A little child keeps dying in me more and more

A little child keeps dying in me more and more. He swears and throws his tantrums, and you often hear him scream. He's been afraid of everything since diapers, to the core. And most of all since some grown man moved in there on the scene. His laws and rules, his habits and his way of keeping order He started bringing in with feeling, sense and measured pace. Less and less he wants to play at hide-and-seek these days. More and more he's started bringing someone to the place... I'm friends with her, don't get me wrong — I think the world of her! In all this time she's taken the place of all my crew. But day by day, more often, I can feel it, I can tell: A man's sharp, piercing look of disapproval coming through. He's always, constantly, wanting something out of me, Demanding that at last I too get serious, grow up. He presses on and on — I've got no strength left, can't you see. I grumble in reply: come on, I'm still too small, let up! I howl, I whine, I freak out, I protest, I cry! He only smirks and looks at me with a kind, warm smile. And like the old man with his old woman in that tale, He keeps on bending his own line, but softly, without bile. But sometimes there's no coming to terms with him at all. And with the one who moved in with us, it won't go either. More and more they ask to play in the room with the toys. And in the one who moved in with us, a woman grows...