Since I last wrote I’ve been in some sort of nether world. Le Marie had to go back to England to finish the decorating for the new tenants and I was left with Les Petites Fille’s. Having two pre-school children on your own is difficult anyway; in another country, with another language it’s a whole different ball game.
My folks had gone on holiday with my brother’s family and so it was just us. La Belle Fille kept having tantrums wherever we went. With no-one to take over of an evening I was getting very tired and felt like throwing a few myself.
One evening I’d phoned Le Marie completely dispirited. I suddenly realised that she’d been saying something over and over again in the lead up to these tantrums, even though what she was saying wasn’t directly connected. She kept pointing out who was speaking English; if there wasn’t anyone speaking it she’d point out where it was written.
So I asked her if she was worried about moving and she said yes. When I asked why she said “They all speak French and I speak English.” I realised that unlike previous trips I hadn’t focused on this as I’d been so busy focusing on having conversations in French myself. Since then we’ve taken every opportunity to introduce French into the conversations between us.
Today we started to move our things into the new home. It wasn’t until about six o’clock yesterday that I realised that we haven’t packed anything to go. Although we’d stored lots in the basement our clothes and everything was still hung up in our room. At about ten Maman went to bed; “You don’t seem excited!”
Le Marie and I looked at each other – no excitement. We’d already made the big move.
When we were moving our things I had this enormous sense of sadness. This is a move I’ve wanted for over a decade, to feel like this was odd. As things came out of the boxes I suddenly realised why. Part of my dream was buying our forever home and we were staying in somebody’s, albeit lovely, gite.
A lot of their things were still there. I’ve always been a homemaker. As soon as I hit puberty I’d started to browse home magazines, planning how I’d decorate my ideal home. Our last move I’d planned so much where I was going to put things we were able to sit down on sofas with books in bookcases and ornaments on the mantel the evening we’d moved in. It was immediately our home. But unpacking this time I knew that it couldn’t really be how I’d like it to be, even though it was one of the loveliest houses I’d ever been in.
As I continued and more of the things we could put up went in their places my feelings started to change. By the time we’d finished for the day we headed back to my folks. Because of the children we’d decided to spend one last night at their house. We spent the evening feeding the kids and ourselves and I started to miss our little home and regret our decision.
We’re definatley moving in tomorrow. There’s no internet, no telephone, no dishwasher or tumble dryer and the tv isn’t working. It will be like going back to the 1950s (so I guess this is my 1949), except we will have a washing machine, so we’d be posh. I’m so looking forward to it. I hope to take some and post some photos of the place too – I just wasn’t able to today – using my folks Internet before we travel back in time.