Trekhprudny Lane

Beautiful warm day. The sun glares off of the brown haze, and exhaust from the gridlock in the streets smells even more potent in the heat. Spent the morning dragging the children and babysitter through the metro tunnels, all for a brief hour at a park, where walking on the grass, it turns out, is discouraged. 

EB, suffering after another nighttime mosquito attack (face, ankles, hands, trunk, even her earlobes are inflamed and itching), has declared war with the babysitter. Will not agree to be approached or touched. Hungry but refuses to eat. Refuses to speak Russian. She's lying on the floor of her room right now, moaning. 

Why do I even have a babysitter? It's a drain on the savings fund that is our eventual ticket out of here, and I certainly have no job and nothing to do, no one to see, no reason to leave the apartment at all. Indeed, it's only inside this apartment that I am a somewhat functional, competent adult. Outside of it I am helpless. I have a babysitter because I cannot tolerate even half a day alone with the two little monsters, with the same nagging voice in my head reciting, "Write a novel? Extract an article from the dissertation somehow? Maybe find a drawing class..." While the dogs have no homes with winter coming and the orphanages are still reputedly awful. Something decadent in all of this. 

Dingy, pretentious city!

Useless me!