Category Archives: Children

Flashy cars and making good choices

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Something you can’t fail to miss in Dubai is the number of luxury cars on the roads. There’s a car culture in the Middle East, fuelled (excuse the pun) by the wide roads, distances and the fact petrol is cheaper than milk.

If you know Dubai, I don’t need to tell you that Dubai Police even has its own separate superfleet, enabling the cops to drive around the city in much-admired vehicles, including a Mercedes SLS, Lamborghini Aventador and a limited edition Aston Martin One-77.

If this comes as a surprise, imagine how strange it seemed during Dubai’s economic downturn to see expensive cars left abandoned in car parks and on roadsides. I’d drive past two each day, on my way home – left gathering sand on the hardshoulder near our compound (their bankrupt owners having fled the country).

How odd, I thought, that while some cities have a litter problem, and others suffer from high crime rates, in Dubai there was the unusual problem of high-end cars being dumped.

Not your average student car park. These vehicles are driven by 18-24 year olds studying at the American University of Dubai

Not your average student car park. These vehicles are driven by 18-24 year olds studying at the American University of Dubai

These days, when a flashy car streaks past me, I don’t bat an eyelid. And the truth is, although Dubai might be about to get its own tram, and a few years ago introduced a metro system that governments around the region are attempting to copy, the preference for the latest Italian and German sports cars isn’t going to change.

Anyway. I digress. This blog post was meant to be about my school run yesterday. It’s not lost on my sons that there are lots of nice cars here, and we see a fair few parked outside the school gates each day.

It was the last day of the school/work week, and I was talking to Son2 about the day ahead as I edged our Ford Explorer into a space not much bigger, right behind a gleaming, silver Porsche.

“Now, you’re going to have a good day today, aren’t you?” I said to my five year old. He’s not liking school at the moment, and his teacher and I are spending lots of time chatting to him about making ‘good choices’. (I don’t mean choosing an apple over a Big Mac, I do mean behavioural).

He chose not to hear my question, and I saw him eyeing up the car in front with a glint in his enormous chocolate brown eyes.

“Mummy?” he said, the corners of his mouth turned up in a cheeky grin. “See that car?”

“Yes, I see it. It’s a Porsche”

“STEAL IT, Mummy!”

Sweet Jesus – what am I in for during his teenage years?

The power of the patch

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Browsing through my emails this evening, my eye was drawn to a press release from Unilever Arabia about Dove’s new social experiment involving women not happy with how they look.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to watch the YouTube video (Dove’s latest attempt at a viral video), but I dutifully clicked on the link (here) – no doubt trying to put off the inevitable ruckus that dinnertime brings in our household.

In the commercial, the women are given ‘beauty patches’ to wear for two weeks. They aren’t told what’s inside the RB-X patch, merely that it’s supposed to enhance the way they see their own beauty.

"Kids, it says right here in the recipe, 'This dish contains no yucky stuff'"

“Kids, it says right here in the recipe, ‘This dish contains no yucky stuff'”

Now, I’m all for the power of a sticker. After Son2 had a particularly bad day at school the other week and had to be picked up from the principal’s office, no one was happier than me when, the next day, he emerged from the classroom wearing not one, but two, smiley stickers – awarded for good behaviour.

But as I watched the video, I found myself thinking seriously? I mean, really? The psychologist reveals at the end that the patches are fake. Yet they’ve had quite an impact on the women, who tell the camera that the patches have made them feel great, want to show off their arms and smile at people and go dress-shopping.

After the revelation that there’s nothing inside, you see the women giggle. And then cry. [Cue faint music and a clip of another woman revelling in her new-found self-esteem.]

Never mind empowering them, it just made them look gullible, in my opinion.

But it did get me thinking. A patch that stops my skin bristling and allows me to say no calmly every time my children dislike the dinner I’ve cooked and demand cereal. Yes, please!

A mother’s Thursday night

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Me: “Right come on, upstairs. Now.”

Son1: “But it’s the weekend. And I haven’t finished watching YouTube!”

Me: “Well, how many more minutes are left? Eighteen. No way. Too many. It’s getting late.”

Son1: “Can we have a day off from shower?”

Me: “Yes, if you come upstairs, RIGHT NOW.”

Me: “I said, NOW!”

Me: “Pajamas on. Quickly. Stop messing around. Just put them on.”

Son1: “Can you bring me my toothbrush?”

Me: “Only if you promise to brush them well. No, longer than that. Those teeth have to last you 70 years, you know.”

"So the little boys who missed their bedtime were eaten by a monster .."

“So the little boys who missed their bedtime were eaten by a monster ..”

Me: “Just one book okay. Then lights out. That one’s too long. How about this one? No, I can’t read it twice.”

Me: “Now, I know the tooth fairy didn’t come last night, but I sent her a message and she said it was because she didn’t see the note on the door about swallowing the tooth, and she’s going to come tonight.”

Me: “No, I’m not lying!”

Son1: “Did you send her a message on Facebook?”

Me: “Erm, no. I mean, yes. I did. But she’ll only come if you go to sleep quickly.”

Son2: “What colour is the tooth fairy’s skin?” [Might sound odd, but with so many nationalities in Dubai, it’s a question that children here often ask about someone.]

Me: “It’s fair, like yours. Now settle down, or she won’t come.”

Me: “And are you sure you don’t need the toilet? Really? Are you sure? You must do. When did you last go? Are you really, really sure?”

Son2: “Stay for two minutes.”

Me: “Just two minutes. That’s all.”

Me: “You want to know why mummies have squidgy arms?”

Me: “Don’t wake me up too early in the morning. Alright, if we’re playing Thursday Opposites, then do wake me up.”

Me: “Okay, two minutes is over.”

Son2 [sits up in bed and signals with his hands time rewinding]: “Guess what Mummy? I’m starting two minutes all over again!”

Meh! I love Thursday nights, but they’re not what they used to be.

Travel post: Sharjah Uncovered

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I’m tagging this as a travel post, but if you live in Dubai, you don’t have to go far to discover Sharjah – an emirate of contrasts with some prized assets and great-value family attractions.

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Northern neighbour: Sharjah from Al-Mamzar Beach Park

After moving to the UAE in 2008, it was a couple of years before I stepped foot in Sharjah. My only knowledge of the UAE’s third-largest emirate was gleaned from the traffic reports on the radio, and I couldn’t imagine tackling the congestion myself.

Not only that, but I knew it was dry (as in, no booze), conservative and nothing fancy. Why bother? Better to stay put in Dubai, where the decency laws aren’t so strict and there’s more than enough to do.

Now I know better. Over the past few years, I’ve discovered that Sharjah is a gold mine when it comes to entertaining a family. The city’s varied attractions are hidden gems that not only provide inexpensive days out, but are much quieter and more low-key than Dubai’s top tourist spots.

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Religion: Sharjah is home to more than 600 mosques

Sharjah might not dazzle with glitz like its neighbour Dubai, but it more than makes up for this with its authenticity.

There are cultural footprints all over the emirate, in the picturesque outdoor gardens, architectural spaces and nature reserves, and at the prominent festivals, such as the Sharjah Biennal art fair and the Sharjah International Book Fair, that draw worldwide attention.

The restored central Arts and Heritage Areas are among the most fascinating neighbourhoods in the UAE, and preserved historical sites abound, from the Bait al-Naboodah museum, a fine example of a traditional Emirati house, to the Al-Eslah School museum, the first formal school in the emirate.

Sharjah’s rich history is also evident in the numerous museums covering Islamic art and culture, archaeology, heritage, science, marine life and the civilization of Sharjah and the region. Among these is the Sharjah Art Museum, the largest art museum in the Gulf housing both temporary exhibitions and permanent collections by renowned artists.

Add to all this some lively traditional souks, the numerous child-friendly attractions and popular corniche and it’s easy to see why Sharjah is a destination that’s worth braving the traffic for (and even that’s not bad at all, if you go the quiet way).

Our top spots
This list is by no means exhaustive, but here are some of our favourite places to visit in Sharjah. One caveat: Check the opening times of everything mentioned before setting out.

Al-Mahatta Museum: You might also be interested to learn that the UAE’s first airport was opened in Sharjah in 1932, and used as a staging post for commercial flights en route from Britain to India. Built on the site of the airport, the Al Mahatta Museum provides a unique glimpse into what air travel was like in the 1930s – a highlight for my boys being the four fully restored propeller planes displayed in the hangar alongside the original refuelling tanker.

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Ferris wheel: After a spin on the Eye of the Emirates, we took a boat ride from Al-Qasba

Eye of the Emirates: For panoramic, birds-eye views of both Sharjah and Dubai, take a whirl on the Eye of the Emirates, a 60m-high Ferris wheel with 42 fully air-conditioned gondolas (open in the late afternoon and at night). This landmark observatory wheel is situated in Al-Qasba, which offers car-free strolling opportunities and is particularly busy on Friday night and Saturday. Set along the banks of a canal linked by a twinkling bridge, there’s an upbeat mix of restaurants, cafes and family-friendly fun. You’ll also find a superb contemporary art gallery, the Maraya Art Centre.

Sharjah Discovery Centre: Packed with hands-on gadgets and educational exhibits, this interactive facility comprises seven colourful, themed areas, designed to teach children that science and technology are part of our daily lives. Youngsters can also learn to drive, become a TV star and climb a wall.

Sharjah Classic Car Museum: We love this museum – the iconic exhibits, from the 1915 Dodge straight out of a period drama to the 1969 Mercedes Pullman Limousine (belonging to the Ruler of Sharjah), are truly impressive. In total, there are more than 100 vintage cars, manufactured between 1917 and the 1960s. A fun game to play with the kids is ‘find the petrol tank cap’ – hint, look behind the licence plate (who knew!).

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Wildlife centre: In fact, I’m off here again tomorrow on a school trip

Sharjah Aquarium: Step into an ‘abandoned dhow’ to get up-close and personal with marine-life from the UAE’s west and east coasts. The clown fish, seahorses, moray eels, rays, reef sharks and jellyfish are sure to delight.

Arabia’s Wildlife Centre: Last but not least is this excellent facility at Sharjah Desert Park, showcasing animals found in the Arabian Peninsula. There’s also a children’s petting farm, where the kids can ride ponies and camels at the weekend.

The Tardis: I can't resist leaving you with this photo! We spotted this human drying machine by the Al Qasba fountain. It lights up with eerie red lights and blasts hot air at you – like the climate doesn’t already do that!

The Tardis: I can’t resist leaving you with this photo. We spotted this human drying machine by the Al-Qasba fountain. It lights up with eerie red lights and blasts hot air at you (like the climate doesn’t already do that!)

An Easter bonnet (for a boy)

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Thursday is the last day of term for Son2 and his school is holding an Easter parade for the two Foundation years.

I always find Easter a bit of an enigma here as it’s distinctly unspring-like. While in other parts of the world, friends and family are experiencing the joys of spring and life bursting forth, in the UAE it won’t be long until life is scorched under the blazing hot sun. Easter Sunday is also a regular work day. Nevertheless, we make every effort to celebrate the holiday, and the shops are piled high with chocolate eggs.

The Easter parade requires a bonnet – to be made at home with the help of your child. So at the weekend, I attempted to interest my (non-creative) son in this task.

“NO FLOWERS,” he wailed in protest as I pointed out a hat I’d found online with daffodils sprouting out of the top.

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Not a flower in sight

“No flowers,” I promised. “How about this one? Look, it’s a bunny coming out of a bowler hat.”

He’s still not impressed.

‘I’ll have this one Mummy!” he cried, on seeing a hat that looked like it must belong to a scarecrow. He was clearly overjoyed that he’d be able to go to school with a bird’s nest on his head.

The concept of making it didn’t register with him, though, as when I returned from Creative Minds on Umm Sequim (a gold mine for crafters in Dubai), he was genuinely surprised I hadn’t bought the hat.

“Did you get it Mummy?!” he asked hopefully, from the sofa. “No, we’re going to make it together,” I said, through gritted teeth. And there followed at least three hours where I channelled Blue Peter and singlehandedly, apart from a few minutes of gluing by Son2, attempted to recreate the chicken hat using a bag of Spanish moss, raffia, felt, a picture of a hen, plastic eggs and fluffy yellow chicks.

You might not understand this reference if you’re not from the UK, but I think Worzel Gummidge would be proud.

The ‘bear’-faced selfie

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It was the moment Son2 had been waiting for since the beginning of the school year: The day he got to take Bernie, the class bear, home.

Bernie arrived at our house in a bag, with his scrapbook – a well-leafed diary documenting his time spent with the families in Son2’s class. The pages were filled with photos, hand-written stories, speech bubbles, decorative stamps, evidence of baking extravaganzas and even a bear-class boarding pass.

You wouldn’t believe how creative it gets.

Son2 and I browsed the book together. ‘Oh look, there’s Bernie parachuting into someone’s garden, ” I exclaimed, my wide-open eyes settling on a photo of the bear floating into the family’s backyard underneath a make-shift canopy. “And here he is ON SKIS, in France!”

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Silently seeking attention

It got even better: Blow me down, but Bernie spent Christmas in Lapland. There were snaps of him playing in the snow, snuggled up in the log cabin and listening to music in his airplane seat. “Let’s take Bernie on a husky safari, then tonight, if we’re really lucky, we might get a shot of him gazing at the Aurora Borealis rolling across the sky,” I could almost hear the enthused parents telling their bemused children.

Our time with Bernie had much more of a homey feel. In the knowledge that on top of all the usual weekend chores, I had to find amusing things to do with a bear, I set up numerous photo opportunities – of Bernie reading books, cosy in his pyjamas, sitting on the kitchen table eating noodles and using his paws to scale the bunk bed ladder. In an inspired moment, he posed for a #nomakeupselfie.

I even remembered to take Bernie with us when we went to football, and in the car, took care to buckle him up in the back.

Son2 looked at me suspiciously as I fiddled around trying to secure the seat belt. It was a look that suggested he thought I’d lost my mind. “Mum, he’s just a toy, you know!” my 5YO reminded me, with a roll of his eyes and a casual glance in Bernie’s direction.

Summer: The elephant in the room

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I was out for dinner the other night with my parents and a lovely couple who’d recently moved to Dubai. They’d swapped everything they knew and loved in Surrey for a new life on the Palm, and had thrown themselves into the frenetic world of work, Middle East style.

We talked about how she’d already taken a (temporary) job that involved commuting to Abu Dhabi (I was impressed, that road isn’t for the faint hearted, even with a driver). And we talked about their daughters, embarking on adult lives on different continents.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was: the elephant at the table. Amid all the promise of beach trips, handbag shopping and desert safaris, there’s a hurdle all UAE residents face: the Dubai summer. “We won’t be able to get back to the UK until much later in the year,” she told us. “We’ll be here all summer.”

My mum looked aghast! I’m sure she visibly paled. (March is their preferred month to visit, and I do understand why.)

She's clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

She’s clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

I immediately tried to soothe things over: “It’s not too bad,” I said. “Honestly.” I attempted to explain that lots more women stay now, the city’s much quieter and working through the summer is no problem. (It’s when you have small children climbing the walls and bankrupting you every day for 10 weeks that you start throwing plates around.)

I’m posting on this subject because those of us who live here are sharing a similar sentiment this week: IT’S COMING!

We’ve entered that murky zone where you’re trying not to turn the AC on, but give in. Firms that offer AC cleaning are working round the clock, and if you pull on a pair of jeans in the morning, by lunchtime you’re peeling them off to don your summer staples of shorts and flip flops (again).

At the school gates, comments are being bandied around to the tune of “It’s warming up” and “Winter’s over”. Unless you’re particularly stubborn or sweat-proof, the scarves and wraps have been put away, boots consigned to the back of the cupboard.

Give it a few more weeks of rising temperatures and we’ll all be asking each other: “So, when are you leaving?”

A brush with Bobbi Brown

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Makeup and I have always had a fairly functional relationship. But when my good friend asked me if I wanted to join her for a free makeup lesson, I immediately said yes. I think the words mummy makeover might have sprung to mind.

It turned out my friend couldn’t make it, but I decided to attend anyway, despite the little voice in my head that whispered: “Those makeup girls will eat you alive! GOBBLE you up whole!”

“We’re just waiting for a few more people to arrive,” the doll-like receptionist at Dubai Mall’s Bobbi Brown tells me on arrival – the first clue that the other attendees aren’t attempting to sandwich the lesson in between a morning’s work and the afternoon school run. “The last two are in the car park,” she announces after 30 minutes has ticked slowly by.

“It’s our fault,” they tinkle, when they finally show up, their makeup already cover-model perfect and their blow-dried hair coiffed neatly into place.

The makeup guru appears from behind a closed door and a minute or two of air kissing follows. They all know each other, I realise; they’re all of exotic descent, and I’m quite sure already own overly large Burberry toiletry cases the size of carry-on baggage.

Our host for the afternoon turns to me and asks with a megawatt smile: “What are your expectations today?”

“Erm, to look nice,” I reply. I wonder how to vocalise that I’m hoping he’ll make me look at least a decade younger and do it fast enough so I can get to the other side of Dubai in time to pick up my son – but it’s looking like I’m the only person watching the clock.

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

As the 10-step lesson gets underway, I learn just how much prepping is required to keep skin in tip-top condition. Cleanser, tonic, serum, eye cream, face cream, overnight cream; it all makes my once-daily application of moisturiser with SPF look rather paltry.

His fingers deftly massage my ‘problem areas’ with gorgeous-feeling products (yes, I’m perched on a stool in front of seven sets of eyes, being used as the ‘model’ at this point). “See, if I apply the serum to half zee face, look at the difference!”

Heads nod enthusiastically as half my face wakes up from years of neglect (it’s as though my skin pores are drinking thirstily from Bobbi’s fountain of youth and are doing a merry jig). “And don’t forget zee neck,” he reminds, with a final smoothing flourish.

I return to the table, taking my place opposite a young Emirati lady with unblemished, milky skin (skin whiteners, she tells us), groomed eyebrows and aquamarine nails, and the lesson moves on to concealers and correctors. An assistant helps me find a foundation better matched to my skin tone than my own skin, and I start to really enjoy myself as I eye up products with a colour scheme more sophisticated than a painter’s palette.

“Blending is your friend,” proclaims our make-up guru; “Bobbi never says camouflage – we naturalise,” he tells us, and with the number of references made to Bobbi herself, I start to wonder if they’re all best friends.

Just as we’re being taught how to stop lines showing in the under-eye area (gasp!), I notice the time. If I don’t tear myself away from the unlimited access to expensive products that highlight, pout, plump and pale, I’ll be late for Son 1.

One of the makeup assistants flanking the table finishes off my makeover at speed, and I rush from the room, leaving all my classmates there for, I suspect, a leisurely afternoon.

“We’ll call you,” they tell me as I swing on my heel to leave the store. “For your next lesson.” And, given that it was free and really worthwhile, it’s a mummy gift horse I won’t be looking in the mouth.

Breakfast with a son

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One son had a whole week off for half-term; the other only had a day. I felt bad for Son1, so on his day off, I decided to take him out for breakfast.

“Where shall we go?”

“Subway!”

“Well, that’s really a lunch place. Let’s go to Arabian Ranches, the new restaurant.”

“Awwww.” [Cheers up when he remembers what’s there.]

“Mummy, can I go and play?”

“Okay, but come back when the food arrives, yes?” [Scampers off to play in the little playarea by himself, while I sit by myself at the table.]

Breakfast arrives – boiled eggs for him, an omelette for me. The soldieurs on his plate aren’t exactly fighting for space, given the mouse-size portion (hardly enough to feed a boy who can almost wolf down a loaf of bread) – and the buns in the basket are too fancy for him.

“So how’s school?”

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

“Good.”

“I’m cold!”

“That’s why I told you to wear your sweater this morning!”

I run through some other conversation openers with him.

“I thought we might be able to talk at breakfast – you know, chat!”

“I didn’t.” [Looks at me as though I’d suggested dragging him through the bushes on the golf course backwards.]

“I’m REALLY cold Mum.”

“Okay, well finish bashing your egg shells into the egg cups and we’ll get back into the car. You’ll warm up on the way home.”

“I forgot the iPad.”

“No, you didn’t. Here it is.”

I hand it over while I finish drinking my tea.

“Five minutes, then we’ll leave.”

A chat – what was I thinking? Who’s coming with me next time?

School narcolepsy

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So from the high that was Amsterdam, comes the bump of real life, and dealing with a problem that presented itself just before half-term.

You know something’s not right when you get a call from school asking you to pop in. I duly did so, the very next morning. And while everyone I spoke to couldn’t have been nicer (or more helpful), the writing was already on the wall.

My son fell asleep (twice) at school.

He denies it, of course. Son2 is not stupid and knows sleeping at school is frowned upon. He has an elaborate story about his friend L telling him to lie down on the grass outside and close his eyes. When the teacher found him snoozing on the little, landscaped hill, he was actually awake and just playing a game, he claims. Hmmm, nice try!

It’s possible, I suppose (a pig might have been flying past too), but I happen to know that the teachers are right; my 5YO is too tired for school at moment, because HE WON’T GO TO BED.

He resists sleep like there’s no tomorrow. Like he’ll get kidnapped in the night by the bogeyman and injected intravenously with vegetables. However tired he is in the late afternoon, at bedtime his eyes snap wide open, as though propped apart by matchsticks. He clamours for attention: “Just one more book!”, “Stay with me, pleeeeeease!”

What should be a fairly quick routine turns into a marathon, and it’s little wonder that there are many bedtimes where I feel like this afterwards…

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

Sometimes, 45 minutes later, I’ll creep past the boys’ bedroom, treading with a feather-light step so as to make no sound, and notice that Son2 is STILL kicking his duvet around.

What happens next is, because the schools start early here, his owl-like ways catch up with him: we have to literally drag him out of bed and prop him up downstairs. He’s caught up on some sleep over half-term, but mainly by sleeping later in the mornings, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow, his first day back.

When the alarm goes off, I’ll be yanking him from a deep slumber again – what he doesn’t need to know is that I’ll be as good as sleep walking too.

Wish me luck!