Category Archives: Children

Work-to-rule Santa

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At the Wafi mall this morning there was a long line of harassed-looking parents, their kids orbiting round a Christmas tree two houses high with baubles the size of small planets.

A festive extravaganza, even if the queue management left much to be desired

Barely concealing the fact they wished they could have spent the morning sleeping in and reading the paper rather than queuing for Santa, the parents were doing their best to keep their overexcited offspring under control as the queue inched forwards.

People must have been waiting at least an hour – if not more – I’m guessing, but were remaining resolute – the promise of seeing Dubai’s most authentic-looking Santa, in that his beard is said to be genuine, followed by a free cup of tea and entrance to the play area proving to be a crowd puller.

Santa’s top-security grotto was heavily guarded by toy soldiers and you couldn’t even peep at the man in red – we tried but just found ourselves face-to-face with animatronics.

Then, at about quarter to one, a Filipino lady appeared and walked over to the queue. She stopped half way up the line and, ignoring the expectant little faces and restlessness among the ranks, announced with no apology:

“Santa’s taking a break at one.”

“For 30 minutes,” she continued, totally deadpan.

I’m not sure that the families in the second-half of the queue were even told of this fact, although I’m sure the news travelled fast.

We didn’t hang around to see the mutiny I presume ensued.

Honestly, you’d think, wouldn’t you, that since he only works for one month a year, Santa might be able to plough on through?

Jet-setting grandparents

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As I mentioned earlier this week, BB’s class is nearing the end of a Unit of Enquiry (the lingo in the international curriculum) into how things have changed over time.

We’ve all worked quite hard on this, completing a questionnaire asking things like, ‘Did you have a television back in your day? Or a washing machine?’, working on a poster as homework and going along with the premise that our kids think we’re really quite old.

With a shared love of train sets, BB and his Grandad can hang out for hours

They’ve even had grandparents into the school to meet the class and talk about life in the past.

This led BB to come home asking me why his grandparents don’t live with us.

Imagining one big happy household crammed full to the rafters with his Nanny and Grandad from England and his Jiddo and Tata from Lebanon, he thought this would be a marvellous set up for everyone.

“Well, dear, we do try to see them as much as possible,” I replied “and we’re really very lucky that you have such jet-setting grandparents.”

“Ummm,” he sighed, a little dejectedly, clearly not persuaded that this was enough. And then dropped a clanger, said in a way only cheeky but affectionate little boys can get away with:

“If Grandad lived with us, I could count the hairs on his head.”

A note on competitive parents

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Homework for kindergarten kids is a new concept to me, but I hear that it really kicks off from next term and can be a nightly battle.

To prepare BB’s class of five and six year olds for this, they had their first proper assignment this weekend – the kids had to research an object, such as a toy, television or car, and produce a poster at home, showing what the object looked like in the past and what it looks like today.

And the most worrisome bit: ‘Your child will then present the poster to the whole class as part of their summative assessment,’ the teacher told us.

And, believe me, this made me nervous. Not just about the presenting part, or actually making the poster, but because you wouldn’t believe how competitive expat parents in Dubai can be.

“I know, let’s visit the museum this weekend to do some fact-finding,” I imagined the other mums saying. “And work on some mock-ups first. Even better, why don’t we fly to London to browse the British Museum.” “Yes, and once we’ve finished the conceptuals, we can do a historical key in PowerPoint,” their DHs, getting into the swing of it, probably reply. “That’ll really knock the socks off the teacher.”

BB and I finally got down to it on Saturday afternoon, his attention captured momentarily because I stole an idea from the recent National Day celebrations – a classic car parade! It kept him focused for, ooh, all of 30 minutes, before he legged it to the play area.

Two hours later, I’d finished the poster, cleaned up the mess and hidden it so BB’s little brother wouldn’t scribble all over it – just in time to start thinking about dinner.

I think I’m going to be busy next term, when homework really gets going.

Colouring, cutting, sticking - I was in my element!

The nightly bedtime debacle

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There must be someone else who loves that feeling at the end of the day – when you cocoon yourself in the duvet, your toes slide down to the end of the bed and your whole body exhales with relief?

It’s such a lovely sensation, I don’t understand why my kids think I’m committing such a terrible, heinous crime when I put them to bed.

The boys share a room and if – after cajoling them through the whole bath, teeth, book routine – they would just let me turn the light out and go downstairs while they kept each other company (isn’t that why you have two children?), I’d be a nicer person.

But, no, instead they get hyped up, keep themselves awake and compete for my attention like their lives depend on it.

If I leave the room, LB – who’s still of a clingy age – tantrums until there’s so much adrenalin pumping round his little body he might as well be doing a bungee jump.

It’s easily the most frustrating part of my day, especially now I’m back at work for a while. Aside from a bleary-eyed rush in the morning, the bedtime debacle is the only interaction I get with them during the week – and on a bad night leaves me with a 20-minute long evening by the time the circus finally subsides.

It all goes a lot smoother when DH is home, so I’ve started doing something rather underhand when he’s away. If you compare it to drugging them with sleeping pills (which has crossed my mind) or leaving the house when they behave like this (also tempting), it’s really not that bad.

I say to the boys, “Daddy’s on the phone. He’s calling to see if you’re in bed,” then I pretend to talk on my mobile, shaking my head, umming and making conversation at appropriate intervals.

It works so well, I’ve rolled it out now to saying I have a hotline to DH (1-800-DADDY) wherever he is in the world.

It’s only backfired once, when BB wanted to talk to him and so – like a family friend who used to call Father Christmas in Lapland for us when I was little did – I pretended DH had been cut off.

I really don’t mean to make DH the bad cop when he’s not even here, but now when I bring the milk upstairs, I grab my phone – it’s either that or have SuperNanny on speed dial.

Loves kids but couldn’t eat a whole one

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We’ve had a tsunami of visitors over the past few weeks – and the great thing about having friends and family to stay is you get to do some of the touristy things in Dubai, which usually come third or fourth fiddle to the mundane everyday stuff.

And, of course, when home comes to visit, it’s the most wonderful chance to spend time with loved ones – in the sun, on the beach, at the pool and out at dinner. Until the time comes for them to leave, and you’re left sobbing on the sofa that it went so fast.

As well as my in-laws and my parents, my BF came to Dubai. I’ve blogged about her before as her life is more interesting than the grittiest soap opera.

She might not think so but, to me, hearing about her dating adventures is like a dose of reality TV starring my favourite character – and anything can happen!

Take her visit to Dubai’s Gold Souk to do some handbag shopping.

“We have Louis Vuitton, Prada, Mulberry, we give you good price,” called out a handsome fella with dark eyes and a chiseled jaw as she got out the taxi. BF couldn’t resist and followed him down a dark alley, up another one, through the winding streets until they reached a doorway.

There he led BF up some stairs to a thick bolted door, on which he knocked twice and then waited.

When the door opened, she was led into a room wall-to-wall full of copy bags. She bought four Mulberries and went to leave – but not before the handbag seller thrust his phone number into her hand, saying if she wanted to meet up he’d come running.

Then, in the taxi on the way home, she found herself deep in conversation with the driver about all sorts of ‘taboo’ subjects, from religion to marriage.

But her most promising ‘holiday romance’ was the good-humoured man she met on the airplane on the way home, who kept her entertained the whole flight and has since texted BF to see if they could meet up. BF has always harboured a desire to join the mile-high club, but promises me she passed up the opportunity, fearing the consequences on the Royal Brunei aircraft would be too great to bear.

Aside from providing a steady stream of hilarious stories, the thing that struck me about BF’s visit was just how much fun you can have with kids when you’re not the one responsible for feeding them, keeping them alive, dragging them to bed and clipping their toenails.

BF doesn’t have children of her own and admits that the older she gets, the less appealing she finds the idea – but she’s the most amazing Godmother and auntie to at least nine kids.

My boys and BF ran round like lunatics, squirting water at each other on the beach, and making each other laugh hysterically. She didn’t mind when BB puckered his lips as though to plant a kiss on her cheek and blew a huge raspberry – or when he held onto her in the swimming pool calling out ‘Giddy Up’ like she was his personal pack horse.

BF took it all in such good spirit – even when BB cheekily pulled her tankini bottoms down as she was getting out of the pool.

We all had such fun in the sun – and I miss BF (who blogs at lujat71) terribly now.

There is, of course, the possibility that BF, who spends her working life protecting children, will become a parent in the future – if she chooses to – perhaps not through conventional means. But for now – to use BF’s words, it’s a case of loves kids but couldn’t eat a whole one!

Kids’ parties: Love ’em or hate ’em?

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I just read a fascinating post over at Asia Vu about how gift-giving in Korea is a little different from what we’re used to. The Koreans take a very practical approach and so it’s perfectly normal to give toilet roll or laundry detergent as a house-warming gift, or rice as a participation gift.

And I found myself thinking, how very useful indeed – wouldn’t that take a lot of the stress out of selecting a gift? Especially when you’re buying a present for someone you’ve never met before, like I was yesterday.

LB got invited to a party – his first that was in no way connected to his big brother – and, though I didn’t know the mum, the child, or any of the guests for that matter, taking him along seemed the right thing to do.

I popped into our local Early Learning Centre to buy a gift and went through my usual conundrum of finding something that was age/gender appropriate, wouldn’t drive the parents crazy, wouldn’t cause injury and cost enough so I wouldn’t look stingy but wasn’t overly expensive.

If we were in Korea, I perhaps could have bought a pack of diapers from the supermarket – not only easy peasy, but also guaranteed to be useful.


Anyway, this morning as we were getting ready for the birthday brunch, it became clear LB had gotten out of bed on the wrong side. He wasn’t happy at all. We managed to navigate the getting dressed part (which can take 20 minutes or more as he rejects all the outfits I pull out), but the tantrum trigger turned out to be which car we took.

“You’ll get cake,” I told him, to bribe a kicking-and-screaming LB to get into the car he didn’t want to ride in.

And so perhaps it was my fault that when we arrived, he made a beeline for the three-tiered, homemade cake and refused to move.

What could have been


So much for meeting other mums – I had my work cut out for much of the party guarding the cake to make sure LB didn’t start devouring the frosting.

But, despite his unsociableness today (which really made me wonder why on earth I’d bothered to bring him), we did manage to make an impression. The moment LB had been waiting for arrived – Happy Birthday was sung and the cake was cut. In his excitement, LB ran over – at the last second taking a tumble and crashing headlong into the cake table.

The cake wobbled precariously. The mum who’d lovingly made it diplomatically carried on cutting slices, while I scooped up LB and peered at the bump on his forehead.

Thank goodness, the cake didn’t go flying – and thank goodness they didn’t open our present later to find a pack of diapers.

PHOTO CREDITS: Free Clipart; zazzle.com; Clipartoday

Office life versus mummydom

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These past few weeks I’ve been working on a magazine down in Media City – some 10 years too late.

Publishing offices here are full of skinny media types, with trendy clothes, silky hair, and because it’s Dubai, a sun tan, exotic accent and just the right amount of bling.

They’re all so young, I sometimes feel like telling them, “You know, there was a time, not all that long ago, when people didn’t have the Internet at their fingertips.”

“And when we did start getting connected at home, it was dial-up. Imagine that. Bet you can’t, can you?”

“You were alive then?” I imagine the young whippersnappers responding, wide-eyed as it dawns on them I’m from a generation that remembers cassette tapes, Commodore 64 computers and mobile phones the size of a brick.

I cover at this particular magazine during busy periods and I said yes to the work because I know I enjoy it when I’m there and they actually pay.

So I’m reminded again what it’s like to be a proper working Mum – commuting for an hour-and-15 a day in rush-hour, doing the grocery shop with the rest of the world on Saturday, and only seeing the kids at bedtime, when they’re behaving monstrously.

It’s always a nice change. Here are some of the things I enjoy:

• Lipstick and heels (with toe cleavage) rather than jeans and flip flops

• Going to the toilet in peace

• Office gossip – generally, though not always, more salacious

• Still micro-managing the boys’ social lives and well-being, but being able to do it remotely, at my desk eating salt-and-vinegar crisps that don’t get nicked

• Not being interrupted every two seconds and when someone does need something, the request not starting with, “Mumm-eeeee, I waaaa-nt…’ Even the office twit seems mild-mannered and quiet to me.

• Incentives like a slap-up meal for the team with the tidiest desks (we didn’t win)

• Colleagues who don’t hit or bite each other

• Lunch out and even eating a sarnie at my desk that doesn’t come with a plastic toy

• Eyeing up a gorgeous dress and thinking “I could buy it! I’ve earnt the money myself!” then being overcome with absent mummy guilt and settling on something for the kids instead

• Not feeling bad about achieving nothing on my mile-long ‘things-to-do-around-the-house list’ – and instead writing on post-it notes that are dealt with by the end of the day

• Making a cup of tea while chatting to adults at eye-level rather than waist-level and who don’t shout at me, tantrum or cling to my leg

• Sneaking back to the mall later to get the dress

I could go on…. it’s one helluva lot easier than refereeing small boys, but there’s a big problem: I miss them and hardly see them! Talk about the grass always being greener on the other side…

Eid part II: Ending up in the ER

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I blogged a few days ago about how my plan to spend Eid in England didn’t work out.

Well, we did go away after all. To a well-equipped room, with a TV, en-suite bathroom and round-the-clock room service, centrally located, to BB’s delight, less than 20 feet away from a gleaming gold Metro station.

BB’s idea of paradise, except my poor boy was on a drip, and being prodded and poked by doctors, scanned like a barcode and force-fed medicine.

Yes, we spent the rest of Eid at City Hospital in Dubai’s Healthcare City! Nearly three days and two nights – it felt like forever.

When your only option is private healthcare, doctors don't leave a stone unturned

He’d had a bug, nothing too concerning because even here in the warmth of the desert, there’s a lot of it about. But when we got back from the airport, he seemed strangely lethargic, despite having appeared perfectly well enough to travel earlier that day.

That night his temperature spiked (thank goodness we weren’t on a plane) and so in the morning, we took him to the doctor – who told us to go to the ER.

“Really?” we thought, DH and I both looking at each other in surprise. It seemed a bit drastic. Wasn’t it just a sick bug? And besides, BB was complaining about being hungry so surely couldn’t be that ill. We stuck to our plan to have lunch.

At the ER that afternoon, there was another surprise. A blood test threw up a weird result and they said they were admitting him to the paediatric ward. I still thought everyone was over-reacting – if it was the NHS, wouldn’t we have just been sent home in a matronly fashion to have chicken soup?

But that night, as his temperature climbed again and his whole body started shaking, I began to panic. My boy wasn’t well and I’d assumed it was nothing serious. What could it be and why were we in hospital? They’d even put him in an isolation room to begin with.

There are a few exotic diseases you can catch out here, you see. Infected spider bites, scarlet fever, giardia from unclean swimming pools. In fact, LB’s nursery emails out a helpful round-up of all the nursery nasties every time there’s an outbreak so I know what’s lurking.

The doctors asked where we’d travelled to recently as they thought BB might have malaria. They took more blood and did an ultrasound – all routine tests, but for a five-year-old who’s terrified of the sight of blood (even a graze!) and hates having his hair cut let alone his internal organs scanned, invasive tests like this are a battle.

“It’ll just feel like an ant bite,” said a nurse trying to insert a cannula into his hand.

“TH-AAAAT’S-NOT -AN-ANT-BITE,” shrieked BB, the colour draining from his face.

But he was so brave – and was loving being able to ‘drive’ his bed up and down and position it at various angles – his favourite setting being as high as possible so the nurses had trouble reaching him.

I was trying to be brave, too, but was noticing a few cultural differences I didn’t like. I know healthcare here is excellent, but it seemed like the doctors were more distant – less interactive than they are in the West. No one really told us what was going on and that was just freaky.

Eventually we did get a diagnosis, which I won’t go into, other than to say it’s not serious, has a long name, is fixable, and will be thoroughly researched by myself later today when I consult Dr. Google (dangerous, I know!).

It was so good to come home, clutching a bag with three-month’s worth of medicine and the present we’d bought BB on day#2 for being such a big boy. It was a creepy crawly kit, which he’d used to turn his hospital room into a bug-making factory. They’re in for a shock when they clean.

Some memorable lighter moments:

– “I’m NOT sick, let’s go to James’ house.”

– ‘Don’t touch that train – I’m SICK you know,” to his brother

– “She’s a NAUGHTY nurse, she needs to go in time-out….That doctor is BA-AAD…”

– “Have we moved here? Is this our new home?”

– “This room is just like our hotel in the Seychelles’

– On spitting out medicine, “YEEEUUU-UUUUK, I waaa-nt the purple one” (ie, Calpol)

Travel advisory: Don’t fly stand-by at Eid

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We all know that traipsing through airports and travelling on planes with small children is rarely a joyous experience (unless you’re my husband who takes the kids to eat at Dubai International on his days off).

But if there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to add a whole new dimension to your journey, it’s the traffic light system in staff check-in that tells you if you’re actually on the plane or not.

Staff check-in at Eid - as far as we got!

You’ve done the packing, got to the airport with overexcited kids in tow and feel geared up to go, but whether you end up at your chosen destination or back on the sofa depends on the stand-by screen, which shows a green light by your name if there’s room on board and a red light if the plane’s full.

Staff travel is, of course, the most wonderful perk and allows us to go round the world at minimal cost – IF you plan it right. Get it wrong – and by that I mean try to travel on stand-by at busy times such as Eid, Christmas or peak summer season – and you might as well just join my DH and the kids for lunch at the airport then head home.

My last-minute plan was good in theory: to fly back to London for the weekend to be surprise guests at my mother’s birthday party, see my whole family gathered under one roof (a rare event!) and watch some fireworks and effigy burning on Bonfire Night. It was our timing that sucked.

When we pitched up at staff check-in just before lunchtime, it looked promisingly quiet. But by 1.50pm, about 40 minutes before take-off, every employee and his wife had appeared out of the woodwork, all hoping to travel to London for the five-day Eid holidays.

People were craning their necks to get a look at the stand-by board, their luggage haphazardly filling the floor and other hopeful passengers trying to find a path through to the queue. The boarding pass fairy smiled on no-one which meant the crowd’s focus changed to the next flight – to Gatwick – a little while later.

“When will we get on the airplane,” a raring-to-go BB asked a hundred times, as his little brother busied himself trying to unzip random suitcases before darting out the door.

Gatwick was also a no-go because the throngs of people meant we couldn’t even get close to the check-in desk. LB was, by now, starfished on the floor in front of oncoming trolleys.

“Daddy, just pay!” pleaded BB, his patience tested to the limit and his rounds of rapid-fire questions hitting me full pelt.

The next option was a late-afternoon flight to Heathrow, so off we trooped to waste some more time, while trying to head off the ear-bending disappointment we were guessing was just round the corner and which only kids know how to express.

But, by now, the thought of enduring a seven-and-half hour flight with a small child (LB was staying in Dubai with DH) after waiting around with the boys for so long was making the sofa look appealing.

So when the traffic light turned from amber to red – and the check-in girl announced “London Heathrow, no chance!” – I was of course sad I wouldn’t get home to England for Mum’s birthday, but also relieved the waiting game was over. You would have been too, if you were as knackered as I was.

EID PART II: Just when I thought it could only get better…coming soon!

On falling in love with the bus nanny

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The most wonderful thing came into our lives recently. Yellow and long, with chunky wheels, squeaky brakes and snotty noses pressed against the window.

It is, of course, the school bus and it saves us two hours a day through no longer trotting backwards and forwards on the school run.

We were on the waiting list for a year and, even now, BB’s ride home is only on ‘stand-by’, but so far there’s been space every day.

With a hop and a skip, he greets the bus nanny on board!

And, though only five years old, it makes him seem so grown up, so independent, all of a sudden. On hearing the bus come trundling down the hill, he bolts outside in a flash.

The doors clap shut and that’s it, he’s gone – his toast left half eaten on the sofa and cartoons still blaring from the TV. The first day I felt quite bereft.

Until I realised I could actually go back to bed for a bit.

Of course, I’ve worried about the ‘what ifs?’ – what mother wouldn’t? – especially as Dubai drivers tend to behave as though they’re riding the dodgems at the fairground and the highways here have at least eight lanes.

But he’s so excited by the bus buddies he’s made – and has fallen in love.

Buses in Dubai for primary school children have bus nannies on board. Ours is a sweet-natured lady from India with a kind smile and beautiful eyes. Her name is Shabina and, most likely, she has kids of her own back home, living with grandparents so she can earn money for their keep in Dubai.

Her days are dedicated to riding EK1 to school, waiting while the children are in lessons, then travelling back to our compound in the afternoon.

It’s not as easy as it sounds – she’s tasked with maintaining order on board and making sure all the kids keep their seat belts – and clothes – on (yes, really, last year someone stripped apparently).

Early this morning, I found BB writing a love note to Shabina on a card he’d made for her. “Muuum-mee, can you help me?” he asked, somewhat sheepishly. “I want to put ‘I love you bus nanny'”

Then he wrapped up a scented candle that was sitting on our bedside table (not a car or a train, like he usually chooses, but a candle! Surprisingly thoughtful!)

He’s adamant he’d rather we didn’t pick him up from school, like we did the other day to surprise him, because he’d prefer to ride home with his beloved bus nanny, who is so sweet she apparently even gives him a good-bye kiss.

So my big boy has his first school-boy crush and thinks he’s going to marry Shabina. When he’s 18 and reading this, he’s going to kill me for spilling the beans!

And if, like many of the Indian, Sri Lankan and Filipino workers over here, she does have her own children, I really hope she gets to go home to see them as often as possible.