Category Archives: Children

Halloween in the Hood

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The witching hour has begun. I’ve raced home from work like a demon, the neighbourhood is aglow with orange lanterns and the boys are dressed up and on the sugar again.

It can only be Halloween – alive and kicking in Dubai, thanks to the significant number of American expats. And because we live in a compound of families, trick-or-treaters practically line up at our door.

In the Muslim world, beings called jinn - or genies - are believed to exist. Paranormal citings in the UAE are considered not to be connected to people who have passed away, but to these entirely separate beings. Citings of jinn are said to be common in Nad Al Sheba, the ‘haunted’ Jazira Al Hamrat village in Ras Al Kaimah, and Jumeirah.

The first year we were here, we ran out of goodies and ended up handing out juice boxes, cheese, apples, bananas, sandwiches – anything! The cupboards looked like they’d been ransacked.

This year, we know what to do – panic buy candy as though preparing for nuclear war, dole it out in rationed portions, then when it’s all gone, turn the porch light out and hide.

BB and LB are in their element, of course. Our preparations started a week ago with costume planning. The Little Boy was easy – I grabbed a spiderboy outfit from our local supermarket which he loved.

Not interested in a big reveal tonight, he’s worn it to bed every night and nearly all weekend too (his face was a picture when we walked into the Halloween bash at the Madinat to find at least six other spiderboys in exactly the same red-and-blue outfit).

The Big Boy was harder. I’ve mentioned before he likes trains – a lot – and so he decided he’d go as a ghost train. He drew me an elaborate illustrated diagram then tested me on it. “Do ghosts have teeth?” he asked, picturing in his mind some kind of monster-ghost hybrid.

Pammy the Pumpkin

In the end, we settled on a glow-in-the dark skeleton outfit from OshKosh, which he’s wearing with his pilot’s hat and a set of handcuffs that went to school this week for show-and-tell.

We’ve even decorated: DH planted a skull in the flowerbed and dangled a one-armed skeleton in the porchway. But, I have to say, I’m rather proud of the pumpkin the boys and I carved yesterday. Just a small attempt on my part to redress the boy/girl ratio in this household. She’s rather pretty, no?

Postscript: Halloween’s over!
Now 10pm, the streets are quiet, the Halloweenies all in bed. As predicted, the doorbell didn’t stop ringing, and I practically had to retrieve the boys from the ceiling they were so high on e-numbers. Some highlights I’m still laughing about:

The boys collected enough candy to last all year - this tired mummy is about to steal some

– The drive-by trick-or-treaters: a quad bike pulling a six-foot trailer loaded with revellers

– The teenagers who got in on the act

– Piling our candy on a tray, only to regret it when kids started grabbing the stuff. “I’ll have that one, that one and that one….”

– Hearing about last year’s egging at the Ranches (really? It’s hardly the wrong side of Dubai)

– “I don’t like these. Have you got anything else?” (Who do you think we are? The pick ‘n’ mix stall?)

– “Could we have money instead?”

Doing battle with a three-year-old

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I try not to say too much about DH in my blog because he’s rather mystified by the concept of Facebook updates let alone blogging.

But I can’t resist documenting a conversation I overheard between him and the little boy this weekend.

LB wanted a carton of strawberry milk, which I’ve taken to buying so their apple juice consumption can no longer be measured by the gallon.

He was refusing to say please and DH was – for the umpteenth time – trying to teach him to remember his manners.

This went on for at least half the morning. I would probably have buckled far sooner.

LB managed to manoeuvre DH into the kitchen and they were both standing by the open cupboard.

“Say please,” says DH, his hand reaching up and hovering over the strawberry milks.

“THAT ONE,” LB retaliates, pointing at the cartons (“Can’t you see? They’re right there!” he’s thinking)

“What do you say?”

“At the T.O.P.” responds LB, getting more and more exasperated he’s having to give orders for something so simple.

“If you won’t say please, you can’t have it.” DH pretends to walk away.

“T.U.R.N A.R.O.U.N.D,” yells LB [angry tears].

I crept away, pretty sure DH would win (my mother-in-law used to talk about running etiquette classes, and we do try to hammer home the manners).

But, a little later, I notice LB running round with his ‘pink milk’ and DH, on the sofa, looking a little, dare I say it, beaten.

“He won’t get away with it next time,” mutters DH.

Three-year-olds, honestly. As cute as a button – but compared to life now, don’t you think our pint-size dictators make pregnancy seem like a nine-month massage?

Once we've got the please and thank yous down pat, we can move on to using napkins, knowing when to be silent and table taboos! I'd better start reading this book by etiquette expert Ava Carroll-Brown

PHOTO CREDIT: Ava Carroll-Brown

School’s closed! School’s closed!

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BB’s school has hit the media.

Saw it first while peering over the shoulder of someone reading 7DAYS in Costa Coffee.

Then got online and found the headline in The National newspaper: “School closed in poisonous gas alert”.

I clicked on the link to read what I already knew, that “the school has been shut down for the rest of the week because of what Civil Defence officials describe as ‘poisonous gases’ from a smouldering fire at a nearby chemical factory.”

Great. It’s all so Dubai.

And I’m feeling like the worst mother in the world because when the initial evacuation took place last week, I didn’t leap up to collect him, as I knew the bus would bring him and I had work to do, but then the kids ended up waiting on the bus (breathing in those noxious nasties?) while the ensuing chaos was sorted out.

They were also in school for the first two days this week. Apparently, it’s all a big precaution and we needn’t worry, but that still leaves us with the kids at home – unable to believe their luck that they’re off school, but bored out of their minds nevertheless.

I vaguely remember from childhood that over-the-moon feeling I got the few times school was shut due to strikes or snow – and now I understand the problem it left my working mother with.

So BB’s lolling on the sofa, stealing my iPad and at regular intervals yelling his head off about having nothing to do. There’s only so much time a child can spend watching YouTube and playing computer games before side effects like this kick in.

It feels like school holidays all over again.

Meanwhile, a wonderful friend of mine has, coincidentally, just started at the school in a PR/communications role and is having one helluva first week.

Roll on Sunday!

An enormous explosion sent a fireball hundreds of metres into the air - and there were apparently more than 70 different industrial and food chemicals stored in the warehouse


PICTURE CREDITS: The National, Gaming Bus

A note on competitive schools

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You know the little boy – the one who talks like this, “Play wif mummee”, “Sit soh-fa and watch” – and who, until a couple of weeks ago, was just two years old – really quite little still.

Well, here in Dubai, he can start school next September, and while still a long way off, a school I’ve listed him for was hot on the case today.


I found out via DH, of course, who they phoned this morning (again! Why do teachers keep contacting him, not me? Could they be in cahoots with BB’s school?)

I was in trouble for failing to fill out some paperwork I hadn’t even received and was catapulted back to feeling like a naughty school girl, caught kissing boys behind the bike shed.

“The deadline for the form was yesterday,” I was told firmly, with more than a hint of irritation. “You need to let us know within the hour if you want to proceed with your application. There are a hundred children lining up for the space. And as punishment write 300 lines, ‘I will never be late turning in my son’s paperwork again,” after school pick-up.”

They had good reason for telling me they’d offer the spot to someone else, because it’s hands down (depending on who you believe, of course) one of the best schools in Dubai. Parents wait years to get their kids in and we were just lucky that we got LB on the list when he was really little.

They’re used to dealing with mothers who’d bite their hand off for a place. “We’ve had tri-lingual Felicity on the list since she was a foetus and she loves nothing more than to make words with her spaghetti at supper and do piano practice before bed. A place will mean sooo much to her,” is the kind of response they’re accustomed to.

(The problem is there’s no spot for BB, you see, and for convenience and many other reasons I’d rather have both boys at the same school).

But after speaking to some mum friends, one of whom reminded me that they wouldn’t even let her put her son’s name on THE LIST, I rushed over there this afternoon to make sure LB’s spot wasn’t given away.

And, as I walked through the hallowed corridors – marvelling at the smiling, beautifully behaved children, with project work tucked under their arm, landscaped campus, huge green field, amphitheatre and proximity to my favourite coffee shop, I saw the future for a moment. I’d give up work, spend my days doing school runs, organise bake sales and fetes, and volunteer for field trips for both schools.

Ok, so given that my only-just talking three-year-old still has to pass an assessment interview to secure the spot – and I’m clearly not a mother who would find any of the above easy – I was quite possibly getting carried away. But at least we’ve done what you gotta do when it comes to school waiting lists in Dubai – we’re hedging our bets.

PHOTO CREDIT: Time Out Dubai

A sticky story about having a housemaid (and please don’t go off me!)

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It’s no secret that many of us here in Dubai have housemaids, who double up as nannies and sometimes cooks too. A very small minority even drive, meaning the school run is magically done too.

I’ve heard this wonderful perk described in various ways:

“My wife at home,” is a common one from expat mums, or “I should have married her!”

Another friend who’d just hired the sweetest lady from the Philippines told me, “She’s marvellous! She can stay at home and be me and I can go off and be somebody else!”

Introducing the efficient, gorgeous and all-round wonderful Catherine the Great (with baby LB)- can you tell how much we love her?!

And it’s amazing how you’re suddenly inspired to do baking, three-course meals, or catering for multiple kids when you have a self-cleaning kitchen.

The only draw-back is if you get too used to having a housemaid – dare I say it, dependent – it can be quite a shock when real-life catches up with you, ie, you have to move back to your home country (or go on a two-week holiday without her). In fact, it’s common for local families and a few expats to take their maids on vacation with them.

This summer in England, a friend asked me if our live-in nanny Catherine the Great spends her whole time tidying up after our two very messy boys.

Well, we are, in fact – and have been for some time – on a drive to get the boys to tidy their own toys, as a precaution against one of my worst fears, expat brat syndrome, which I’ve blogged about before.

But, inevitably, the rest of us, and in particular C.the.Grt who’s at home all day, still end up doing plenty of clearing up – and it drives BB bananas.

So he’s taken to using sellotape (American sp. scotch tape) to tape his trains, planes, cars, pieces of track and even lego to the floor – in the hope all his bits and pieces won’t get thrown back in the toy box.

Once he taped up the whole living room, cordoning it off like it was a crime scene that couldn’t be touched.

Double-sided, poster tape, mounting tape, he doesn't discriminate - he'll take what he can get

He also uses sellotape to make roadways on the floor and he gets through miles of the stuff.

I’ve found myself bribing him with it: “If you’re really good today BB, I’ll get you a roll of sellotape at the supermarket tomorrow!”

This morning I had two rolls stashed away, but BB found them and got busy. The end result was this sellotape superstructure, which we’ll be unsticking for days.

So that is the reason, my dear friends, why when your children receive a present from us, it’s always wrapped in Toys R Us gift paper – because our sellotape is all over our floor and is never, ever to be found when I need it.

PS: I really recommend two superbly written blogs by Dubai writers on this facet of expat life (housemaids, not sellotape) – Housewife in Dubai: Maid wanted: Must love cleaning and hate gossip and We have it maid by SandboxMoxie, who has good reasons for resisting the lure of live-in help.

Life getting a bit easier?

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At stupid o’ clock this morning, the grey light of dawn only just creeping round the curtains, my human alarm clocks dragged me from some rather enjoyable early-morning dreams.

If just one boy appears, there’s a chance he’ll go back to sleep. But when you hear the pitter patter of two sets of feet running across the marble floor, it’s usually game over and a full 17 hours before you get another go at the whole getting a good night’s sleep thing.

So, at 5.40am – a weekend, of course – I was resigned to a day of muddling along in a tired, fuzzy-brained state, nothing unusual in that. Then something really astonishing happened.


Suddenly, it was 8.45am. The house was quiet. The boys not in bed, but not making a peep. They’d vanished – and I’d slept through the whole thing!

I found them downstairs, glued to the TV watching cartoons in Arabic (learning something, perhaps?)

They’d let me go back to sleep – a first! And there were clues everywhere that they’d looked after themselves.

The puddle of milk. Chairs dragged across the room so they could climb up to get snacks from out-of-reach cupboards. The kitchen scissors on the floor, used to open packets of M&Ms. Biscuit crumbs everywhere.

Why, next weekend they might even pack their own lunch boxes and head off to joy ride the Metro all day.

It’s another definite sign – along with ditching the toddler car seat, breezing out the house without the stroller and our semi-successful interventions to cut down on whining – that they’re growing up and life’s getting a bit easier.

Bitter-sweet? Maybe. But, mostly, utterly wonderful (I do love my sleep), even if I pay for it this afternoon when their early start leads to crabbiness in spades.

On having two mummy’s boys

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Nursery is a marvellous invention, especially as it’s so nearby so we don’t even have to get in the car – LB could practically walk there himself (except imagine what a terrible parent they’d think I was if LB dropped himself off in the morning!)

But it’s amazing how fast the session goes by. All over by 1pm, it means that by the time I’ve got my act together, bought some groceries and tried to squeeze a bit of work in, that’s it, LB’s ‘school day’ is done. And when he gets home, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

“Play wif Mumm-eeeee.”

And so we play – but inevitably, after a while, my list-of-a-hundred-things-I-need-to-do looms large in my mind. So I suggest that I just have to do something and I’ll be back in a minute.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he roars, his little fists pummelling me with all his might. “STAA-AY.”

“Play trains wif Mummy.”

So I stay longer, pushing a train around and making some accompanying noises. We play a tickling game and I try to remain patient.

I say try because it’s really difficult! In my mind, he could be playing happily while I tick one or two things off my list. But, no, there’s something that in my pre-parenting days I was clueless about: clinginess!

It means that, quite often, both boys sit on top of me on the sofa fighting over me, I walk round with a screaming child attached to my leg, and have to do everything one-handed because the other arm is being pulled in a different direction.

It’s a special behaviour reserved for mummies.

And I should have known I’d find it challenging: I had a clingy cat once (for 10 years!) and that was hard enough.

This afternoon we did manage to come to a few compromises. LB let me make a cup of tea without screaming, on the proviso he got his fourth ‘pink milk’ of the day, and played by himself for a while after I obeyed orders to “SIT on SOF-AH and watch.”

(I know I spend way too many evenings happily sitting on the sofa, but somehow being immobilised on the couch during the day is as frustrating as looking at our lovely garden and not being able to use it.)

When BB gets home from school around 3.20pm, the dynamics change as I’m suddenly outnumbered.

“How was school?” I enquire brightly, hopeful that one day he’ll actually tell me what he did.

“Super bad.”

The TV goes on while he decompresses and the three of us sort-of-get-along for the rest of the afternoon, while I field demands from left, right and centre.

Like, “Mumm-eeeee, I want a mouse!” from BB today.

Then both boys, practically bouncing off the sofa, chanting in unison, “We-want-a-mouse. We-want-a-mouse!”

I know the answer is to start the day expecting to get absolutely nothing accomplished, then when you do achieve zilch it doesn’t feel so bad – or you’re thrilled because you’ve ticked one thing off your list-of-a-hundred. And, perhaps, over the past year, I’ve got a little too used to office life again, which – and I know I keep saying this – is a lot simpler.

At bedtime, the clinginess resurfaces in both of them. We’re trying really hard to get the boys to go to sleep without one of us being in the room. A battle, for me at least (DH makes it look easy-peasy; when I try, you can hear the screams down the road).

Tonight, as I attempted to persuade them that I’d be back to check on them in five minutes, they cried on cue, then BB whimpered, “But, mummee, we really, really like you.”

Despite it being 9.30pm by this time, my heart melted and I had to forgive them for the previous eight-and-a-half hours of clinginess.

And the day will come when they’re not so needy of me and can play together nicely, while I get a few things done.

Won’t it?!!!!

Celebrations: It’s a boy!

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My dear friend has had a beautiful baby boy – the cutest bundle of sleep-stealing, life-changing loveliness.

And it was all so exciting, because the wonders of modern technology meant she was on Facebook throughout much of her labour – right up until her last petrified post stating that if the baby didn’t turn in the next 15 minutes, she would have to have a c-section.

I tried to reassure her, and as her friends and family around the world did the same, I could barely tear myself away from the computer to go to bed. In fact, I actually got up in the night to check on her progress.

Happily, all went well – though she was naturally none too impressed that here in Dubai you’re given aspirin as pain relief afterwards, rather than the fabulous narcotics you get after a c-section in the States.

Of course the arrival of such a gorgeous baby boy takes me right back to the birth of my two, and so it was with utter amazement that today we celebrated the third birthday of my littlest boy.

Time flies, it really does – and as the years roll by, I think my memory might be taking flight too. Because, despite having learnt this lesson before, I thought it would be a good idea to hold a little birthday tea party for LB.

There’s clearly something about child rearing that makes you wake up in a tidy (and in the morning child-free) home and think, “Aw, LB’s turning three – wouldn’t it be lovely to have all his little friends over, sugar ‘em up and let them run wild?”

I’d planned to keep it on the small side, ie, just LB and his brother, but at about 10am I started inviting people, which, when you live in company accommodation, tends to snowball – plus BB took it upon himself to invite a couple of friends from his school bus.

I should also know by now that birthdays that start at 5.30am always end in tears – not from LB but from his more highly strung brother, who ate his body weight in chocolate, acted totally demented and will surely have a hangover tomorrow.

There was some confusion over whose birthday it was. More experienced in such matters, BB thought it was his and opened all the presents. (“I was just showing him how to open them, Mumm-eee”) – and so not surprisingly LB thought the pass-the-parcel I’d spent ages wrapping up was rightfully his.

Once wrestled off him, I tried to find a suitable children’s song on the iPod to accompany our game, but the kids (3,4 and 5 year olds) had a special request: Lady Gaga!!!

The balloons were a hit, though popped like a car backfiring one by one, then the older kids started chasing each other round the house and there was a scary moment when I thought I might have to take one girl home and tell her mother she’d knocked her front teeth out (thankfully, she was fine!).

The kids seemed to have a blast, though, and the adults in attendance were chatting happily, so perhaps it was just me who was stressed to high heaven and wishing I could lie down in a locked, darkened room.

But now that it’s wine o’clock and the house is quiet again, it all seems like good fun – see, that special form of child-induced amnesia is already setting in!

PICTURE CREDIT: www.school-clip-art.com; GraphicsHunt

I don’t know how she does it!

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“I know I’ll get lost,” I told DH this morning, somewhat nervously. The truth was I was feeling reluctant about attending my first activity of the day – partly because it involved walking into a roomful of strangers, but I also wasn’t feeling particularly sociable at 8.45 in the morning.

I mean, who meets before 9am, other than high-powered working people? And Mums. Of course.

You know it’s coming at the start of every school year – and you know you should go to the meet-the-mums coffee morning. And it’s never as easy as just nattering with all the Mum friends you made last year, because the classes are mixed up each year – plus there are always several new arrivals to Dubai.

“You’ll find it,” responded DH, sleepily from bed. “Just use the compass on the car.” (like I even know where that is)

The movie of the book: I’m imagining Sex and the City’s Carrie with kids and letting herself go a bit. Hope I won’t be disappointed!

Needless to say, I had to be guided in by Host Mum, whose beautiful, enormous zillion-dirham villa was the venue for our first get-together of the term. Once inside, she led me to a table laden with baked treats and pastries – prepared, I suspect, at the same time as jigging her toddler, child #3, on her hip and flawlessly applying mascara.

I made a bee-line for Swiss Mum, who I knew from last year and always looks effortlessly chic in designer clothes. “I got here at 8am,” she confided, her bobbed hair framing her sun-kissed face perfectly. “Thought it was straight after school drop off.”

“Really?” I replied, thinking how come she didn’t get hopelessly lost in the rabbit warren like me?

Having missed the initial chit-chat, we were invited to sit in a circle by Class Mum, who last year voluntarily held drama classes for the kids and this year is the co-ordinator mum for, not just one, but three different classes.

And, as we took turns telling everyone a little bit about ourselves including what we ‘used to be’, I learnt that among our group – most of whom had moved here fairly recently from places such as Germany, Australia, Jordan and South Africa – there was a lawyer, a banker, a child-protection officer and a social worker.

But none of them working, because everyone had given up their careers to become a “trailing spouse” (ie, husband gets well-paid job in Dubai, wife and family pack their bags to follow).

Instead, they were setting up home in Dubai, caring for children full-time and protecting their kids like tigresses.

With the expat schools in the UAE all fee-paying, expectations are high so the conversation soon turned to the finer details of our children’s lives at the international school BB attends.

All very interesting, especially as when BB gets home he always tells me he did ‘nothing’ – and rather humbling, because, having got him on the school bus this year and gone straight back to work, I haven’t actually been into school yet this term. Never mind where the kids get changed for swimming, I’m not exactly sure where the new classroom is – and the teacher is still emailing my husband rather than me.

I nodded in agreement when the mums all promised to not try to outdo each other when it comes to our children’s birthday parties (while thanking my lucky stars that BB’s birthday is first so the stakes won’t be too high!) and tried to enter a debate about what kind of cupcakes it was OK to send in for the bake sales (note to self: will open my cupcakes-that-have-never-been-made folder this year).

And, as we discussed having a BBQ to get the Dads together, the Christmas party, fundraisers and playdates for younger siblings, I found myself thinking, “I really don’t know how these women do it!” Life is so much easier in the office, I swear.

PHOTO CREDITS: socialitelife.com; www.squidoo.com

Thank God it’s NOT Friday!

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Do you ever wake up on the first day of the weekend (Friday here in the UAE) and think, “How on earth am I going to keep the kids entertained for the next 14 hours?”

Pre-child pastimes such as lie-ins, long lunches and lazy afternoons a thing of the past, of course.

It’s honestly not that I’m a disinterested Mum – it’s because, when DH is gone at the weekend, the prospect of such a long stretch of unstructured time without breaks feels a little daunting – especially as our options are still limited due to the climate.

As my Scottish neighbour (who bravely stayed here all summer) put it the other day, “You can’t even go into the garden and dig a hole to pass the time.”

So when my human alarm clocks come bounding in on Friday mornings at 6.30am and prize my eyes open, I ask myself a few questions: Do I have a plan? Can I avoid taking the kids to the supermarket? And, if I lie really still and don’t talk, will they let me sleep some more?

The answer to all three this morning was no.

I’m happy to be a homebody (being cancerian, I guess) but this clearly isn’t compatible with two active boys who start climbing the walls by midday.

Long before that, I’m treated to a chorus that to mums everywhere is worse than the most irritating mobile ringtone.

“Mum-eeeee, MUM-EEEE, I’m bored,” whined BB shortly after I’d poured breakfast cereal into their bowls and all over the floor while still half asleep at 7.30am. “I said, I’m BORED.”

“Where are we going today?” (he knows full well I’ll have to think of something)

Mini Monsters on Sheik Zayed Road: And, yep, that is my oldest son about to point the shooter straight at me.

We could have gone swimming, of course, but today the energy needed for that on my part (BB swims like a fish, but LB can’t yet) was lacking due to a cold (yes, even in 40-degrees heat!). I’ve also been promising myself for ages that we’ll go to church – there’s a good expat church in a hotel near work apparently.

And the mall is always an option, though I go through phases of never wanting to see the inside of a mall again – not the shops, but the plastic playareas that are mainly populated by Filipino nannies rather than mums.

When the boys started moving furniture around and fighting over the of-no-interest-to-them-normally decorative cushions, it was time to evacuate the house and we ended up at Mini Monsters, which is actually rather growing on me as the kids love it and there’s wi-fi for mummy.

So it all worked out in the end. But if, on a Friday in future, you see a blonde with two boys in tow looking at you thinking, “She would be a nice Friday friend,” don’t assume I’m odd, because one of these weekends it could be you who’s in charge of the kids with no man and no plan.