"I WANT TO PLAY WITH IT!" comes the voice of a screaming child from downstairs. I rush to the living room, nervous that it will all end in tears.
I got this job so that I'd fit in. Not so that I could be deafened by the shrieks of your average four year old.
"NO! It's MINE! Vanessa said it's MY TURN!"
I round the corner to see Brook and Charlie fighting over a toy aeroplane, yanking it back and forth between them. I calmly stepp in and pulled it from their grasps.
"If you carry on like this," I tell them. "It will break and then no-one will have it"
"But you said I could have it!" Charlie argues.
"No, you said it was my turn!" Brook yells.
"I said it was Charlie's turn, Brook. Why don't you go and play with the paints?" I ask, when really I'm thinking why don't your parents ever come on time?
Seriously, though. The nursery ends at 6pm. Why are Brook and Charlie always here at gone eight?
I always get a wave of relief when the doorbell rings, and hand over the children gratefully to their apologetic mother. Or sister. Or father. I never know which one's going to come. Their family is so flipping complicated. More complicated than mine, and that's really saying something.
After tidying up the endless mess that toddlers manage to make, I set off for Sunrisen.