The knowledge that I’m moving out in three weeks is scary. Although people have been calling me an adult for a long time, and since eighteen, I’ve had to be a grown up, moving out feels like it really is the end of childhood. I’ve left school and so have nobody there to guide me. My parents will no more be looking after me, and I realise that there are many important worries as an adult.
A friend in an eating disorder clinic rang me today and begged me to visit, I’m waiting for an email that might determine the future of my best friend, and I’ve got new friends to make when I move. I need to cook, clean, wash clothes. I’ve got to work hard to do well at uni and get a good job. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in worry.
And yet the kids I sit for, for them, the biggest worry is when the Wombles will end and trying to decide if we should play twister or trains next.
I miss being a child. I miss being innocent. I miss not understanding all the terrible things that happen in the world.
They decided to play with Lego.