On Sunday morning, Mr Frog gathered the last of his belongings and ceremoniously handed me his set of keys. After five weeks of tiptoeing gingerly around each other’s feelings, occasionally barking harsh words we didn’t even mean, only to retract them, sheepishly, a few minutes later, we have finally found our way out of this strange limbo we have been inhabiting for too long. No longer on the verge of separating, we’ve actually gone through with it.
I introduced myself to the concierge of his apartment building this morning, on my way to collect Tadpole, as “the mother of Mr Frog’s child”. I didn’t know what else to call myself, not having got as far as rehearsing that yet.
The past week is a blur: a frenzy of packing, sorting, cleaning Mr Frog’s new place while Tadpole pottered contentedly by my side, shopping for things to replace those Mr Frog would be taking. Baking quiche at midnight on Friday for the bloggers picnic. Seeing my lover for a few precious hours on Sunday, while Tadpole spent her first night in her new bedroom across the road.
Today my runaway adrenaline levels have finally flatlined. I’m shattered. Exhausted.
I would gladly sell my soul to the highest bidder in return for a couple of days of uninterrupted sleep…