Today, Katie threw a tantrum. Complete with loud cries and a finale of flinging herself onto the floor. Her screams could surely be heard by every neighbor within a mile radius. I'd refused to give her what she wanted--agreeing to hair extensions or a weave for Homecoming. Nope, this was not the cry of a terrible two year old, but a terrible teen (16 to be exact), and one who has obviously been given a bit too much latitude lately.
Let me rewind a bit, Katie is the middle child--textbook middle child. She claims the world has wronged her and her vengance is to disrupt and agitate the lives of everyone else. No one understands her except her daddy, sometimes, when she bats her long lashes and lays on the charm. She has no emotions and every emotion. You get the picture, right. You surely know a Katie.
"You don't understand me! You never listen to me! I wish I could talk to Nina. She understood me," Katie bellowed before slamming my door, then her own (which because I'm in parent mode is technically still my door) and face planted into her bed. Nina is what my children and my nephews and niece called my mother who passed away on June 7th. Nina could relate to Katie even if she really couldn't relate to Katie. She had a way of helping Katie see her own absurdity and revealing too much of my own teenage rebellion to make Katie feel like whatever she'd done she still had not totally fallen too far off the side of the cliff (even if in my estimation she'd done a swan dive).
Until the Katie tornado blew through with that statement, I thought I'd experienced every aspect of loss related to my mother. I missed talking to her, laughing with her, getting advice from her, sharing with her, but Katie's hell storm of fury revealed another thing I will miss about my mother--her ability to calm the storm and be a confidant and influencer of my children.
Marcus, the other teenager in the house, came in my bedroom 10 minutes after the tantrum choking out these words through his tears, "I really miss Nina,too." Katie had struck a nerve with him as well. Who could he turn to when he wanted to talk? Who would tell him he was right and wrong in the same breath?
I thought I was at a point in the grieving process where I knew what to expect and knew all I'd lost. I am not. As Katie hurled herself onto her bed, I hurled myself onto mine and threw my own tantrum. And mine was justified.
Documenting my evolution by filling in space and matter one word at a time.