By . Lorraine Candy . PUBLISHED: . 14:57 EST, 7 August 2013 . | . UPDATED: . 15:53 EST, 7 August 2013 . On Saturday morning, the ancient cuckoo clock on our kitchen wall marked a momentous change in our family life. As the moth-eaten bird hurtled out of its hole at 9am, I realised something was missing among the pile of Cheerios, spilt milk and general breakfast chaos: my eldest child. The baby that didn't sleep for the first five years of her life (and rose any time around 5am thereafter) was still in her bed, dead to the world under a pile of old soft toys and discarded clothes. And when she finally tumbled downstairs onto the sofa with a sigh, a new era dawned. Mother doesn't know best: Lorraine's pre-teen daughter has become grumpier and doesn't do as she's told (posed by models) She'd gone to bed as a little girl and woken up as a teenager. Really, she had. You may not believe it, but it was like witnessing the opposite formula of Honey, I Shrunk The Kids. Anyway, overnight everything changed, because my daughter had broken my heart. To use the teenage vernacular, I'd been dumped (or whatever the maternal equivalent of being dumped is). She'd grown up and I was no longer needed. Growing up fast: Lorraine wonders where her little girl has gone (posed by model) This reduced me to a simpering mess, trailing around behind her, desperate for some morsel of attention, a sign that she still wanted me in her life. I was like a lovesick ex. Right now I'd give anything just to clasp her hand in mine again, to cuddle her in her nightie or, God forbid, to kiss the pale freckles on her nose (the ones that she hates, but I love). We all know motherhood is a painful series of 'letting go' moments as your offspring speed towards adulthood - but this stage is a particularly cruel and brutal parting. Where the hell is my little ruby-haired toddler? Who has nabbed the roly-poly newborn I used to sing You Are My Sunshine to in the early hours of the new day? Will I ever see the proud, smiley face that I photographed in her uniform on her very first day at school again? I have suddenly acquired a quieter, more self-conscious version of my first born. Enter the ever-so-slightly grumpy queen of the one-word answer. I don't recognise her. Later, I try to talk to this sulky new model of my beloved toddler to find out how I might be able to win her heart again. I practise a sensible, rational conversation in my head, but as I get close to her while she watches TV, I just blurt out, 'Cuddle me!' It's not that she’s difficult or argumentative (though I fear this is what I would see if I peeked over the precipice into the dark valley of teenagerdom). She has simply become more grown up. This is, of course, my problem, not hers. She wants more time alone. Sleep tight . The NHS recommends the average four-year-old should get 11.5 hours of sleep per night . If I walk into a room when she's with her friends, they instantly stop talking. If I ask her to brush her hair, she flounces off in the manner of Joan Collins and doesn't brush her hair for days. I've lost count of the illogical things she's done since Saturday in order to prove the point that I am wrong about everything. 'That's so her,' I hear her saying to her sister one night after one of my maternal crimes (the bed-before-midnight rule, probably). So, fellow mothers, have I lost her forever just two weeks before her 11th birthday? Tell me, what are the rules for pre-teen girls? The arrival of this new personality has pushed me into the arms of another - my two-year-old daughter Mabel. She cannot get or give enough love. She is up for a cuddle every second of every minute, showering me in her addictive, slobbery kisses. Bliss. Her love is like a drug, which on the one hand satisfies my needy maternal urges, but on the other reminds me of what I have lost with my eldest, the one where the parental journey began. There’s no cure for the 'mummy blues' is there? There is no mood booster for the grief of letting the world's most wonderful memories slip through your fingers, lost in the sands of time? There are no more babies, so what's the solution to this temporary sadness? Doughnuts? Just as I'm figuring it all out, the smallest of my four provides me with some help. She subtly shows me there's a lot not to mourn as my offsprings' childhoods rush by as she launches yet another of her dirty protests in the potty-training battle. So maybe a new carpet is the answer to my woes. What with the combined forces of four children over the years, the one outside the loo isn't up to any more near misses. Lorraine Candy is editor-in-chief of Elle magazine .
Lorraine's 11-year-old has grown up .
Leaving her mother wondering where the years have gone .
By . Lorraine Candy . PUBLISHED: . 14:57 EST, 7 August 2013 . | . UPDATED: . 15:53 EST, 7 August 2013 . On Saturday morning, the ancient cuckoo clock on our kitchen wall marked a momentous change in our family life. As the moth-eaten bird hurtled out of its hole at 9am, I realised something was missing among the pile of Cheerios, spilt milk and general breakfast chaos: my eldest child. The baby that didn't sleep for the first five years of her life (and rose any time around 5am thereafter) was still in her bed, dead to the world under a pile of old soft toys and discarded clothes. And when she finally tumbled downstairs onto the sofa with a sigh, a new era dawned. Mother doesn't know best: Lorraine's pre-teen daughter has become grumpier and doesn't do as she's told (posed by models) She'd gone to bed as a little girl and woken up as a teenager. Really, she had. You may not believe it, but it was like witnessing the opposite formula of Honey, I Shrunk The Kids. Anyway, overnight everything changed, because my daughter had broken my heart. To use the teenage vernacular, I'd been dumped (or whatever the maternal equivalent of being dumped is). She'd grown up and I was no longer needed. Growing up fast: Lorraine wonders where her little girl has gone (posed by model) This reduced me to a simpering mess, trailing around behind her, desperate for some morsel of attention, a sign that she still wanted me in her life. I was like a lovesick ex. Right now I'd give anything just to clasp her hand in mine again, to cuddle her in her nightie or, God forbid, to kiss the pale freckles on her nose (the ones that she hates, but I love). We all know motherhood is a painful series of 'letting go' moments as your offspring speed towards adulthood - but this stage is a particularly cruel and brutal parting. Where the hell is my little ruby-haired toddler? Who has nabbed the roly-poly newborn I used to sing You Are My Sunshine to in the early hours of the new day? Will I ever see the proud, smiley face that I photographed in her uniform on her very first day at school again? I have suddenly acquired a quieter, more self-conscious version of my first born. Enter the ever-so-slightly grumpy queen of the one-word answer. I don't recognise her. Later, I try to talk to this sulky new model of my beloved toddler to find out how I might be able to win her heart again. I practise a sensible, rational conversation in my head, but as I get close to her while she watches TV, I just blurt out, 'Cuddle me!' It's not that she’s difficult or argumentative (though I fear this is what I would see if I peeked over the precipice into the dark valley of teenagerdom). She has simply become more grown up. This is, of course, my problem, not hers. She wants more time alone. Sleep tight . The NHS recommends the average four-year-old should get 11.5 hours of sleep per night . If I walk into a room when she's with her friends, they instantly stop talking. If I ask her to brush her hair, she flounces off in the manner of Joan Collins and doesn't brush her hair for days. I've lost count of the illogical things she's done since Saturday in order to prove the point that I am wrong about everything. 'That's so her,' I hear her saying to her sister one night after one of my maternal crimes (the bed-before-midnight rule, probably). So, fellow mothers, have I lost her forever just two weeks before her 11th birthday? Tell me, what are the rules for pre-teen girls? The arrival of this new personality has pushed me into the arms of another - my two-year-old daughter Mabel. She cannot get or give enough love. She is up for a cuddle every second of every minute, showering me in her addictive, slobbery kisses. Bliss. Her love is like a drug, which on the one hand satisfies my needy maternal urges, but on the other reminds me of what I have lost with my eldest, the one where the parental journey began. There’s no cure for the 'mummy blues' is there? There is no mood booster for the grief of letting the world's most wonderful memories slip through your fingers, lost in the sands of time? There are no more babies, so what's the solution to this temporary sadness? Doughnuts? Just as I'm figuring it all out, the smallest of my four provides me with some help. She subtly shows me there's a lot not to mourn as my offsprings' childhoods rush by as she launches yet another of her dirty protests in the potty-training battle. So maybe a new carpet is the answer to my woes. What with the combined forces of four children over the years, the one outside the loo isn't up to any more near misses. Lorraine Candy is editor-in-chief of Elle magazine .
her little girl has gone (posed by model) This eldest, the one where the parental journey began. over the years, the one outside the loo isn't up