Our relationship is changing. It was bound to happen, but I'd held onto this thread of denial that it wouldn't. That we could somehow survive the teen years without growing pains. That I would somehow find that perfect balance of pulling away, yet remaining close enough.
Now that the panic has subsided, and new strategies formed, I find myself in mourning, a feeling I foolishly thought would not happen to me.
I miss her. I miss being able to easily laugh with her, relax with her, and the exchange of thoughts, ideas and feelings I came to expect with her.
I hate how typical we've become. She with her buzzing cell phone and ever-present headphones dangling from her ears. Me with my lecturing tone and constantly saying "no" and the uncomfortable silences. We are more often guarded with each other than we are ourselves. We are reaching out to others rather than coming to each other. We are more often dwelling on the faults we find in each other than enjoying each other's company.
I don't wish she was little again, but I do wish we could rush through this stage. I find myself clinging to my own parents in this time, so grateful to have them here, so guilty for what I put them through when I was her age.
I'm sure we'll find our way back to each other again, and there are moments here and there that feel like the "us" that I cherish, and I hold those as tight as I can to last me until the next one. They make me believe that we will once again have what we had, what I have again with my own mom. I know it will get better. But, like Artie in Glee, I just want it to be better. Now.