I took my girls round to La Belle Fille’s friends house to play today. He is her Fiancé. No, we haven’t been practising medeval betrothal so to increase our power base, no Game Of Throne fans here, he’s actually her choice. She regularly talks about how, when she grows up, she’s going to marry him. He agrees. It love in its sweetest, most innocent form.
When we were leaving I’d spoken to his mum about their coming to visit and she’d gladly agreed, coming up with the fantastic idea of sending us a video message from him on the day we arrive in France.
Despite this when we got in the car she started to cry. I mean wail. She’s never done this before. She’s done the normal tantrum because she doesn’t want to go, but this was a wail. I kept saying that Son Fiancé would come to France; she could show him the fields, the sheep, the cows, the stream at the bottom of the garden. But still she wailed.
“Boys aren’t allowed to go to France!” She said, taking in huge gulps of air.
“Of course they can.” I said. I talked through what our journeys to and from France had been like, adding that he could do this too for each step. But each time I got her plaintive cry in response “But….boys aren’t allowed in France.”
It’s a big move for a little girl. A lot to take in, and it doesn’t all go in at once.
It’s a big move for us too. Today was the first time that I realised that we were going. It went from surreal to real. I’ve said other permanent goodbyes and they didn’t register. Yet today’s au revoir did.
The house is three quarters packed away, I’m surrounded by boxes and we’re just eating ready meals. Yet it was today’s goodbye that made it real.