Category Archives: Children

Flying with kids: Risky business

Posted on by

A highly coveted perk among airline families – the holy grail for many I know – is being able to travel in business class with small children. Yes, your whole tribe, seated at the front of the aircraft, or up top in the case of the superjumbo – with acres of leg-room, fine dining and the chance for some mummy respite in the A380’s on-board bar.

This story was told to me by a fellow pilot’s wife and I’m repeating it here because the incident not only makes me hoot with laughter, but (and I know she won’t mind me telling you this) it was probably THE most embarrassing mummy moment of her entire nine years of motherhood. I think we can all relate, wherever we sit on the aircraft…

And then the day was finally upon us, and we could book seats for both myself and my small children in the business class cabin of the airplane taking us home.

Now THIS is the way to travel

Business class travel is indeed very special. The cabin itself seems to sparkle and twinkle with just enough ‘specialness’ to make anyone smile. But it’s the space that’s the real bonus. Not just the extra-large seats, or the super-big TV screens, there just seems to be enough space around you and your family to be able to settle in comfortably.

And settle in we did; the pillows a little softer, the blankets a little fluffier. I soon had both of my children cocooned into balls of happiness; DS happy to explore the myriad of games and cartoons on offer, DD’s little hands searching out all the extra buttons and switches not previously discovered on any seat before.

‘What’s this Mummy?’ she asked as she picked up the console that tucks neatly into a pocket on the arm of her seat.

‘Well, you can call the attendant by pushing a button here,’ I explain, ‘But wait, if you press here your seat will give you a massage.’ Peels of delight ensue from DD, already a disciple of the body rub, as she tries out all the different ways she could make her seat tickle and shudder. Was this not heaven? If I have a predictable difficult period with my daughter on flights it’s right at the beginning, getting her to settle down. But, thanks to the wonders of the juddering seat, we’re looking like the perfect family unit and I’m sipping champagne …

During our summer stay, the kids were quick to tell everyone about their trip in business class. ‘Oh!….how lovely’ was the response as most pictured these tiny dots sipping wine and eating caviar – and I would watch as their eyebrows disappeared up into their hair lines.

The cheese platter – and the kids won’t send it flying

‘And what was the thing you liked best about travelling in business class?’ they’d ask.

‘The computer games,’ was DS’s stalwart response. The games are the same, incidentally, wherever you sit on the aircraft.

‘The massage button!’ squealed DD, ‘I had a massage all the way from Dubai to England!’ Now, this was altogether more like the example of over-indulgence that many were on the lookout for. So on several occasions during our stay, DD was encouraged to repeat the story of the seat that gave her a massage and how she was going to have one all the way back to Dubai too.

On our trip home, as we board through doors at the very front of the aircraft, I immediately see that we are travelling in an older plane than the one in which we arrived. Characteristically stoic, DS flops down in to his ample seating, grabs the control and settles down for the long flight. Not so DD.

‘Oh no, Mummy. This is not right!’ She picks at the cover placed over the arm of her seat until it comes away in her hand only to reveal the arm of the chair.

‘But where is the thing? Where is the massage button? I can’t see it!’ Her lip beginning to tremble just as the gangways either side of us fill up with slow moving – hmm, yes, now stationary – economy passengers queuing quietly to get to their seats. I sense the impending storm …

‘Why don’t we see what film we can find for you to watch, or maybe a game to play….?’ My powers of deflection moving up into overdrive instantaneously. ‘Hey, do you want to look at my magazine…..? Have that chocolate bar I bought in the coffee shop just now….. how about my entire handbag? Here, take it. Take a good look……!’ But it was all in vain…

‘But I want a massage!’ DD cries, literally cries. Huge tears rolling down her cheeks as her whole body begins to heave. All eyes are on us. ‘It’s alright darling,’ I croon, pulling her tiny frame on to my lap, ‘It’s not the end of the world. There really are worse things that can happen.’

‘But it is!” she cries, ‘It is the end of the world! I don’t want to be on this plane. I want to get off this plane right now and get on one where I sit in a seat that GIVES ME A MASSAGE!’

Powerless to stop her, I resorted to putting my hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle what she was actually saying.

Thank heavens for the crew member (who has probably seen it all). ‘Champagne madam?’ she smiles, ‘Or is that a very large white wine?’

Milk teeth are like buses

Posted on by

I’ve finally been able to play tooth fairy! It’s felt quite a long time coming, because BB, who’s nearly seven, appeared to be holding onto his milk teeth for dear life – until one popped out last week.

It started wobbling a while ago. Then BB was able to swing it precariously with his tongue. He was both alarmed by its looseness, and excited by my reaction. “BB’s got a wobbly tooth!” I told anyone in our household who’d listen. “That means the tooth fairy will visit – if you’re good!” [a Santa twist, but Christmas is coming!]

After several weeks of hanging by a hinge, and BB refusing to bite into anything in case there was blood and gore, the tooth finally fell out – at school.

When he got home, he happily told us what had happened.

“Mummy, LOOK! My tooth fell out in the cafeteria. I’ve put it in my lunchbox.”

Childhood magic: The tooth fairy is a clever little pixie who knows which pillows to visit

We opened his lunchbox and took everything out carefully. We peered inside, then looked through the contents again. But, alas, no tooth.

“Are you sure BB? Maybe you swallowed it?”

“Someone must have stolen it,” he decided, rather forlornly. “Because they want the tooth fairy to come.”

That night, I suggested tentatively that we write a note to the tooth fairy to explain.

“Dear Tooth Fairy,” wrote BB, in his best left-handed scrawl [he tends to write backwards, but not this time]. “I lost my tooth. Please come anyway.”

The note was pinned on his bedroom door and BB drifted off to sleep safe in the knowledge that the tooth fairy wouldn’t give the money to whoever had stolen the tooth because the thief was sure to be a snorer who sleeps with his mouth open. The tooth fairy would see there wasn’t a gap – and anyway she just knows.

I slipped 10dhs under his pillow and crept away, knowing I probably wouldn’t see his reaction as it was my 5k race in the morning and I had to get up before sunrise.

But, my desire to actually see a tiny tooth nestled in tissue came true the next day, because – like buses – another rootless, pearly white dropped out that he managed not to lose. I have to admit I pored over it, turning it over like a precious stone and feeling quite emotional. It feels like yesterday, after all, that those teeth were just poking through, and now, here he is, getting all big and grown up on me.

So the tooth fairy has been twice, BB now loves to pull a gappy grin to show off the hole, and I’ve started a milk tooth collection in a silver keepsakes box.

The only upset person is BB’s little brother who now desperately wants to lose a tooth too. “When will my teeth wobble?” he’s been asking every night.

And, yes, I can’t help but wonder if the first tooth was in fact stolen – from under our noses, by LB.

My brave superhero

Posted on by

If there’s a time when you wish it was yourself who was being prodded, poked and scanned like a barcode, it’s when your child is undergoing unpleasant hospital tests.

We’ve known for a while that my oldest son has – and this is going to sound odd – an extra ear. Not on his head. On his bladder (a diverticulum is the proper name). It’s likely to need a fairly major surgery to prevent kidney damage and so we’ve been making a few trips to City Hospital recently for various tests.

The first of which I’m still traumatised about, because it involved the eye-watering insertion of not just one, but THREE catheters – with no pain relief or anaesthesia. But I’m blogging about the test he had this week because it opened my eyes to a branch of medicine I knew nothing about.

Nuclear medicine.

On the morning of the nuclear scan, I felt so bad telling him the good news – and then the bad news.

“BB, mommy and daddy are coming to pick you up from school today – early.”

“Really!” he grinned.

“But then we have to go to the hospital again, for another test. Nowhere near as bad as the last one, ” I added quickly.

“Awww,” he replied, a flicker of fear passing through his eyes, followed by silence.

Radioactive Man: BB gets special powers

Later, at the hospital, DH and I tried to remain jovial despite wanting to chew our fingernails off. We filled in the paperwork, tried to ask the technician in charge (who clearly didn’t speak English as his first language) a couple of questions and quietly reminded ourselves that this had to be done.

BB, who seemed far less worried than us, kept busy playing Angry Birds (don’t you just wish you could distract yourself that easily?)

He was totally unfazed, until the Filipino nurse inserted the needle – and then all hell broke lose.

“He will keep still, won’t he?” asked the technician, as the nurse injected the radioactive fluid that was to go round his body. “For 30 minutes.”

THIS was the part I was dreading. If he moved, the test would have to be done again. I just couldn’t imagine my darling boy not moving for a whole half hour – not my active 6YO, who doesn’t even stay still while asleep (he sleep walks, even!)

And so started the bribery.

“BB, you have to stay still. If you stay still, we’ll take you straight to Chuck E. Cheese’s afterwards. AND the toy store. You can buy whatever you want.

“How about that 135-piece 3D Titanic model you really wanted? Mommy will help you make it.” [boy, did I regret that one!]

“And Global Village – we’ll go there too. Tomorrow.”

It worked – his panic subsided, his breathing slowed.

“And BB, you know what? This test is going to give you superhero powers! You’ll be like Radioactive Man – for the rest of the day. How cool is that?”

Very, apparently. Enough to keep my little wriggler quiet and as still as a statue – almost – for 30 long minutes while the scan was successfully carried out. Phew!

He may not have glowed green that afternoon, but he is my superhero.

Halloween in the desert

Posted on by

Halloween is HUGE in our compound. It started on October 1 with spooky decorations on a few doorsteps, gathered pace as more households draped cobwebs over the bushes and strung up witches, and culminated last night with our community’s collective descent into trick-or-treatery.

To say the children were very excited is an understatement, and having lived in the States for five years, I can honestly say ‘we do’ Halloween* [whispers: I love this holiday! The children will gorge on bucketfuls of candy, I’ll help myself to copious amounts too – and that’s okay!]

Ready to scare: My littlest skeleton

The kids were dressed and ready by 4pm for a Halloween party next door, then, as night fell, we joined the droves of children outside and trooped from door-to-door under a full moon.

And, I have to say, as I accompanied my two skeletons on a balmy evening around streets aglow with jack-o-lanterns, I was really impressed by the wickedness some of our neighbours had dreamt up.

Not everyone takes part (and the rule is you don’t knock at villas with no porch light on), but many families who did get into the spirit had turned their doorsteps into mini Halloween dens – complete with scary sound effects and fiery torches in some cases.

A few highlights for us were:

– The household with the distressed maiden upstairs who dropped water bombs from the window – with a deathly scream

– The wobbly eyeballs (made from jelly and icing sugar) that were handed out in paper cups and made me whimper

– The dog dressed in a skull-and-crossbone outfit

– The drive-by trick-or-treaters sitting in a six-foot trailer pulled by a quad bike

– The ghoul standing in the dark who honestly looked like he could be fake, but then jumped out on me with an axe [insert horror movie screech]

– And the flying witch rigged up high above G street

* It took a couple of years in the US before I got it. Whilst still a learner, I sat at work one Halloween until 5, wondering why everyone was leaving early. Missed a trick there!

Best-dressed dad: We’d only got about 50 yards or so up our road when my friend informed me: “Just to warn you, all the kids are coming away from that house crying!” Our curiosity piqued, we nudged the kids in that direction, told them to be brave and watched (because after someone’s told you that, you can’t walk away without finding out why, can you?). Lurking in the shadows by their front door was the dad, dressed as a four-legged, long-haired monster, and as the trick-or-treaters filed up the path to line up at the door (yes, line up, there were that many out last night), he’d lurch forwards with a growl. Gotta love the crazy things people do on Halloween!

Rough nights

Posted on by

I have to admit, I started the Eid half-term in a not-so-bright mood.

“When do I get a holiday?” I harrumphed to DH in a small self-entitled voice, before threatening to check into a hotel to have some ‘me time’ and a lie-in.

These outbursts are nearly always linked to tiredness, I’ve realised. And DH, who’s heard it all before, knows exactly what to do: he takes charge of the children and sits it out.

Then, the cooler Eid weather worked its magic. Suffice to say, Dubai’s blue skies are casting their spell over everyone again, tourists are flocking back in their droves and Eid turned out to be fabulous – almost like being on holiday in Dubai.

DH’s change of scenery – though I’m sure he wished he’d been able to see Noddy at the theatre with us!

But, parenting, it’s never smooth sailing, is it? Just when you think you might actually have cracked it, that it may even be getting a little easier, doesn’t something always happen to keep you on your toes?

Last night, as I settled in on the sofa, I heard the sound of little feet padding down the stairs. BB appeared, with glassy eyes and a vacant stare. Sleepwalking again! We’ve found him draped across various pieces of furniture in the middle of the night a couple of times now.

He’s pretty easy to settle when this happens, but what followed definitely fell into my ‘things I detest about parenting’ category: Projectile Vomit. EVERYWHERE. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, BB then slipped and fell facedown in it. Oh, the shrieks.

Oh, the MISERY.

LB, of course, woke too, and put on an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be sick (never one to be outdone). And so there I was, wading in vom, trying to coax two boys back to sleep, when my phone pinged.

A text from DH: “Everything OK? I’m in Paris.”

Let’s just say that, after two really rough nights with zero bonhomie, the hotel stay is back on the agenda!

‘WHY?’ and other annoying phrases

Posted on by

There was a little piece on the radio in Dubai last week about the top 10 most annoying sounds (you’ll see where I’m going with this in a minute).

I was pretty sure that nails on a chalkboard would top the list, but there are – according to the neuroscientists who researched this – two other even more unpleasant sounds.

A crying baby doesn’t irritate me at all. I’m just thankful it’s not mine and my children are older!

A knife on a bottle, followed by a fork on a glass are the noises our brains find most intolerable, apparently. Other sounds on the list are more guessable, like an electric drill and a crying baby. Then there were one or two I’m not sure I’ve ever heard, like a disc grinder and a ruler on a bottle.

Long before the presenters reached ‘crying baby’, it occurred to me that mums of small children could put together their own list of annoying sounds, based on the things we hear all.the.time.

You know what I mean – we love our children so much it hurts, but sometimes the words our infuriating, ravenous little darlings utter over.and.over.again can make you want to pierce your eardrum with a screwdriver be a little irritating.

Here’s my top 10:

“Mummeeeee, I’m BORED.” Followed two minutes later by, “Mummy, I SAID, I’m bored.”

“He started it!” [feigns innocence]

“YOU do it”

“I want a NEW mummy”

“I don’t like it” [throws food you’ve shopped for and spent ages preparing back at you]

“Mummy, [insert sibling’s name] hit me!” [don’t get me started about the goading]

“I’ve got nothing to DO” [sighs with weariness despite 10 million toys upstairs]

“It’s morning time!” At 5.45am.

“I’m NOT going to bed!” Every.single.night.

“Why?” repeat ad nauseam

I’m sure there’s more (‘he’s not sharing’, ‘after this programme’, ‘you’re not my friend’).

But I know – the day will come when they won’t want to talk to me at all, and I’ll resort to stalking them on Facebook – then, I’ll miss these gems! (Or not?)

Silent Sunday: Pumpkin price shocker

Posted on by

At £21/$34 for a medium-sized pumpkin, I think we’ll borrow my friend B’s brilliant idea of carving watermelons instead – much more fun, anyway, thanks to their red glow!

Possibly the most expensive vegetable ever, this is on sale at our local supermarket. If you carved it, you’d have to make pie too. The good news for those of us in Dubai is I hear pumpkins are much cheaper at Park ‘n’ Shop, Union Co-op and, of course, the fruit & veg market

The Gruffalo: He’s behind you!

Posted on by

I’m always looking for something a little different to do on a Friday – a day that, I’ll admit, is my least favourite of the week.

Today, I had tickets for the children and myself to see The Gruffalo at the Madinat Theatre. I’d booked the show weeks ago, and just as well – it was a complete sell-out and crammed to the rafters with children under 8 wanting to catch a glimpse of a man-in-a-feathery-padded-suit with purple prickles on his back and a wart on his face.

A friendly beast, if ever there was one

Despite their protestations that they’d happily eat popcorn for lunch, we fed the boys at the nearby Noodle House first, where I’ve quite honestly never seen so many little uns, some dressed really nicely, dining on roasted duck with hoisin sauce and wok-fried noodles before going to the theatre.

“Kids in Dubai – they don’t know they’re born,” I chuckled to myself, and quite possibly murmured to DH under my breath.

After taking our seats, the excitement mounted as the lights dimmed and the story of the quick-witted mouse who encounters a string of predators began.

“Where’s the Gruffalo?” LB immediately asked.

“He’ll come on last,” I explained, multiple times – exhaling with relief when he did finally appear half an hour in (which, let’s face it, feels like a year to a four-year-old).

There were belly laughs and roars, the actors leapt all over the stage and the Gruffalo – to everyone’s delight – romped around the audience. Parents chortled, too, no doubt grateful they were being given the chance to sit down on a Friday.

Playing skillfully on children’s fears (without, thank goodness, giving them nightmares about upturned toes for weeks), it was really very funny – but, six-year-old kids, they’re not easily fooled.

“What did you think of the hungry fox?” I asked the boys afterwards.

“Oh, him,” replied BB, casually. “He was just a man with an orange T-shirt and a fake tail attached to his belt.

“Why, didn’t you know?”

The pre-party panic

Posted on by

On Saturday morning, my four-year-old dragged me from a blissful state of slumber even earlier than normal.

I heard the pitter-patter of his feet getting louder as he crossed the landing, then within seconds he was standing by my side of the bed, squealing:

“Mummee, is it my birthday today?”

“No, it isn’t,” I mumbled, half-asleep. “That was last week.”

Then, as my brain began to muster, “Oh yes! Oh God. It’s your party!”

Everything came flooding back as I woke more fully. The venue, the cake, the number of guests expected (23, plus parents), the food. Everything had been outsourced, but I hadn’t heard from the organiser in several days, despite my attempts to wrestle the answers to a couple of questions from her.

Here are some snippets of conversation from the next few anxiety-filled hours:

They’re smiling NOW, but my face wasn’t a happy one three hours before!

LB: “Is it my party now?”

Me: “No darling, it’s after lunch.”

“She still hasn’t replied to my email.”

LB: “Is it lunchtime now?”

Me: “Six hours to go [counting the hours out on my fingers]. First breakfast, then lunch, then it’s time for your party.”

“She’s not answering her phone. WHY is she not getting back to me?” [remembering glumly how the booking was messed up to begin with)

“It’s the first party of the new school year – I blanket-invited the whole class and nearly everyone said yes!”

“What if we get there and it’s all locked up?” [cringes with the predicted embarrassment]

LB: “Can we have lunch now?”

Me: “We haven’t had breakfast yet, love.”

“Her phone is OFF. We should never have given this party a Titanic theme.”

“It’s a sinking ship” [tries to think of an escape plan and fails]

LB: “CAN.WE.GO.TO.MY.PARTY.NOW?”

After a couple of hours, DH gets in the car and drives there to put me out of my misery! “Don’t worry!’ he texts 30 minutes later. “They’re ready.”

PHEW! “And the cake?” I texted back at lightening speed.

“It’s here – pink with a princess on.” [very funny, DH!]

To be fair, the party was great – apart from the gift bags, which they forgot; the song played during Musical Chairs (Sexy and I Know It!); and the miscalculated bill. The best bit was this cake, complete with chocolate frosting waves. Thank goodness that’s over.

Party time: Wrap the mummy

Posted on by

It was LB’s fourth birthday yesterday! How that went so fast, I don’t know. It honestly feels like just the other day that I was heavily pregnant in the UK and had to text my husband in Dubai at 5 in the afternoon to say:

“Can you get to London by 8am? Ghengis [yes, that was his working title!] needs to be born in the morning.”

Amazingly, DH made it! Just!

Last year, we had a very small party at home and, because BB’s birthday is the next month, we did a family day-out to Ferrari World in Abu Dhabi.

The perfect birthday outing for car-mad small boys. Surely?

“I can juggle or bend balloons – for a small fee”

They STILL haven’t forgiven me!

What they really wanted was a big playarea party – each – with all their friends, presents, cake, games, entertainment, a party host bellowing into a microphone, balloons and chaos. The kind of event that causes mummy to lose sleep and requires daddy to sell a kidney to pay for it.

So this week I’ve been busy organising LB’s out-sourced party – it won’t be anything lavish, and certainly nowhere near the scale of a birthday his brother attended earlier this year at the Atlantis hotel, with valet parking, the aquarium and Apple Mac computer room at guests’ disposal.

But, even so, it seems the tab for throwing a children’s party these days is always going to be more than you bargained for.

So far:

– Use of playarea for 2 hours CHECK

– Party host CHECK

– Kid’s meal for 20-plus children CHECK

– Cake (with Titanic picture) CHECK

– Party bags CHECK

– Catering for adult guests (so they’re not sent home needing to lie down in a darkened room and/or apply wine) CHECK

– Balloons (blue and silver) CHECK

But, wait, there’s more. You can fork out extra for a theme, or a magician. Provide a helium balloon for each child to take home. Book a sideshow, such as face painting. Or pick a couple of games for the children to play, charged per head.

And, the trouble is – such is the money-grabbing nature of the party industry – you can never be quite sure what you’ll actually get for all this expense.

“Could we have musical chairs please,” I decided when going over the details this week.

“And what’s this?” I asked, pointing at the Wrap the Mummy option, there in black-and-white on the booking form.

“Wrap the Mummy? Hmmm. I don’t actually know – we got it off the Internet,” was the reply.

“But would you like a 250 dirham piñata?”