It’s tipping it down. Proper, heavy, grey water from the black skies in bucketloads. I do not want to go home. I do not want to be in the city, to see brick again, to be deprived of fresh air, to see a hundered cars and identical terraced houses before I’m five minutes from my front door. I do not want to miss my family again; I have enjoyed having my mother-in-law next door and I don’t want Martin to go back to work.
I especially don’t want to be desperately seeking a babysitter for Morgan, who I am not ready to leave, to do a job I suddenly feel horrendously unequipped and emotionally unavailable for. What am I doing? I can’t help anyone, specifically, one to one and professionally. I’m scared. What if my baby cries for the whole time I’m off attempting a job I don’t think I can do?
I have four days to find someone to take her for an hour. If I can’t, I will have to horribly and humiliatingly admit defeat and let this poor client down whilst proving everyone right about taking me on with a small baby. If I can then I will have to horribly and humiliatingly crash and burn in the care sector with nobody to blame. What am I doing?