petite anglaise

I know I probably shouldn’t write this out loud, but I’m rather enjoying the prospect of becoming a part-time mummy.

Since Tadpole was born, two years ago, my life has been a relentless whirlwind of activity: caring for baby/toddler, delivering her to childminder’s flat, dashing to work, working, and then the same drill, in reverse, at the end of the day. My evenings began at 8.30pm, when Tadpole went to bed, but these were spent caged in our apartment, resentfully waiting for Mr Frog to put in an appearance. Hence my rich virtual life, which filled the gaping void in my offline world.

I can count the number of evenings where Mr Frog was able to relieve me of my duties, allowing me to go out and meet friends for dinner, or attend a blogmeet or whatever it might be, on the fingers of two hands. On those occasions where I did manage to escape for a few hours, I invariably arrived late and frazzled, in a hastily ordered taxi, because Mr Babysitter rarely arrived at the appointed hour.

So, castigate me for being a bad mummy if you will, but I confess I am looking forward to having a social life on the evenings when Mr Frog will pick up Tadpole from the childminder’s and she will spend the whole night at daddy’s house. The very idea of being able to go out for a drink after work, on a whim, meet friends, or even just do a spot of improvised late night shopping, once a week thrills me. Separation, it would seem, has its advantages.

Then there are the alternate weekends… Not only will I no longer have to wend my reluctant way to pay a duty visit to the in-laws every couple of months, but I will now have entire child-free weekends at my disposal. Weekends where I won’t have to get out of bed at all until I’m good and ready. Weekends where I can hop on a train, with an overnight bag, and fall into my lover’s waiting arms. Space to breathe, the luxury of time to recharge my batteries. Time off, during which I sometimes allow myself to forget, albeit briefly, that I ever became a mother. An illicit pleasure, only slightly diluted by vague pangs of guilt that I shouldn’t really feel this way. But I do, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

Secure in the knowledge that she is in the safest hands after my own, and confident that she is happy spending one on one time with her daddy, my conscience is clear. I miss Tadpole, when we are apart, but I appreciate her tenfold when we are reunited.

I’m tempted to speculate that as a part-timer, I may even make a better mummy.

Over the past month my inbox has been groaning under a torrent of messages, from the caring and supportive to the damning and judgemental, with every shade in between. The comments box is only the tip of the iceberg. I have read more well-intentioned advice than I know what to do with.

Everybody sees a situation like mine in a different light, depending on what life has thrown at them; what kind of baggage they have picked up on the way. Sometimes the subject makes people distinctly uncomfortable: one friend I confided in seemed to find it impossible to talk about the breakdown of my relationship with Mr Frog without casting a slightly anxious eye over his own situation, almost squirming in his seat.

When people give me an insight into their own, similar, experiences, I have to tell myself to bear in mind that what worked for someone else, while it often makes interesting reading, can never be wholly relevant to what is happening in my life. Every situation is unique.

I’m not complaining. After all, when someone takes the time to type a long email to a person they have never met, it shows that they care enough to volunteer a point of view, write some kind words, or share their own, sometimes painful, experiences. I am very grateful for this, but endeavour all the same to take whatever is offered with a pinch of salt.

There are those who believe I should have “worked harder” to save my relationship with Mr Frog. Those who caution me against throwing myself headlong into a new relationship so soon, and advocate some time alone first, to adjust to the new status quo. To help Tadpole adjust. Those who are pessimistic, predicting that once the first flush of infatuation wears off, I will realise that I have made a terrible mistake. Those who advise me to keep Tadpole separate from the new adventure I am embarking on, for months, or even years. Those who feel the need to admonish me for having even contemplated leaving Tadpole’s father in the first place to selfishly pursue my own happiness. How dare I put myself first? What kind of a mother am I?

I reserve the right to put my hands over my ears like a child and chant loudly so that I can’t hear any of these words. I reserve the right to listen to my heart, and follow its lead, wherever it may take me.

Am I being selfish? Self-centred? Probably. I feel sure that I am doing what is best for everyone involved, but then I would, wouldn’t I? I wonder whether anyone can ever really be objective about their own motivations? Don’t we all feel tempted to tweak reality to fit in with our long term goals? To persuade ourselves that what we are doing is ultimately for the best?

All I know is this: I love, and I am loved. More deeply, on more levels, than I ever believed possible. I don’t really subscribe to notions like fate, or divine intervention, but I do marvel every day at the fact that I ever crossed paths with this person. I’ve found something, someone I didn’t even know I was waiting for, until now. I want to surrender myself to this feeling, to him, completely.

So don’t ask me to wait. Or take a break, and revisit this a few months down the line. It’s simply not an option for me. For us. I’m no fool, and I will force myself to tread carefully for the sake of my daughter’s well being. She is, and always will be, at the centre of my universe. Mr Frog will remain an important figure in my life too, both for Tadpole’s sake, and because I value him as a friend. But while I’m waiting, impatiently, for the next phase of my life to begin, taking small, measured steps towards it, I reserve the right to hug myself gleefully every time I think of the gorgeous things that my future holds. To laugh to myself in the metro. To smile at my monitor when I receive mail.

No dark cloud can leave a shadow on this.

It’s over.

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…

I abhor Paris in the summertime.

As soon as the temperatures begin to rise, my spirits correspondingly sink into my flip flops. An oppressive mantle of velvety, pollution-filled air descends on the city of light, consenting to recede, for a couple of hours only, shortly before dawn. There is only one thing worse than Paris on heat, and that is Paris on heat experienced from the unique vantage point of chez petite. My apartment, although it is packed full of original features (warped floorboards, fireplaces, a stove, bucolic scenes painted on panels and doors), is located on the fifth floor, beyond the reach of the shade giving trees which line our avenue, and has only south-facing windows.

The highest temperature ever recorded inside the flat was 40°C. This was in Tadpole’s bedroom, when she was a mere three months old, and the time was 11.30 pm. I did not enjoy her first summer one little bit. My not-so-fond memories of the 2003 canicule involve a scantily clad, half-crazed-with-cabin-fever petite sitting in semi-darkness, shutters firmly closed, windows only opened between the hours of 4 am and 9 am, engaged in one of two activities: DVD watching, or breastfeeding.

This week, with temperatures soaring into the lower 30’s, it has been increasingly difficult to get a decent night’s sleep. The conundrum is this: sleep with the windows open, and resign self to being woken up periodically by the clamour of traffic on the busy thoroughfare below (because not only do the windows face south, but also onto the street), or opt for double-glazed peace and quiet, and resign self to slow death by poaching. Possibly with a whirring fan for company, which manages to do little other than stir the sultry air round and round. Noisily.

And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, try adding the high pitched whine of an elusive mosquito with a voracious appetite into the mix. I can’t find a plug in mosquito repellent device for love nor money – the local shops helpfully stock only refills for people who didn’t leave their plug in apparatus in a hotel room in Mauritius or a gîte in Morbihan. Petite, nul points, Vampiric invisible mosquito, six points.

And quite how I managed to get bitten there, I will never know.

Tadpole and I went away last weekend.

I love travelling with my daughter. Her excitement about going in a “taxi car” or a “metro trenn”, let alone a “choo choo trenn” or a “plenn” is deliciously infectious. The most mundane trip is transformed into an intrepid adventure in her company. For a few hours I see the world through Tadpole eyes, noticing details - people, smells, noises - that I would otherwise miss, floating around Paris as I do in an Ipod cocoon, my head filled with daydreams.

Once we are safely ensconced in our seats and the journey begins, we draw pictures together. And read stories. I bend countless times to retrieve errant crayons from under our seats. We watch the world speed by outside the window, paying special attention to Tadpole’s current Favourite Things: sheep, lorries and tractors. Sinful snacks are gleefully consumed. Tadpole particularly likes sharing Kit Kats - one bite for mummy, one bite for Tadpole - culminating in a gloriously messy chocolate kiss. Sometimes I find that the memories of the journey itself are among those I will treasure most after a weekend away.

When we reach our destination, we are greeted by “mummy’s friend” and his children, who are also staying for the weekend. The butterflies which have been fluttering anxiously around in my tummy as I gather our bags together cease their frantic activity the moment we step down onto the platform and and see them waiting, hands linked. We say our bashful hellos, and I concentrate on suppressing an overwhelming urge to throw myself into his arms.

Not yet. Not in front of the children.

As our little party sets off, I marvel at how pushing Tadpole through the streets of the town where he lives feels like the most natural thing in the world. As if I’d already been there and done it a thousand times before.

The rest of the day is a happy blur of icy sea, scalding sand and the scent of sunscreen. I sneak covert, sidelong glances at my lover while he drives, the children napping in the back seat of the car. I love every single moment of our time en famille. But I’m also counting the seconds, yearning for the moment when the children will go to bed, so that, at long last, we can be alone.

Bliss.

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.

It all began with words. Words in comments boxes. One day, I rather randomly replied to his comment with an email (because yes, I can see your addresses, even if they do not display on the site). The first of many, in what became rather lengthy email exchanges. For my eyes only.

Innocuous, friendly emails, given the fact that I was clearly in a relationship, with the father of my child no less, and the gentleman in question did not presume too much. But they were tantalising missives all the same, hinting as they did at colourful experiences and disreputable secrets.

I revelled in his articulacy. Actually, if I’m honest, I was rather jealous of it. Sometimes I had to look up words in the dictionary, blushing at my own ignorance. Often, his words danced around in my head for days on end, and more than once, they inspired me to write a post about something from my past that had resurfaced as a result.

I knew that one day we would meet. And that meeting him would be important. I felt as though, just by exchanging these emails, I had already been unfaithful to Mr Frog on some, albeit cerebral, level.

And yet all he had done was volunteer a little information about his life, in return for having been able to read what was there on the internet for everyone to see about my own.

All perfectly innocent.

Let’s take a step back from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks and take some time out for a little “know your petite” quiz.

The answers to the following questions (multiple choice, because I hail from the GCSE era, just) cannot be found on the blog. It’s all about predicting what you think might be right, from what you know already.

The first person to answer all the questions correctly in the comments box below will receive a very attractive and expensive personalised prize.

1. What is petite’s favourite television programme?

a) Keeping up appearances
b) 24
c) Nip/Tuck I do also like 24, but Nip/Tuck is just so naughty…
d) Navarro

2. Which of the following gentlemen has never graced petite’s bedroom wall?

a) John Taylor (Duran Duran - I was 11)
b) Bernard Sumner (New Order - I was 16)
c) Kurt Cobain (at university)
d) Johnny Depp

I stopped putting people on my wall after things happened to both Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix.

3. If Tadpole had been a boy, which of the following names made it to the shortlist?

a) George
b) Noah
c) Jean-François
d) Milo
e) Alfie

We racked our brains for a name which would work in French and English, but also go with Mr Frog’s Italian surname. We weren’t happy with our choice, but couldn’t think of anything else either. Would have pronounced it “meelo” and I knew nothing of the tweenies at the point, may I add.

4. Which of the following has petite never done?

a) had her belly button pierced
b) bungee jumped off a bridge
c) owned blue doc martens
d) been to a Bryan Adams concert

ahem. That concert. I was 13 and won a ticket. And had to go with my dad. I wish I hadn’t brought it up now…

5. Where did petite meet her current suitor?

a) at a blogmeet
b) at Leeds Bradford airport
c) in her comments box
d) at a speed dating evening
e) he’s an old flame

6. At school was petite…

a) editor of the school newspaper
b) a prefect
c) captain of the hockey team
d) none of the above

7. petite’s ambrosia is:

a) a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea
b) a glass of red wine and some dark chocolate
c) fish, chips and mushy peas, eaten outdoors
d) a jumbo pot of nutella and a spoon

I do like all of the above, but when I wrote the quiz I was hankering after fish and chips eaten out of the wrapper on the seafront at Whitby.

8. if petite was filthy rich, she would dress in:

a) Marc Jacobs
b) Valentino
c) Top Shop, regardless
d) Chanel

9. What is petite’s favourite film of all time?

a) Blue Velvet
b) Paris, Texas
c) Fight Club
d) Donnie Darko

By my calculations, 3.2, Leslie and Nardac all did rather well with 7/9.

I had the most wonderful, sensual, exciting, beautiful weekend. I felt so incredibly alive. Awakened. As though until now I had been merely sleepwalking through my life.

Now, back in Paris, back at my desk, nose streaming with a summer cold that manifested itself on the train journey home, I wish I didn’t feel like I simply dreamed it all.

I wish that Mr Frog hadn’t been sick this morning and bombarded me with distressing emails all day. I feel his pain, but I think I am the last person who can help.

It seems that there can be no happiness without guilt and remorse. No pleasure without anguish.

It almost feels like I’m being punished. Divine retribution.

I have posted today over here, just in case you were missing me…

The post is dedicated to the lovely Anna, for obvious reasons.

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Can I just say how miffed I am not to have been nominated to participate in this. But as some very good virtual friends of mine are involved, please pay them a visit and watch them rip each other to shreds!

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Blogmeet - Saturday 25 June

Tadpole’s second birthday was a bittersweet celebration for Mr Frog and me.

I fetched him some lemsip, early this morning, as he was suffering with from a slightly sore throat (and was consequently at death’s door, as most men generally are when they catch a common cold). He had met a friend for dinner last night, so I enquired cautiously as to how that had gone.

I find myself permanently on edge when he goes out, paranoid that some well meaning soul will say something that will turn Mr Frog against me, shattering our cosy, friendly little bubble with a few harsh home truths. It hasn’t happened yet, probably because I am not being portrayed as the villain of the piece, and my extra-non-marital affair (if you can even call it that) is not common knowledge among his friends. He chooses not to mention it. It’s probably a matter of male pride, but whatever, the happy end result is that my good name is not tarnished as a result.

In fact, the friend was suitably floored by how calm and rational Mr Frog was - on the surface, at least - and remarked that hearing our story was like watching a slow-paced, intellectual French film. Like “La Séparation”, which Mr Frog watched on cable earlier this week. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The little I did half overhear, while in earshot of the television, was far too close to the bone. Thankfully, as Mr Frog is wont to do, he fell asleep on the sofa long before the final credits rolled. I was rather relieved, because the film mirrored our own situation a little too closely for comfort, and I really, really did not want to be told that it had all ended with the couple being tearfully reunited and admitting that the whole thing had been a mistake.

Back to this morning. We went to Tadpole’s bedroom to wake her. I stroked her cheek with the back of my finger (I wish I had skin like that) and started to sing Happy Birthday.

“Happy birthday to you”

Tadpole screwed up her face, pursed her lips and rolled over to hide her face against the bedroom wall. I noticed the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips. She was teasing.

“Happy birthday to you”

“Non!” She said, emphatically, “[Tadpole] sleeping!”

“Happy birthday dear [Tadpole], happy birthday to you”

As if by magic, she sat bolt upright and said: “Birthday presents?”

I shouldn’t be suprised, after all, this is the second of her four birthday celebrations, and she is getting used to the drill.

The living room was filled with coloured balloons, just like on her first birthday, and a blanket covered her main present, a tricycle. Later, when Mr Frog and I get home, there will be Noddy cake, candles to be blown out, wishes to be wished, and probably much enthusiastic popping of balloons.

It was lovely. But it was also Tadpole’s last birthday with mummy and daddy living under the same roof.

She has no idea. But I haven’t been able to lose that thought all day.

Soon, I will have a bed, but no mattress. Cable TV, without a television set. I am rather pathetically relieved, with hindsight, that the computer is mine, all mine. As is the stereo. And the bookcase.

Oddly, the only item we have almost come to blows about so far is the exercise bike. The exercise bike which I rarely use, and which Mr Frog has never used, not even once. It serves mostly as a rather oversized thermometer and as the guardian of the evil ironing pile (until said pile becomes so large that the clothes topple off). I’m not sure who will wrestle custody of the cursed contraption yet, as Mr Frog changes his mind every other day, but I rather think I’d prefer to see it go. At least then it wouldn’t sit in the corner of my bedroom, eying me balefully and making snide comments about my thighs when it thinks I’m not listening.

There will be gaps, where pieces of furniture once stood. I suspect that the flat is going to seem too big, for a while. Especially on the nights when Tadpole will stay over at daddy’s place.

Which of my two sofas will I lie on, I wonder? Which side of the double bed will I favour?

Mr Frog has found a new place to live and will be moving out in ten day’s time. His bachelor pad is 200 m from our/my front door, just across the road, and has panoramic views of Paris, apparently. He jokes that he will be watching me with binoculars from his balcony. I love the way he still has the power (and the inclination) to see the funny side, and to want to make me laugh.

For Tadpole, I think the fact of daddy being close at hand will be helpful. She’ll accompany him to the same baker’s shop, and the same supermarket (where the checkout lady always gives her a kiss), and he’ll still be able to take her to the childminder’s house, some mornings. Business as usual. Anything that can lessen the inevitable impact on Tadpole’s routine has to be good, I feel.

It is also comforting for me to know that if I am struck down my a blinding migraine attack and can’t cope alone, or there is some sort of emergency, Mr Frog will only be a couple of minutes away. But I know I can’t expect him to be ‘on call’ either. I have made my bed, and will have to lie in it.

Which will be rather uncomfortable, until I get this mattress problem sorted out.

We sang carols outside a friend’s bedroom door, in the halls of residence, accompanied by an improvised shepherd, in the form of a vacuum cleaner wearing a makeshift head dress fashioned out of a tea towel and a roll of sticky tape.

We drank mushroom tea, and you saw furry spiders crawling all over my blue bedroom walls. Meanwhile I climbed into the linen cupboard and peeped suspiciously out through the slats in the wooden door.

You sent me weird, wonderful, nonsensical letters during vacations, and, when she overheard me telling you I loved you on the phone, my mum started to wonder if her daughter wasn’t, in fact, a lesbian.

We went on missions to Safeway, with your shopping trolley, John, and the badly drawn felt tipped pen drawings of Magic Roundabout characters on his belly.

We went to Glastonbury, and each year was slightly more surreal (and expensive) than the last. Although the lemon scented hand wipes in lieu of showers remained a charming constant.

I used to bury my head under my pillow when your boyfriend came round, wondering how it was that sex had to involve rattling every cupboard door and banging into every piece of furniture in your room.

We danced until dawn at Renaissance, convinced that we could see bursts of rainbow coloured sounds and catch them in our hands if we could only move fast enough.

This weekend, we sat in your conservatory, watching our little angels roaming around the garden and occasionally breaking up heated squabbles over favoured toys. We discussed toddler taming techniques and new beginnings over cups of PG Tips and the odd cheeky half of lager.

So much has changed since those university days - the best of my life so far - but you never do.

Thank you for being so unconditionally happy for me.

I arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport feeling washed out, as though, unbeknown to me, a vampire has been feasting on my blood for the duration of our flight.

The usual, interminable queue greets us at passport control. I fail to see the point of designing a doughnut-shaped terminal building, with several passport control points, if at any given time there is only one member of staff on duty, creating a huge bottleneck. Thankfully Tadpole is unusually calm and is not yet begging to be released from the pushchair and its restraining ‘strapons’.

Our British passports are handed back once the officer has given the pushchair a brief, cursory glance, and I heave a sigh of relief, as I have forgotten to bring a copy of her birth certificate. Again. As Tadpole and I don’t share the same surname, and her passport photo dates back to when she was three weeks old (propped up against my white T-shirt because she was unable to support her own head at that point), the officers could be forgiven for wondering if I am trying to smuggle a random infant into the country. They don’t seem to mind though, as she’s a British citizen today. I suspect the situation would be somewhat different if she was travelling as tétard and not Tadpole. I’ve heard ominous mutterings about the need for an official document signed by Tadpole’s father authorising us to leave le territoire français.

Next ordeal: baggage reclaim. We wait. And wait. And wait some more. I get fidgety and text a friend, then lock the keypad so Tadpole can pretend to make some important business calls:

“Allô? Allô, ca va? Grandad? Postman Pat, black cat, early in the morning, when the day ee dawning, Pat feels he’s a really happy man. Bye!”

I find it impossible to remain calm at baggage reclaim. After only five minutes have elapsed, I am already shaking and having flashbacks to that time when the 60 litre backpack containing all my Christmas presents (plus every pair of shoes I owned) got lost at Amsterdam airport, only to turn up, looking suitably battered and sheepish, approximately one week later. I have not so fond memories of spending several hours painstakingly picking tiny shards of a broken vase out of all my clothing. The last couple of mishaps were far less serious, but sent stress levels soaring all the same. My bag arrived several hours later than I in Madrid, on our recent long weekend away, and Tadpole’s pushchair arrived two whole days late when we went ‘home’ to York for Easter.

Clearly airports and I do not get along.

The little green light starts flashing to signal the imminent arrival of baggage, and I helpfully drag a fat-little-English-Disneyland-Paris-bound-chav* off the conveyor belt, just in the nick of time.

Bags file past. Large ones, small ones, pink Disney ones, suitcases on wheels, holdalls, pushchairs and car seats. No sign of my enormous bag on wheels (which weighed in at an expensive 23 kilos as we are repatriating Tadpole’s early birthday presents). Paranoia sets in. I chew on my lip manically as I scour the crowds for signs of someone wheeling away my suitcase (it happened to a friend recently), and wishing that it had some more distinctive markings on it so that I could identify it reliably from a distance.

“Come on, ” I mutter under my breath, impatiently.

“Come on mummy’s bag, where it is mummy’s bag?” chants Tadpole, gleefully.

And then I spot it, slowly juddering around the conveyor belt in the distance. We are standing well back because I am always worried someone will swing round with an unwieldy suitcase and send Tadpole flying.

“There it is! Look!” I say to Tadpole a little too loudly, overcome as I am with relief. A few heads turn in our direction, but I think nothing of it, at first.

But as the bag approaches, every single person looks my way, one by one, some smirking knowingly, others stifling a giggle. Or laughing out loud. Pointing at my bag.

I am confused. I know it’s a big bag, but that fact alone can’t possibly be the cause of so much amusement. Can it?

The bag is rounding the last curve of the conveyor belt when I suddenly realise what all the fuss is about and start blushing furiously.

There is a cylindrical bulge in the front pocket of my bag. It is vibrating, rather violently, thanks to a set of fresh batteries, purchased only yesterday.

I rue the day my dentist recommended using an electric toothbrush.

Tadpole opens her mouth, showing her near complete set of milk teeth, and beautiful, effortless, grammatically perfect sentences fall out.

Admittedly these are mostly in French, but so awestruck am I by her new found ability to string together up a dozen words at a time that I forget that I am supposed to be disappointed that French appears to be dominating at the moment.

“Tu vois, il est là bas, dans la chambre, sur le lit, le biberon de dolly,” she says earnestly, her tiny hand seeking out mine, because she wants to us to fetch it together.

“Non, je n’ai pas fait caca dans la couche, je ne l’ai pas fait!” she cries over her shoulder, having wriggled out of my grasp and rapidly distancing herself from the changing mat. I wonder what on earth she has eaten which could be responsible for such an unpleasant, lingering odour, if what she is saying is true.

Barely a week ago, Mr Frog and I both remarked upon the fact that Tadpole’s language skills seemed to have reached a plateau: we hadn’t heard any new words or seen much evidence of her attempting to string those she did already know into phrases for some time. Now, with hindsight, I realise that she was simply biding her time, quietly soaking up every last word, assimilating, processing and digesting until she was ready to take the plunge and dazzle us with her new abilities.

As a non-native speaker of French, who had to endure many a tedious grammar lesson over the years to learn how to manipulate preceding direct objects and indefinite articles, I marvel at Tadpole’s flawless grammar. I’m insanely jealous of the way in which, as a native speaker, she remains blissfully unaware of how these complex phrases break down into their component parts, or why the words behave as they do in different contexts. The individual pieces of the jigsaw - which she has memorised as sensible, meaningful chunks of completed puzzle - slot gracefully into small and perfectly formed sentences. She makes it look so easy.

I’m willing to bet that the day she corrects one of my infamous gender blunders is only just around the corner.

I can’t wait.