Byline: Lorraine Candy
AS Editor-in-Chief of fashion magazine Elle and a mum to three young children, Lorraine Candy's life is a chronic juggling act. In a weekly column, she reveals what life is really like for working mothers. Lorraine lives in London with her husband James, an IT specialist.
Nike Rift Replica ShoesFRIDAY is the day I change tribes. Goodbye working mum; hello stay-at-home mum. The children always know it's Friday because, a) I have flat shoes on, and b) my hair looks like Cherie Blair's did when she was snapped opening the door of No 10 in her nightie.
I'm up at 6am, all three dressed, fed and out of the house by 8am, one high-speed school drop-off followed by another. (Gracie-inthe-middle always tries to find an excuse to stay home on Fridays, fearful of the extra attention the little one gets.
'Save me!' she shouts at passersby as I bundle her onto the bus. 'I've got swine flu!') Then it's off to soft play with the toddler. I chase my son, nearly three, who likes to be called Miss Argentina, for an hour around a sweaty hellhole less hygienic than our Airedale's bed.
Then, because I didn't have time to do an online shop, we're off to the supermarket, constantly watching the clock to be back for lunch and the afternoon pick-up.
The day at home speeds up in a way my working day doesn't ever seem to. I feel in control at work, even in a crisis; at home, it's like being on a rollercoaster in the dark.
At the supermarket, I face that manifestation of technological torture -- the self-check-out machine. I ask again: Why do so-called timesaving measures turn out to be evil time thieves? 'Put the item in the bag,' the selfcheck-out commands me. I can't because the item is my child, he's holding the bag and won't let go. 'Just price the bloody bread rolls will you!' I yell at it.
Replica Cartier WatchA patient member of staff sorts my shopping and stamps my car park ticket. But when I reach the exit, the ticket doesn't work and a queue builds. The grumpy man in the booth demands I leave the car. I can't, as the toddler has learned how to undo his seatbelt: he'll be halfway to town before I get to the booth.
I refuse to leave the car, and the toddler presses his Homer Simpson dashboard toy for special comic effect.
'What is this? National stupid drivers' day?' bellows Homer. There is a pause from Grumpy. He waddles over and lets me out.
Time is running out.
I have 20 minutes between one school ending and the other o n e finishing.
I dash up the hill between the two, carrying Miss Argentina on my shoulders. 'Faster!' he yells, oblivious to the Herculean effort I am putting in given that he is shaped like a squat sumo wrestler.
When we all get home, I begin tea.
'Can we help?' the trio of terror ask in unison.
Yep, that should speed up things. I hand them a carrot each. All are rejected -- too big, too small, too ugly.
Within seconds, there is carrot and potato peel all over the floor ('Sorry, Mummy, it was an accident'). As I trip over a huge (and surprisingly hard) ball made of red rubber bands, apple juice is opened without permission. It fountains across the room as I'm getting up off the floor.
When I clear it up, I seem to mislay the cloth. I find it later in the bubbling spaghetti.
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