Sweet Child of Someone Else

Most of the time it feels like life is in embryo here.  I am living and working, but I crave an apartment that I cannot cover in eight strides, and a kitchen bigger than a gnat's penis.  It's funny, I grouched for years about the size of my kitchen in Southfields but these current facilities are about one third the size.  And I want a job that does not include putting wooden shapes in holes, at least not the same shape repeatedly in the same hole.

Some of my job delights me - watching Baby C start to walk is very exciting.  Some of my job makes me want to scream.  Her older sister currently takes away from the baby every single toy, because she is three, and she can, and she will.  Suffice to say it's easier to bond with a very cuddly baby than a three year old practising her will, but we'll get there.  H is starting to cuddle me too, albeit a bone-crunching sort of dive-bomb of a cuddle.

I think it will be easier too when their mum works longer hours because it's difficult to know who is in charge.  Clearly not me if mum is there, although I do try.

And it seems very disloyal, but I'm going to keep applying for admin and secretarial jobs.  We have a gentleman's agreement that I will stay in this job for at least six months, but I suspect by then I will be pushing what remains of my brain through the shape-sorter.  Clearly I'm no gentleman.