Tetard is French for tadpole

At 4, Pineapple was given a 'merit certificate' in a school assembly for her 'wonderful description of the lifecycle of a frog'.


I was so happy for her, and loved the certificate, which is still pinned on a wall: this was sweet recognition. In retrospect, more than this maternal pride, I am comforted that she was already making a place to put a shocking understanding that was soon to be forced on her.


The award came out of from time spent that summer with Dad discovering tadpoles and frogspawn in a pond near our place. The pond has a small tributary into a glacial and turbulent river that wends its way to Geneva. Some of the frogspawn even hatched and made it to tadpoles. Some of them too managed to mature to frogs. One day I watched with a sickening feeling as the odd, ably swimming, tadpole found its way to the wrong part of the pond, and slipped into the fast-flowing but tiny trickle of water, that dropped into to this churning, icy, unforgiving river.


'Natural selection' her Dad and I reasoned at this pointless waste of a life. Secretly (but in vain I know) I imagined a little bower, or rock of safety somewhere downstream, from where the marooned tadpole would mature and become a glorious frog after all. I am not sure if Pineapple noticed the stricken tadpole, she was too busy poking others with sticks.


I was 16 weeks pregnant carrying you, and we were all looking forward to meeting you.A year later: We have moved out to France, and live close to the same tadpole pool. A new school, and a new life. But so sadly, not your life .


I am accompanying Pineapple's class on a school trip to visit the fire station. The trip ends with a walk in the woods, and an expedition to hunt tadpoles. The ground was drying up after a period of heavy storms, and before we had a chance even to reach the pond with frogspawn, some 5 year olds stumbled on some jelly-like stuff on the path.


'C'est quoi? ' "whassat?" They asked.


'Children, this is what we are looking for - this is frogspawn that’s been put in a puddle by a frog. But look - the puddle has dried up and the frogspawn is stranded. It will probably die…'


10 children looked around quickly for a solution: "lets get some water quick!"Surely we were not just going to let the frogspawn die?


I thought of you and put it another way, as best I could: 'I think it’s too late'.


The children bounced off in 20 different directions to splash in mud and other puddles, apparently reconciled to the inevitable.


But I overheard Pineapple muttering to herself, head down: "that’s just like what happened to my brother. He didn’t even get a chance to live either". She had been thinking of you too.



*******


This is typical of Pineapple these days. She talks about you when it is relevant or she is reminded of you. She plays happily with baby dolls, nurses them. (One is so similar in size to you that at first I found it unbearable to watch). The hospital gave us a crochet blanket similar to the one you were wrapped in, which she loves dearly, plays with and calls "her Mattie". She has a wide circle of imaginary friends, including a superhuman invincible brother.


We were told that children who heard the direct truth were better able to incorporate the loss into their lives, and deal with it as healthily as possible. But it was hard nonetheless. She went through a lot. She was only 4 and was devastated when she first heard you had died, just like everyone else.

It was hard for her too as she heard the initial consultation in the hospital:
'I am sorry, it’s very sad but it is most likely, inevitable actually, you are going to lose this baby'.

Pineapple suggested that if she sang songs it would make you better. She blamed herself for a while afterwards, for not singing enough, or well enough. But she also blamed me: when I came to pick her up after your birth-and-death, she met me on the stairs and screamed at me, angry and betrayed: "WHY are you not pregnant any more? Tell me NOW, WHY??"

She does not ask ‘Why?’ so frequently now, she does not blame any more, but like us all she has not stopped wondering, poor thing!