certain amount and she finds that her body eventually looks the way it did before. A third mom might be dealing with health issues that prevent her from exercising the way the second mom does, or she might be dealing with financial issues that prevent her from eating the way the second mom does and the result is that her body remains changed. Yet another mom might find that she simply prefers not to exercise or to be careful about her diet and that the way her body changed doesn’t bother her. And, of course, there are the moms who do all the things and their bodies still remain changed, at least in some way. All too often, we forget that the world is diverse and we see it only through our circumstances. It is helpful to eliminate judgment entirely and simply listen and offer support. Instead of saying, “You just need to work harder at making time!” Try to say, “You don’t have time to exercise? I know how busy you are! And you look beautiful as is!” No need to argue about details, just lift each other up. Trust that what other people say about their experiences is true for them, even if it isn’t for you.

4. Language is important. You might notice I try to phrase things carefully. I say “bodies that don’t change after pregnancy” instead of “bounced back” or “got her body back”. And I say “and you look beautiful” instead of “but you look beautiful.” Because words carry more meaning than just their dictionary definitions. We hear what people say to us through the tone of their voices and their expressions, but also through our own histories. By choosing words carefully you can avoid alienating someone or creating animosity in your relationship. By choosing words carefully, you can show compassion and let someone know they can trust you; in turn, maybe you can trust them back.

5. When we are brave enough to share a secret fear, we open the door to empowerment. That’s the crux of SOAM. I kept my fears secret for so long because I was afraid of being judged, but when I finally got brave enough to mention it to my friends, they joined the conversation in relief. I opened SOAM officially on July 5, 2006, and I asked my friends to share the link. I was worried it would fall flat on its face, but the world was full of isolated women, thirsty to know they weren’t alone. The website exploded and less than a month later I was getting calls from media giants like the London Guardian. In that month, I saw the face of the world changed – just a little, but changed nevertheless. Because the women who submitted their pictures to me were brave enough to do so. Coming together to talk about the scary things is one of the most powerful things we can do as humans.

Working with SOAM has changed my life completely. It’s given me an unexpected career I never could have dreamed up on my own, and it’s taught me compassion, perspective, understanding, kindness, and how to be brave. I hope, in turn, I can share these gifts with the world.

Today I'm writing at SheKnows.com!

#WhatDoITellMySon is something I've never had to ask myself, and I'm sorry

4 hours ago

Image: Rita Arens

I have no idea what it's like to raise a black son in America — this is what I can offer

Dear James, I can't and won't pretend to understand what it's like to raise a black son ever, let alone in our current 2015.

I'm not sure I can tell you what to tell your son. You're a strong, capable father, and I have faith you will guide him in the best way possible.

Here's what I know: I was once a white person raised almost solely among white people. This became problematic because even though my family and friends didn't talk about other races, their body language suggested that the other was different — perhaps to be feared. Since I grew up in a town of 5,000 people who were 99 percent white, I didn't have to think about race much until I went out into the world.

It might be important to say that many, many white people can live their whole lives without interacting with anyone but white people. There are enough pockets of the country that are mostly white for this to be true.

Read the rest at SheKnows.

"So it's not your fault?" she asked.

"No. Not really."

"So it's Daddy's?"

"No."

"Your work?"

"No. Work is work."

"So whose fault is it?"

"Well, sometimes it's nobody's fault. Things just don't work out."

"Oh."

"It's harder when there's no one to blame, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

This past weekend I was grouchy. I'm at the hardest part of my half-marathon training, so I'm tired physically a lot. We just had a week solid of sultry, sweaty days and thick summer nights. Labor Day means the neighborhood pools closed, it means the end of summer, it means looking ahead and jam-packed schedules and my husband's weekday travel and early-morning choir runs. It means it will get cold again, and I hate being cold more than any other weather scenario. Freezing drizzle. I hate freezing drizzle.

Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama.

I know every parent has this recording running in the background of their lives, and usually my patience is good. Decent, at least. But coming off two weeks of solid husband-traveling-back-to-schooling-work-is-crazying chaos, my patience: She is so depleted. My patience packed her bags on Friday and walked out the damn door for a long Vegas weekend.

So I snapped when my girl waited until I was out of earshot (not hard, my hearing is getting worse and worse) and then asked some question that I didn't answer over and over and over. I didn't want to underdog on the swing eighty times. I didn't feel like going over to look at the shiny thing she found at the street fest.

I. Just. Wanted. To. Be. Alone.

Then I remembered the article she just turned in for her junior reporter role at a local magazine. It was a list of guidelines for trick-or-treaters. All the things I've been drilling into her head for the past eleven years were there, and when I emailed the piece to her editor, I felt the shock of "she's so grown up" reverberate down my spine.

But she does still need me. Or at least, she still wants me, and what am I doing? Swatting her away like the sweat running down my cheeks on the summer days I'll mourn the first time I have to wear socks.

Why can't I appreciate what I have when I have it?

Just a reminder, Rita. You're still her mama.

MAMA. MAMA. MAMA.

"Did I used to put my head here?" she asked, even though she knew the answer, that this is a dance we do.

"Yes, right here on my shoulder. And then, finally, you would sleep from 5-7 am."

I remember those days, dragging myself to work to pay for diapers and formula and daycare. It was a dark time.

She rests her tween head on my shoulder now. I vow to stay for five counts of one hundred.

I feel her body grow heavy, begin to twitch.

I remember those days when her body was only two feet long, cradled against me. The relief I felt in her sleep, which meant my sleep.

I told her she used to shove her nose into my neck. A few days ago she tried, her head bigger than my neck. I'm no giraffe.

"Not enough room," she said.

My girl is too big to bury her face in my neck. I understand this truth more than she does.

I am glad it still occurs to her to try.

It will be hard to show her I'm only human.

My daughter is in between needing daycare and being able to get a job during the summer, and we are sort of flummoxed about it. She has alternated between staying with me as I work and attending a parks & rec summer camp that is unfulfilling but what we can afford. We can't afford a nanny. She doesn't need a babysitter.

She's at the age that I remember loving summer the most, when the little kid stuff -- like swingsets and trampolines and splash parks -- is still fun and nostalgic but she doesn't need me hovering around her to enjoy it. She's at the age of flashlight tag and being able to light fireworks and riding your bike to the pool and walking down to the creek to look for frogs alone.

This summer we've patched together help from my parents (bless them), the parks & rec camp, a week of horse camp and a parent or two working from home, but I need a real solution for next summer, the summer of twelve, and the summers afterward until she can get a job. I don't even know how old you have to be to get a job here. I think I had to be sixteen in Iowa, though there was that one sketchy restaurant in town that hired fourteen-year-olds.

What do you do with a summertime middle-schooler? Is camp really the only answer? She's not interested in the parks & rec, she doesn't play sports, and the really cool camps are either too far away to commute to and still get to work on time or cost way more than we can afford to pay.

I'm frustrated. Finding childcare has been really the only part of parenting that I loathe. My daughter is wonderful. I don't want her to dread summer because she hates where she has to spend her days while my husband and I work, but staying home all summer isn't really an option. Why is this so hard?