3 days a week I do the part-time working mum juggling act thing. The mornings go a bit like this…
6.30am war cry “I’m hungry mummy I want breakfast NOW” and “I need ma mowk”. I take the customers’ requests from the array of EIGHT different cereals (every whim and whinge catered for).
“I want porridge”.
“It takes too long to make and mummy is in a rush” (I’ll burn it in the microwave, the second batch will be too clumpy and burn your mouth).
“But I waaaaaaaant iiiiit!”
Big drama partially pacified by a cocktail of ‘Mummy’s posh cereal’ (Jordan’s Strawberry Country Crisp since you asked) and the bear’s (shreddies). I run upstairs leaving gumdrops and the bear eating at either end of a long dining table, in the dark and slurping in silence. The old bird in Downton would approve, except for the shabby attire: foisty-wee smelling tartan jammers and a rice-crispy-encrusted 3 day old sleep suit.
Rushing to throw make up on in the dark, pulling on 3 different pairs of thick black tights (hole in crotch, hole in toe, bobbly from KHB’s*) I do the dance to convince my kids I love them but I want neither their snot nor their toothpaste on my black dress (Hush Winter Newport goes with anything and super comfy**).
Parting is such sweet sorrow – it is still hard on each of those 3 days to kiss their fuzzly bed-heads goodbye and watch them wave me off in their jim-jams. We are just trying our first proper nanny and I do have a tinge of envy as I leave her with my babies. But when I slam the car door, throw the radio up loud (still Radio1, still got it) and get past the end of our road all is forgotten and I AM A WOMAN ALONE with 25 minutes (to 2 hours depending on the wanky traffic) TO MYSELF!!! That my friends is worth paying for.