Category Archives: Children

Where have all the dinner ladies gone?

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I’m yet to meet a mum who enjoys packing her children’s lunchboxes. Whether you tackle this task at night, or first thing in the morning, it always feels like a chore, doesn’t it?

I can’t put my finger on exactly why I dislike this aspect of child-rearing, but I think it’s got something to do with all the rules: no nuts, no crisps, no chocolate, cakes or sweets and, because the UAE is a Muslim country, no pork products such as ham or sausage rolls.

So, five days a week, mums are expected to put together a shoebox of food which is not forbidden, is healthy yet enticing to a fussy, small child, and varies from day to day.

I’m all for eating well, but this is actually quite a tall-order, no? When I got told off by the school censors for sending in Hula Hoops, it dawned on me that I’d have to get a lot more creative in my food choices (five Hula Hoops in a Tupperware pot is okay, apparently, but not the whole packet – silly me).

Remember the semolina-ladling dinner ladies of days gone by? Several at my school enforced the clean-plate policy so strictly we used to hide the vegetables in our pockets

The news that BB’s school had started providing some hot meals was, needless to say, music to my ears and led to this conversation yesterday:

In the morning:

Me: “BB, how about I give you some money for a hot dinner today?”

BB: “Yay!” nodding his head a little too eagerly.

Me: “Can you remember how much it is? 12 dirhams?”

BB: “How about you give me 100 and that should cover it?”

Me: “Erm, no. I’ll give you 12.” [cheeky!]

Then after school:

Me: “So, what did you have for dinner?” hoping to be regaled with tales of platefuls of pasta, chicken curry and fresh-cut tropical fruit.

BB, grinning: “I had crisps! Red crisps. Healthy ones. They cost 5 dirhams so I got some money back for tomorrow,” the delight etched on his face.

Me [dismayed a teacher hadn’t intervened]: “For dinner? That’s all?”

BB nods.

It was back to packing a gourmet lunch box this morning. Sigh!

Tooth Fairy Trouble: How MUCH?

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My oldest son appears to be hanging on to his milk teeth for dear life, but I hear from friends that when a child loses his or her first tooth, the question crops up: How much does the tooth fairy pay these days?

I’m also told that the amount you slip under the pillow soon becomes public knowledge, with every child (and mother) in your little un’s class finding out the exact denomination the wee pixie stumped up the next day.

The following story happened to a friend of mine and I’m retelling it here because I think it’ll resonate with anyone who’s ever wondered if they’ve paid too much, or too little, for a tooth….

Did I mention the dolphins?

“Although few and far between, opportunities to get away from it all for a day or two pop up for most families. Time being of the essence, I started to consider a ‘staycation’ – a holiday at home – and what better place than the Atlantis?

Built on The Palm – land reclaimed from the sea and shaped into a colossal palm tree – guests not only stay in the most beautiful rooms and play around elegant pools and beach huts, they can also get up close and personal with dolphins. And to top it all, The Atlantis hosts Aquaventure, a magnificent aquatic theme park filled with so many different types of water slides and play areas it’s hard to cover them all in one day.

Sounds fabulous, doesn’t it? Of course, there’s something for everyone; of course, we all want to go; but of course, once a few enquiries have been made the shout comes up as “….HOW MUCH?” However, after more than four years in Dubai, eventually along came the opportunity to justify a visit – and how can we possibly not go just once?

Leap of Faith: Daredevil riders are catapulted through a shark-filled lagoon

The room was indeed splendid and thanks to some clever sliding door/wall trickery the children could even watch TV in the bath. The food was top class; again, “…how much…?” we cried weakly as we melted into some of the best Italian food we have ever had.

The highpoint, however, was indeed Aquaventure; two whole days of sliding and splashing, screaming and laughing, floating and gliding, at the end of which the children (and me!) crawled back to our room to sit, motionless, in the bath and roll straight into bed without a single protest.

This was especially so for one little boy, who, after weeks of wobbling, finally lost another tooth during our stay. The minor incident of only realising it was gone over a sumptuous breakfast resulted in DH making a break-neck dash to get back to the room before housekeeping to pluck this little tooth from between the sheets. Because of course, wherever you are, the Tooth Fairy will always come…. (phew!)

“Will the Tooth Fairy definitely know we’re at the Atlantis?” asked a tired DS that night, his head and body folding up into the sheets like an envelope. “Of course darling,” I crooned, “She knows exactly where you are,” and with that he fell fast asleep.

I was quick to follow; falling face down into those pristine white sheets, only vaguely aware that DH was leaving to go downstairs to meet up with some friends we’d bumped into that day.

On returning to our room, DH had the wherewithal to remember to remove the precious tooth and pop a note down in its place. In the UAE, even small amounts are represented in note form, 5dhs (approximately 85p or $1.35) being the smallest.

“How much did you get?” Even children newly informed about the Tooth Fairy are already in no doubt about the true relevance of her visit

But where could he find this ‘change’? He didn’t appear to be carrying any himself. Aren’t I always the person to be relied upon to supply just the very small amount he always seems to be without? Aren’t I always the one with that extra dirham required for the parking meter? After fumbling around for my bag in a very dark… (boy, those blackout curtains were good!)…. and did I say, glorious, room, DH finds my purse and wrestles a note from within.

Morning arrives, and the children wake up first, of course. As DH and I are dragging ourselves into consciousness, the squeals of delight start. I’m instantaneously horrified that I forgot all about Tooth Fairy Duty and equally grateful that DH had not.

“Mummy! Daddy!” shouts DS. “The Tooth Fairy! She found me!” We manage all the right noises as we struggle to remain horizontal with two excited children now bouncing up and down on our bed. “How much did you get?” asks DD.

“TWO HUNDRED DIRHAMS!!!!!!” DS exclaims! ……. Both of us bolt upright in bed, “HOW MUCH……?”

We were powerless. Utterly powerless, just about managing, “Yes darling, THAT.IS.A.LOT of money. Yes, it must have been because she was The Atlantis Tooth Fairy. And…..er, yes ….. she’s very generous……”

The incident left us with two problems: How to not give a small boy nearly £34/$55 for one tooth; but worse, how to keep him quiet? We did manage to prise the precious note out of DS’s clutches – with the promise of an ice cream. But great were my blushes at the school gate as mothers cast those oh-so critical looks…”

That sinking feeling at bedtime

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My sons are absolutely obsessed with the Titanic. It started after DH told them the story at bedtime, and has grown out of all proportions so that they now want a story about a different sinking ship every night.

Yesterday evening, when I got in from work, they were both sprawled on the sofa, watching the Titanic movie again.

“Mumm-eeee,” they squealed, immediately bouncing into action to kick off the most frenetic two hours of my day.

Not the part little boys want to see

We fast-forwarded the ‘kissing bits’ and got to the part where the boat hits the iceberg and the seawater comes rushing in, which always grips them until they’re wide-eyed – their pupils dilated – with an emotion I can’t quite define.

And that’s when the torrent of questions started.

“Mummy, how many doors did the Titanic have? What was it made of? Wasn’t it stronger than the iceberg? What happened to the iceberg? How many rats were on board?”

“I know Mummy, let’s make an iceberg!” [requiring ice, water, a plastic bottle, pens and paper].

I love getting home from work, but I must admit, after my commute and long day, my head feels like it might actually burst if I’m asked one more question I can’t answer, or I’m thrust into a Blue Peter-style project that simply can’t wait until tomorrow.

Upstairs, I finally managed to chase them into bed, only to be met with a barrage of demands that I stay with them until they’re asleep.

“Mummy, don’t go,” whimpered a by-now alarmed BB, coming down from his watery special effects-induced adrenalin high and entering over-tired territory.

“I’m scared the house is going to sink…”

Cue another 25 minutes of cuddles and reassurances that we’re not at sea.

Next time, they’re watching the romantic bits instead – even if it means listening to that Celine Dion song.

When the cat’s away…

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It’s become a bit of a pattern in our household that whenever DH goes away on a trip (packs bag, disappears to the other side of the world), my corner of the planet starts throwing curveballs.

Thankfully, it’s usually only minor things, like being offered work on a day the children really need me, a poorly child, tantrums, a scrap between the boys that ends in injury. Or a household appliance breaking down.

Today, the car wouldn’t start after a playdate – at Motor City, of all places (maybe the car thought the autodrome looked more fun, or maybe I’ve watched Cars with the boys too many times). Again, though, this could have been so much worse, as anyone who’s broken down on the highway in 40 degrees heat, with children who need the toilet, will attest to.

Whilst I only got as far as Motor City today, DH gallivants the world

The sweet thing is, when DH is away, especially far away, like in Sydney last week or Seoul this week, he really worries about us.

“We’ll be fine,” I always say. “Don’t worry about us! What could go wrong?” I lie! [temping fate, I know!]

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after the children – and the cars,” I claim in mock indignation.

So, tonight when he skyped from South Korea after receiving my text about the broken-down car, I had some explaining to do.

“Erm, yes, the car. I just left it there. And the boys. Yes, both fine. But I have to work tomorrow, and so a complete stranger is picking LB up from school.”

Not a complete stranger, of course – she’s another (very nice) mum with a child in the same class who I talked to for the first time today after a moment of mummy desperation, in which I realised I couldn’t let LB (and our nanny) come hurtling home at 130kph in a taxi.

Now, I just have to keep everything crossed that LB actually agrees to go with her, walks to her car and climbs in it – because, as we all know, shepherding three-year-old children is rather like herding cats.

Just 10 minutes shut-eye please!

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With our day starting a little earlier than last year – and about three hours earlier than it did in the summer holidays – I’m finding that I can keep busy until about 3ish, doing school runs, getting groceries, running errands, even the gym. But then, like clockwork, at 3pm, my body (and mind) say: “That’s it! Nap!”

Of course, this isn’t compatible with two small boys, who thought naps were overrated even when they were babies. So I plough on, hoping for a second wind (which usually comes after the children are in bed).

Today, though, I tried to sneak a nap in. I honestly thought that in the precious quiet time in between LB coming home from school and BB’s return (after which he loves nothing more than to populate our house with his friends), I might be able to take a power nap. On the sofa. While LB played with his cars. Just for 10 minutes.

As if!

“Mummy, you’re the runway,” giggled LB, landing his fighter jet on my face. “Jugga-jugga-jugga. Dthug, dthug!” [Thanks DH for the Pearl Harbour suggestion just before heading out the door.]

This was followed by: “Mum, WHY are you sleeping? It’s N.O.T. nighttime!” Said with the indignation of a put-out 3YO worried it might actually be night.

He prized my eyelids open with his little fingers, walloped me with the airplane a second time and climbed on top of me to bring me back to life.

Then came the sentence that was sure to get me moving.

“Mummy, my pee’s coming!”

I should have known my chances of 10 minutes of shut-eye were about the same as a puffy rain cloud floating past in the bright-blue sky and dousing our desert garden with wet stuff.

What did you do at school today?

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My children hear me say this every day after school. I must ask at least four or five times, phrased in slightly different ways in an attempt to get an answer.

“Who did you see at school today?” “What did you learn?” “Did you have French…or Arabic today?” “Maybe PE?” I probe.

But quite honestly, it’s like getting blood out of a stone.

“We watched TV, Mum!” (I’ve learnt he means they used the smart board)

It must be because I have boys, but they tell me very little about what actually goes on during their school day. Sometimes BB will tell me there was a ‘bad boy’ who got put in time-out (never him, funnily), or that they watched something on the smart board.

But most of the time, he replies, “We did nuff-ing.” Or, when pressed, gives me an exasperated eye-roll and sighs, “I can’t remember.”

Often, I try again later on, hopeful that one last open-ended question might work, but by this time he’s usually head down over my iPad, downloading the video clips he likes watching using our sometimes-fast new internet connection.

Interestingly, though, the thing he has mentioned is the fact his teacher is pregnant. She must only have about four weeks to go and has told the class she’s having a boy.

“There’s a baby inside Ms. C’s tummy,” he told me yesterday, quite proud of the fact he was privvy to this news.

“That’s right,” I said. “And do you know when she’s having her baby?”

“Dunno,” he replied. “The baby’s still loading in her tummy.”

Rant alert: A mother’s comeuppance

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Last year, our morning routine was too good to be true: BB was picked up by bus and whisked off to school in a blink, while LB went to a nursery inside our compound.

Workwise, I could do a whole day in the office as a freelance, or bits and pieces at home – the sum of which were a drop in the ocean really in terms of the household budget, but at least made me feel like I was contributing in some small way.

But kids, they tend to start growing up, don’t they? And so it’s still something of a shock to me that this year I have two boys in two different schools (the hope is that in about 3 years’ time, the waiting list fairy will smile on us and BB will join his brother).

Why such an early school start? I’ve heard that in Australia, children with a 9.15am start go surfing first

“You have to leave by 7.20am to get to LB’s school,” my good friend warned, with a knowing, slightly worried look clouding her eyes (she knows I’m not great in the mornings).

And today, I found out why. Despite this school being nearby, to get there for the 7.50am start, you need to set out at least half an hour before to avoid the argy-bargying that goes on round the roundabaout, the tussle for parking spots and the queue snaking its way from the highway.

The drop-off completed on the late side, I headed back to our compound, thinking positive thoughts about going to the gym and getting groceries – all before 8.45am.

Thwarted. A power cut meant another hot and sticky, Bikram-style workout and at the store, it was as if Halloween had come early, with an assistant taking shoppers round with a torch, shining the beam down the dark aisles like a policeman scanning a dingy alleyway for baddies.

But my biggest bugbear this morning: LB is only at school for what feels like 20 minutes. His pick-up is earlier than nursery, just about giving mums enough time to do the shopping, come home, put the kettle on and go to the loo before heading back to the school to collect a child who will need entertaining all afternoon.

How being back on the school run, with less child-free time than before, feeling like a shadowy figure at the other school (BB’s back on the bus, bless him) and foraging around the grocery store with a flashlight is progress, I’m not sure.

I’m not going to get any work done this year, am I?

Rant over. Tomorrow I’ll beat the time thief. I’ll be out the door at 7.20am. Sharp.

Back to school: The Dubai drop off

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Mothers across Dubai were either breathing a huge sigh of relief or sobbing into their hankies this morning as they dropped their children at school for the start of the new term.

But rather than simply depositing your offspring into the classroom roughly on time, it seems there are plenty of tactics you can use (some of them underhand) if you want to achieve a flawless drop off. Much is doubtless universal, but there are certainly some skills that are specific to Dubai schools.

Tips and tricks:

● Even if you only drop off one child, make sure you drive your 7-seater SUV right up to the school gates.

● Drive at speed, prepare to race other parents from the red light, bully your way round the roundabouts and take every opportunity to jump the queue.

Creating the illusion of a six-hour workout is a useful skill

● Ignore the car parking attendants and remember to cut up your best friend to get that prime parking spot.

● When alighting from your car, greet your friend with a cheery smile and a wave.

● Pay special attention to your chosen outfit. Currently trending is gym wear, preferably black. Whether or not you actually go straight to the gym from the drop off is entirely irrelevant.

● Make sure you and your children are perfectly laundered. Even the slightest trace of toothpaste, breakfast cereal, chocolate, snot, vom or poo will make itself glaringly apparent at the worst moment.

● Although a huge pair of sunglasses will hide a plethora of cosmetic tardiness, make sure your nails are perfect and you hair is pristine.

● Do not rush or run. Do not push or drag your child. Irrespective of what is actually happening, glide serenely through the school with a relaxed and happy expression.

● Greet each member of staff and wish them good morning. Train your children to do the same.

● When engaging in small talk with other parents keep to the following subjects: how charming the children are, how much the children are growing, how lovely everyone looks, the weather.

● Never admit to another mother any homework not done, lost library books, tantrums endured either at home or in the car, diarrhoea or head lice.

● Of course, all of the above also applies during pick up – although you must ensure that whatever you wear is entirely different from the outfit you were sporting only a few hours earlier.

● The only possible exception to this rule is you may return in the same gym wear, creating the aura of a potential six-hour work out. Sweat patches, however, are not acceptable.

Musical beds, at 3am

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Last night, BB couldn’t sleep, again. And by couldn’t sleep, I mean he was wide awake, like an insomniac who hasn’t slept properly for years, or a coffee addict who’s been injecting caffeine intravenously.

His eyes would flutter shut for half-a-second, then spring open again. Every time I thought he’d drifted off, it was such a feather-light sleep that he’d awaken the moment I moved a finger. Eventually, his eyelids stopped looking heavy and remained wide open, as though propped apart by matchsticks.

I gave up and let him come downstairs. We’re fighting jet lag, after all, and the time shift means we’re trying to get the boys to sleep before their bodies think it’s bedtime (kind of like trying to turn the tide).

This was about 10pm.

“I’ll fall asleep in front of the TV mummy,” he promised, with a smile.

At 2am, we were still downstairs.

I know, I was gullible. I should have known the TV would just be bonus stimulation time for him, but I couldn’t let him start making a racket upstairs as LB and DH were already sleeping.

When you’re blimin’ knackered and the kids won’t sleep, this book cover does spring to mind

DH had gone to bed at about 7.30pm, as from 1.30am he was on stand-by. He doesn’t have to be awake to be on night-time stand-by – it just means he has to be rested enough to be able to fly, if needed – with the phone by the bed obviously.

I must admit, when he cheerily called it a day at 7.30pm, there was a bit of me that thought, “Hmpph, they won’t call him. He’ll get the best night’s sleep, ever.”

But, I was wrong. At 2am, he got sent to China.

As his suitcase clunked down the stairs, I looked at DH with surprise – and he, in return, looked at BB with surprise.

“He can’t sleep,” I sighed, our tired, ashen faces lit up by the glow coming from Disney Junior on the TV.

With three out of four of us up, we saw DH off, then I took BB upstairs and told him he could sleep in the big bed (mistake no. 2).

Five minutes later, there were three in the bed. LB was up too and they were fighting for pole position next to me.

“Go to sleep, both of you,” I growled. “It’s nearly 3. Mummy needs to sleep, now.”

Miraculously, they did fall asleep before too long – and I crept stealthily out of the room and straight into BB’s empty bed.

Oh the joys of musical beds at 3am! It’ll be melatonin jet-lag tablets all round tonight.

Jet lag: The scourge of summer travel

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I’ve never been one for keeping a really strict routine. When the children were babies, the Gina Ford-esque Open the curtains at 6.24am regime didn’t suit me. But, like all mums, I’m well aware that if certain things happen at the same time each day, then life is a lot more enjoyable.

Bedtime is a case in point.

At no time is a routine more appealing than when it’s all going pear-shaped: I’m talking about jet lag here – that dreaded circadian rhythm sleep disorder that can hold you in its steely, fatigue-inducing grip for days, especially after an eastbound flight.

With her jet-lagged children up for hours in the night, Mom felt like she’d been run over by the airport bus

It’s a disorientating condition that people in our community know well, especially the Americans and Canadians who travel half way round the world to get back, with small children, who then spend the next two weeks mixing up night and day.

We only had a three-hour time jump between London and Dubai, but to be honest, even this is enough to play havoc with your family’s sleep.

Making it worse this year was the fact that BB and LB hadn’t really adjusted to British time anyway. After returning from America, and with no school to get up for, they stayed on a mid-Atlantic time zone, treating us to 11pm bedtimes in England.

No surprises, then, that our first full night back in Dubai went like this:

11.30pm: BB and LB finally succumb to sleep

2.20am: I nod off at last

2.30am: Pitter, patter … BB comes running in. “Mum, I can’t sleep!”

5.30am: BB, who I [foolishly] allowed to climb into our bed, falls back to sleep after three hours of fidgeting

6.15am: LB wakes up – for the day

Tonight (yawn), my overtired boys were also resisting bedtime, in a can’t sleep/won’t sleep fashion.

“I’m NOT tired!”

Then, just before nine, BB lost it, despite being allowed to watch some extra telly. “I want Nanny,” he wailed, in between distraught, heart-breaking sobs.

“But you’ve got me,” I soothed, feeling a bit like the booby prize.

I took him and his brother upstairs and tried reading a book, but it didn’t really distract my by-now-exhausted BB.

More raspy, uneven sobs.

So, I pulled out all the stops: I started singing.

“Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” I crooned, trying to replicate a song my mum used to sing to me while drying my tears years ago.

BB went quiet, finally, and his breathing slowed as the song worked its magic. But then LB, who until now had been quite placid, started crying.

“Mum, don’t sing,” he spluttered, visibly shaken. “I really don’t like your singing. “It’s bad singing,” he snivelled, and sat up in bed, wide awake again.

There really is no pleasing everyone, is there?