One of my favourite commenters mentioned the other day that she’d love to see a photo of the contraptions you can hire at Dubai Mall ice rink to learn to skate. So voilà! Meet Penguin Pal – the child-sized plastic penguin on runners that nippers can hang on to as they make their way around the rink. It’s a genius invention – a walking frame on ice!
“Right, to the table, please.”
“NOW.”
“It’s not YouTube time, it’s homework time. Well, how many more minutes are left? 20! No way, too many. Turn it off!”
“Please don’t throw your pencil.”
[Thinks to myself: Why is it so hard to get my son to just sit upright at the table, with his pencil poised and his books open in front of him. Why, oh why, does he insist on half sliding off his chair, and resting his forehead on the table, as if he were ill, then running off on unexplained missions as they occur to him?]
Cheers to mums everywhere, who put in much longer hours than 9-5 and end their days half-asleep on the sofa!
“Pyjamas on. Stop messing around! Just put them on.”
“Clothes in the bin please. NOT ON THE FLOOR! How many times do I have to tell you?
”Nooo! Be careful with the toothpaste. And brush them well. Longer than that.”
“Just one chapter tonight. No, you read it to me. Okay, deal – we’ll do one page each.”
“Are you sure you don’t need the toilet? Really? You must need to. C’mon, just try.”
“Right, lights out. I’ll stay for two minutes. That’s all. No, I can’t stay all night. Mummy’s tired [and needs to get downstairs for some Mummy juice]. Mwah. Night, night kiddos!”
I touched on this the other day, but there’s something you can’t fail to notice about boys: their competitive streak.
Eager to one-up each other the WHOLE TIME, my sons compare everything, from who gets to sit next to whom the most, to the football teams their footie shirts belong to.
And sometimes this relentless rivalry gets quite exhausting, especially when it’s over something really silly you can’t believe they’re arguing about. Like toothbrushing. (“I’m going to win!” said in a light, humorous tone, but with a fine thread of steel running through the centre of it.) Or which one of them loves their grandparents the most.
Best friends (even if YouTube would suggest otherwise)
I’m sure this chronic competitiveness is getting more pronounced, too. It was easier when they were really small and had an active fantasy life. At age 3, if they wanted to be the fastest kid in the world, they just had to imagine they were. Now, at ages 8 and 6, they realise it’s not good enough just to think they’re the fastest – they have to prove it.
At other times, my sons are the best of friends and keep each other entertained for hours – and when it’s the two of them pitted against the world, they stand up for each other with a brotherly empathy that knows no bounds.
But, at home, it can feel like I’m continually being driven crazy by petty squabbles that border on grievous bodily harm.
“You.Are.The.Worst.Brother.In.The.World,” I heard Son1 telling Son2 the other night, after yet another argument over I can’t remember what. “Mum …blah, blah, blah, blah … he started it.” Can you tell I had my fingers in my ears?
“Look, it’s even on YouTube,” continued Son1, bringing me the iPad. He’s really into making movies at the moment and has worked out how to upload them. I glanced at the screen. And, to my alarm, there it was: his latest home movie – a biography of sorts, entitled The Worst Brother in the World.
(While I had some success in teaching Son1 that this isn’t a nice thing to tell the world, I’m still attempting to figure out how to delete this production!)
It’s a good job I know they love each other really. <3
Look who it is! My friend’s teenage daughter carved Elsa from Frozen into her pumpkin. Amazing!
It started on 1st October. “Mum, how many days until Halloween?” Son2 was pointing at the small, orange, smiley pumpkin that marks 31st October on our calendar on the fridge.
I warned him that it was still some way off. After all, when you’re 6 and waiting for a candy windfall, a month must feel like an eternity, and I really wasn’t ready to put Halloween decorations up yet.
By the second week of October, his impatience was growing. “Is it Halloween tomorrow? If it’s not tomorrow, is it the next day? Or the day after that?” In the middle of chatting about something completely different, he’d suddenly take me down a conversational dogleg:
“Can we put Halloween decorations up, pleeeeeaaasseeeee. Mum, MUM, MUM!”
‘You promised!” [said plaintively, looking me squarely in the eye]
So we buckled a few days ago, and in our front garden, where pink bougainvillea climbs frothily up the wall, there’s now a few creepy additions. We planted a skull in the flowerbed, dangled a one-armed skeleton in the porch, propped a gravestone up and draped cobwebs over the bushes – ready for our community’s collective descent into trick-or-treatery at the end of the month. (DH, while on a trip to New York, even sorted the ‘big reveal’ by buying Son2 a new alien costume at a Halloween store.)
But then, I was caught off-guard again today. On a different topic. It wasn’t so much the question: What are you doing for Christmas? Rather, the snippet of information my hair stylist passed on next: “Some of the big brunches are sold out already!”
A fact I can well believe, having also just discovered that the take-away roast turkeys from my local golf club are all booked up – and they’re taking names for 2015!
I’m surely not the only person who hasn’t thought this far ahead? Oh well, at least we’ve nearly nailed Halloween.
For the past two years, we’ve been car-pooling with a French family to get Son2 home from school. Our son, and their son – let’s call him M – quickly became firm friends, and despite not being in the same class anymore, the boys’ friendship remains as strong as ever.
This makes for some loud banter in the car – which I tune in and out of, depending on what the subject matter is, like you would when listening to incessant chatter on the radio. Today, the boys were discussing their dads, who both fly the same aircraft (the A380 superjumbo), and I noticed some rather competitive one-upmanship going on.
Son2 picks up a toy plane lying on the back seat. “My daddy flies a big airplane, “ he says, proudly.
“My daddy’s airplane’s bigger,” counters M, raising the stakes considerably.
“Well, my daddy flies a double-decker airplane, that goes fast. Like this….WHOOOOOOSH,” says Son2, whizzing the toy jet through the air.
The monster-plane – overweight but fast!
Remember, they’re talking about the same aircraft here.
I glance in the mirror and see that Son2’s face is a study in not-to-be-outdone affrontedness. It isn’t one of his normal faces; it’s like he’s picked it up from somewhere and is trying it on for size.
Son2’s hand then turns into a blur of motion as he illustrates high speed, and out of his sweet mouth comes an effortless – and blatant – lie. “Well, my daddy flies the Blackbird.”
“WHOOOOOOSH,” he adds, for effect.
Little boys – always comparing!
My DH took the children away last week. I couldn’t go because of work, so I (rather forlornly) waved them off to Beirut, where their grandparents live.
It was the first time I’d had to ‘let the boys go’, and I felt strangely untethered, as though gravity had disappeared – until I rediscovered how much extra time there is when you’re the only person in the house (things stay exactly where you leave them, it’s crazy!)
Our nanny did the children’s packing, but when I got home from work, DH was doing some pruning.
Don’t forget their toothbrushes – and the class gorilla! (hehe)
Now, when I pack the cases, I’m pretty thorough. If we got stuck on a desert island, we could be self-sufficient thanks to my packing (which is sometimes, I admit, excessive – but then I’ve got nearly nine years’ of experience of travelling with children who create laundry like nobody’s business).
Men, I’ve realised, view packing quite differently. DH had thrown out several T-shirts; when I tried to put baseball caps in, I had to argue their case; and as for taking suntan lotion, you’d think I was attempting to sneak a brick into the suitcase. (“There’ll be some there,” was DH’s viewpoint. “Just take it, in case,” I replied.)
So I did have to secretly smile when DH’s hand-luggage only plans were stymied by the class bear. The mascot is actually a gorilla – at least a foot tall. As Son2 left school clutching the stuffed toy – hardly able to believe his luck that he was the first to take him away – DH must have groaned inwardly at the gorilla’s surprisingly large size.
At the back to school night, another dad had quipped, “If he’s excess baggage, he’s not going.” But, given the jet set life of a travelling toy in an international school, you just know that the class gorilla has probably scuba-dived in the Maldives; made it to Hong Kong Disneyland; not to mention enjoyed weekend trips to Oman and Turkey.
Son2 turned six over Eid and, being at the age where he still wants huge birthday parties attended by his whole class, I did what any self-respecting, time-poor mum would do: outsourced the whole thing.
All I had to do was send the invites and manage the guest list, but, of course, when the day dawned, I still felt that sense of trepidation that accompanies hosting a children’s party for 20, especially the first one of the school year when the mums aren’t yet jaded by sugar-fuelled class parties.
The birthday bounce: An adrenaline rush with a soft landing. What’s not to love?
The venue was Bounce. The urban, trampoline playground loaded with springs and circus-grade sponge, in Al Quoz. Despite the Eid holiday, it seemed almost everyone could come – after all, what five year old doesn’t jump (excuse the pun) at the chance to don rainbow-coloured gripper socks and bounce off the walls?
As Son2’s classmates turned up, I literally lost count, and with three parties running simultaneously, the place was getting crowded. Fair play to Bounce though, it was organised chaos. A young, energetic bounce master took the children round all the different areas: the freestyle trampolines; the airbag-fitted section; the 45-degree trampolines; and the dodge-ball court. Not that I saw any of this: I was too busy chasing sandwich platters and persuading the venue not to give the kids coca-cola (on top of all the bouncing, ice cream cake and lolly bags, the mums would have killed me!)
Talking of the mums, it’s a new crop this year as the classes have been mixed up, so I also did my best to mingle with the ones who stayed to watch.
Thankfully, there were no injuries, and all the children safely made it to the half-hour-long food and cake part of the party, where they were rushed through a meal of chicken nuggets (I know, the healthy option, for 20, was too expensive), the singing Happy Birthday bit, and the chocolate Baskin Robbins cake.
“We’ve got about five minutes, then everyone will need to vacate,” the party master told me towards the end, eyeing his watch. And you should have seen how fast he got the children to clear the decks in preparation for the next onslaught, and how experienced he was at hurriedly sweeping everything, including the left-over cake, into black bin bags.
“How many of these parties do you have today?” I asked, out of interest, as we were shuffled out.
“22,” he replied. (I’ll repeat that, 22!) Honestly, come up with a cool new idea for children’s parties here in Dubai, and you can make a FORTUNE!
Big business: Enjoy it while it lasts kiddos – there’s another 21 parties to cram in!
It’s no secret that Dubai has long wanted to add Florida-style theme parks to its mix of entertainment offerings. There will be many who remember the plans for Dubailand – the emirate’s original scheme to build the biggest collection of theme parks assembled anywhere in the word.
The plans included a Warner Bros Movie World, Legoland Dubai, Tiger Woods Dubai and FalconCity of Wonders, but work on most of the developments was put on hold in 2008 because of the financial crisis, and Dubailand succumbed to the aspirations of real estate developers looking to make a quick buck. I’m reminded of what was meant to be every time I drive to our local supermarket and see the towering space shuttle and roller coaster models that stand as giant monoliths to these flamboyant plans, and my children certainly appreciated the dinosaur heads that peeked out above the hoardings along the highway.
Contractors have started work on Legoland Dubai
But while Dubailand may have become the amoeba of real estate, the theme park plans are now back on the table again. The first phase of Meraas Holding’s $2.7bn Dubai Parks & Resorts development in Jebel Ali will comprise three theme parks: Motiongate Dubai; Bollywood Parks Dubai; and Legoland Dubai.
The development will also feature an entrance plaza known as Riverpark and a family-themed hotel known as Lapita.
So, with Legoland Dubai expected to be completed in 2016, what can we expect from this family favourite? Here, my guest columnist, Amanda Reid, gives us some clues, based on her trip to Legoland Windsor this summer. Those of you wanting massive cranes, terrifying loopy-rollers or virtual reality shooting games, look away now.
London in miniature
The world has six Legolands, beginning of course with the original in Billund, Denmark (the home of Kirk Ole Christiansen, the inventor of Lego in the 1930s). We visited the largest of the Lego parks – Legoland Windsor in the UK. It is so close to Windsor Castle, second home of Queen Elizabeth II, you can stand at the entrance and enjoy a marvellous view of the castle (and Heathrow airport, also surprisingly near).
At the heart of each of the Lego parks is Miniature World, comprising constructions of famous landmarks and landscapes from around the world. They are intricately detailed and impressive in their faithfulness. On France’s Reims cathedral there are buttresses and gargoyles. London’s Tower Bridge is mechanically raised to allow a large Lego clipper to pass through. You can see Amsterdam-style houses, the Leaning Tower of you-know-where, and so much more.
If you’re looking for themed rides, you’ll find them in Pirate Land (you get wet on this one), Land of the Vikings and Adventure Land. The Atlantis submarine ride offers viewing of real-life and Lego sea creatures (likewise a Lego safari).
Driving test
But our children’s favourite area of the park was the Traffic section. It allowed them to drive real little electric cars on roads with stop signs and roundabouts, and no tracks to keep them, well, on track. Ah, the freedom of international children to work out which side of the road they should be on, and how to interpret those funny signs – could they mean Give Way, or maybe Stop?
The Traffic section also has a boating school, a helicopter school and hot-air balloons (pull ropes to raise your Lego balloon on poles) and fire engine racing. All transport tastes are catered for! It’s a busy place – use your Q-Bot here (an expensive extra that allows you to jump queues). Little ones are well catered for, too, with Duplo Valley’s splash park, a gentle hill train and lots to goggle at.
The main entrance to Legoland is a super busy assault course of Lego shops and eating options. They even have Lego-brick-shaped fries! When my six-year-old noticed Lego Star Wars and Angry Birds stuffed toys, I forgot where I was for a moment. But other than Lego and Star Wars having become virtually inseparable brands, Legoland is generally free from cross-promotion. I didn’t see a famous cola brand anywhere.
Legoland holiday
The Legoland Hotel is great fun. The entrance is made from primary coloured blocks with super-sized Lego figurines. Inside there are many sculptures of satisfyingly normal-sized lego. And the odd human dressed as a Lego figure walks by. I even saw a little girl hugging a mum-sized pink Lego brick. I think the padded costume was quite soft. And there were arms and legs sticking out.
Welcome to the Legoland hotel
The Legoland Hotel has a feature that I commend to all busy resorts – a pit of Lego bricks in the middle of the reception, with coloured shelves for the children to display their creations on. In fact, there were times in the park when our children were heard asking to go back to the hotel for a few hours so they could build, build, build.
The restaurant and bar area is really a big playground. Staffed by cheery teenagers, the hotel is a fun place to be, although it can be slightly chaotic. Need a fork? Best get it yourself. Need advice on your next Lego build? Ask anyone. The solidarity between the parents is great. We enjoyed the weirdness of this Lego world, and seeing our children so happy. Go before the kids are too old, so they never ask ‘Why did we never visit?’.
When I got home from work tonight, I did the first thing I always do when transitioning from the peaceful buzz of the office to the happy, barely contained chaos of homelife: I went upstairs to get changed.
Usually this is a non-event. I take off whatever smartish outfit I happen to be wearing and throw on my Dubai staples: shorts and a lightweight top. Then I can relax, and lounge on the sofa for a bit, before the homework / reading / bedtime triathalon.
Not an accurate representation of the blogger (i.e., modelled by someone far skinnier than me). But here’s the purple, embroidered shift dress I had to promise Son2 I’ll wear tomorrow – with red lipstick
Tonight, if you’d been standing outside our villa, you’d have heard all hell break loose in our home.
“Mummy, why did you get changed?” demanded Son2, his voice rocketing up several octaves.
“I had to take off my work clothes, sweetie.”
“WHhhhyyyy?? Put your skirt back on!”
Two fat tears slid snail paths down his pink, powdery cheeks and I knew I had approximately 5 seconds to avert an oncoming tantrum.
“Mummy, PUT.A.DRESS.ON, PLEEASE.”
A thought then dropped into his head with a thud: “And red lipstick!”
It took me off guard – he’s 5 and I have no idea how he knows about this stuff. Seriously. I can only imagine the kind of girls he might bring home when he’s 18.
It happens almost overnight. One day, he’s licking pureed food off a plastic spoon; the next he’s wolfing down the contents of the fridge, and gnawing at the fridge door if you momentarily take your eye off the grocery shopping.
And quite frankly, it’s terrifying. Not to mention expensive. While I watch what I eat and try to be healthy, my eldest son has developed an appetite so huge, I feel as though I’m responsible for feeding the ten thousand. It’s been the equivalent of watching a picky lapdog reinvent itself into a hungry elephant with hollow legs.
This afternoon, I unexpectedly finished work early, and had rose-tinted visions of happily spending the afternoon with the children, while catching up on some chores. Son 1’s school bus pulls up outside, the front door bursts open, and a ravenous Great Dane bounds into the house.
And that’s just breakfast! Does it cost £12,000 more to bring up a boy than a girl because they eat more?
“MUM, I’m HUNGRY!” Son 1 yells. This, I expected. And I’m ready. Those after-school hunger pangs require an immediate carb-injection or we all suffer. But, then, less than an hour later:
“Mum, can we have dinner now? I’m soooo hungry!” It was 4.30pm, and while I did try to tell him to wait (and provided fresh fruit in addition to the after-school snack), it was clear our household wouldn’t be a happy place until he was drip-fed more calories.
It’s not that I mind preparing dinner so early, it’s just that I know he’ll forget he’s already eaten it by 7.30pm, and start circling again in hunt of another meal.
There was a telling prelude years ago, when Son1 was little and one afternoon desperately wanted bananas. He threw a tantrum so bad it left me with little choice but to head straight to the fruit stall at our local market. To my astonishment, he demolished seven bananas. That’s when I realised that feeding boys is all about quantity and planning.
A survey by Halifax bank on the cost of bringing up children showed parents shell out over £12,000 more to raise a boy to the age of 11 than a girl. This difference was put down to extra sports kits, even wear and tear of furniture caused by rambunctious behaviour. But I think the reason for the higher price tag is obvious: the grocery bill.
Since my son’s appetite became so monstrous, I’ve had to take all sorts of extra measures. We have a truck deliver us food. The grocery shopping was becoming too burdensome, too frequent. So, now, I order online and Geant brings everything to the door. If our nanny or I cook pasta, we no longer make enough for one meal. We cook the whole packet and send the leftovers into school (sandwiches weren’t cutting it). Cereals are continually replenished (a small victory being he prefers Weetabix, even Bran Flakes, over the sugar-and-marshmallow-filled varieties). Milk is now bought in 3-litre cartons, and bread restocked nearly daily so I can throw them toast.
Motivating families to lose weight, Dubai style
But I worry about it. I had insulin-dependent diabetes during both pregnancies. Could something be wrong? We live in a country where obesity is a big problem – so much so that the government runs weight-loss campaigns in which gold is handed out to successful ‘losers’. Controversially, this year’s initiative, Your Child in Gold, includes all family members, even chubby toddlers. (It’s very Dubai, isn’t it? Register, shed kilos and get gold.)
Friends with boys report a similar unstemmed tide of carbs, calories and cash, so I’m hoping Son1’s appetite is normal for a child growing so fast. DH is tall, and I think Son 1 – who’s already nearly up to my chin – is heading for great heights too. Like a very hungry caterpillar, he appears to fill up on food, grow plumper, then suddenly shoot up two inches. The growing pains, however, are mine.