petite anglaise

Tadpole and I visited Mr Frog’s new apartment today.

We filed quietly across the road. I was feeling drained from a combination of a busy day at work, the oppressive, fetid heat of the metro carriage home, and my foray into the supermarket with Tadpole to fill our empty fridge with provisions for the week ahead.

I waded sluggishly through the dense evening air. Tadpole, who had refused to be parted from her water beaker and Dora the Explorer doll, attempted to wriggle her way out of my vice-like grip at the pedestrian crossing. I fought the temptation to snap at her, because this situation needed to be handled carefully, regardless of frayed tempers, weather conditions, and my gnawing apprehension about how I would feel when I actually saw Mr Frog’s new home. Would I feel a stab of pain, or regret, I wondered, once confronted with the tangible reality of the situation? In a way, it would be a relief to feel something. Anything at all. Up to this point I have only been aware of vague sense of guilt. Guilt at my own lack of a ‘proper’ emotional response to what are supposed to be momentous events in our lives.

Mr Frog lead the way, striding ahead with a carton of assorted bric a brac that I was quite glad to be seeing the back of. I joked that I hoped he had remembered to take the electronic stapler. He laughed and whistled an upbeat tune as he walked.

Odd. When I played out this scene in my head last night before drifting off into a clammy sleep, I imagined this first visit would be a solemn, sobering occasion. So far, not so.

Along the way we explained to Tadpole that daddy would be living in a new flat soon. Mummy and daddy would each have their own homes, and Tadpole would would now have two. Sometimes she would stay with mummy, other times with daddy. She was to have her own bed and toys at daddy’s house too.

She nodded, smiled and proclaimed triumphantly “[Tadpole], elle a deux bedrooms!”, which we took to mean that she had understood perfectly. We didn’t complicate matters with hows and whys for the time being. It simply didn’t feel necessary.

As she raced around the empty, echoing apartment and I dutifully admired the stunning views of the Paris skyline, I was overwhelmed with relief. Relief that I liked the place, relief that I could conceive of Mr Frog being happy there, and that I could already see Tadpole pottering happily about in the flat with him in my minds eye. But also relief that I didn’t feel a pang of jealousy or regret that this wouldn’t be my home too.

Mr Frog detailed what he planned to buy from Ikea at the weekend, and I suppressed the urge to express opinions about how he should decorate. After all, this is his space, and it needs to feel like his, not ours. It’s not easy to break the habits of eight years, but needs must and I bite my tongue.

Meanwhile, my flat (well, strictly speaking our flat, although it feels more mine with every box of Mr Frog’s belongings that crosses the threshold) is in a state of flux. Things are shifting, standing meekly by waiting for their turn to be stacked and sorted, before taking a final bow and exiting stage right to take up residence over the road.

Mr Frog himself hasn’t gone anywhere yet, as he is awaiting the arrival of kitchen appliances and successful execution of the Ikea mission. On Sunday he will relinquish his keys and spend his first night in his new home, with Tadpole by his side.

With every passing day we edge a little closer to this separation we have been discussing for the past month, expecting to feel worse than we actually do.

When we get home, I check the stationery drawer.

And note, to my amusement, that Mr Frog has left the stapler in my custody.