So how was school? Lethal

If you know and love the author Liane Moriarty, you’ll be pleased to hear she’s nailed it yet again. I recently finished her latest book, Big Little Lies, and it’s a brilliant story about parents behaving badly. It’s also the funniest book about murder and domestic abuse you’ll ever read.

Moriarty has a knack for creating characters who are so believable they could easily be people you know at the school gates: there’s Madeline, a force to be reckoned with; the beautiful Celeste; and Jane, who’s young, single and struggling to make ends meet. Then we meet the hot-shot mums with high-powered jobs; the yogi mum; and the “Blond Bobs” – the ‘Mum prefects’ who rule the school like it’s their religion.

If this book had been written by Agatha Christie, it would have been called “The Kindergarten Murder”

If this book had been written by Agatha Christie, it would have been called “The Kindergarten Murder”

What all these women have in common is that they drive truck-like cars, and take their mothering very seriously: “Their frantic little faces. Their busy little bottoms strutting into the school in their tight gym gear … Eyes fixed on the mobile phones held in the palms of their hands like compasses.”

The cover art for the book (called Little Lies in the UK) depicts a large, multicoloured lollipop exploding into a thousand pieces, and it illustrates perfectly how the sugar-coated lies that people hide behind are smashed into smithereens.

The story centres around Pirriwee Public, a beautiful little beachside primary school where children are taught that ‘sharing is caring.’ So how has the annual School Trivia Night ended in a full-blown riot? Sirens are wailing. People are screaming. The principal is mortified. And one parent is dead.

But who? And who was responsible for this terrible deed?

The book then jumps back six months and cuts back and forth between the characters, revealing complex family problems and putting friendships and marriage under the microscope. Written with impeccable comic timing, the narrative is peppered with parents’ voices commenting cryptically on the root cause of the ‘tragedy’: the French nanny? An erotic book club? Head lice?

Considering everything that is tackled in this book (bullying, domestic violence, date rape, dealing with ex-husbands and more), the plot should not have worked as well as it does. Moriarty pulls it off brilliantly, and I finished the novel wishing I could instantly forget it so I could immediately read about the misbehaving inhabitants of Pirriwee all over again.

Back to school: The Most Confusing and Complicated Time of the Year

I always find the start of the new school year really perplexing. It’s like everything I knew about their classmates, routines, PE and swimming days and library sessions has suddenly become obsolete, and must be pieced back together again like a giant, 3D puzzle.

It’s as though there’s a software update for the hard-drive in my head, and downloading the update not only mysteriously erases useful data like pick-up times, early finish time and the teacher’s name, but also makes the desktop in my brain look different. Nothing is intuitive anymore. Do I click here for homework? What days do I send PE kit in? Or does he wear it to school? Which class is my car pool mum’s child in now? And where the hell is the new classroom anyway?

"Updates are installing. Do not turn off your brain"

“Updates are installing. Do not turn off your brain”

It doesn’t help that we’ve got two schools following different curriculums on the go, so it all feels a bit bi-polar, and I haven’t had time to study all the emails and newsletters coming out of both schools in detail.

Then there’s the mixed-up emotional side – and this one has really hit me this year. I used to be one of those women who, on the first day back, would skip down the supermarket aisle celebrating my freedom. Now, to my amazement, I’ve turned into someone who wishes it could be summer f-o-r-e-v-e-r, and is even at risk of shedding tears at the school gate. Although which camp I’m in depends on the day.

My DH tells me I’m no good at change, but I’d correct that to say transitions. I’m fine once I get into the new routine, but that unsettled period before it’s established bothers me, and the worry comes out in odd ways. At the grocery store the other day, I couldn’t find the pâté. They’d either moved it again, or it hadn’t arrived on the boat this week. I was talking to the nice man in the pork section, who showed me where it was. “Why isn’t it where it always is,” I asked. He shot me a sympathetic, pitiful look. I think he knew I wasn’t talking about the pâté.

Back to school in eight steps

It’s a week of mixed feelings here as the old routine kicks in again. Last week, my mornings were quite tolerable (and I say this as a non-morning person). Up at 7.30am, out the door by 8.15am, and, wallop, I was at my desk by 9am. No cajoling children into school uniforms, no bullying them out the door and no 30-minute detours to deposit them at school.

At exactly 6.30am today, this all changed – thanks to the early-bird school starts in Dubai, which, quite frankly, make my workdays with no school drop-offs seem like a leisurely lie-in in comparison.

Aside from the early-morning mania, there are – as every school mum knows – numerous other factors that can make the back to school routine something of a challenge after two months of free-fall.  My eight-step refresher regimen runs as follows:

Step1: Return from overseas and get everyone over a flu-like case of jet lag. Once back on a semi-normal schedule, do this all over again when the alarm clock starts going off at what feels like the middle of the night.

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Step2: Visit the uniform shop at the same time as 200 other parents, all accompanied by whinging school-sized offspring needing kitting out with uniforms, PE clothes, hats, shoes, lunch boxes and water cups. Try to avoid Organised Mum – yummy-mummy-of-three-hen-pecked-children extraordinaire, in the store to buy a wall planner with extra space for their endless after-school activities. (She bought new uniforms in June, long before the store ran out of book bags and PE shirts, and can also be found at the spa having regular back rubs to counteract the stress of educating her gifted girls.)

Step3: Spend an evening labeling your ‘shopping’, using iron-on labels or, preferably, a sharpie marker. You can practise for this by writing your child’s name neatly on a postage stamp in permanent ink.

Step4: On the first morning, pay special attention to your chosen outfit. Currently trending is gym wear, preferably black, with a ponytail that swings. (Think pert bottoms strutting into school in tight spandex). Whether or not you actually go straight to the gym from the drop off is entirely irrelevant. Hint: You may return for the pick-up in the same gym wear, creating the aura of a potential six-hour work outA huge pair of sunglasses will hide a plethora of cosmetic tardiness, but make sure your nails and hair look groomed.

Step5: Channel your inner drill sergeant to get the children out the door. Drive 20km on Emirates Road  – try to avoid trucks and tyres on the road. As you get closer, be prepared to race other parents from the red light. Even if you only drop off one child, aim to manoeuvre your 7-seater SUV to within a hair’s breadth of the school gates, avoid eye contact, and lean across the steering wheel to call out urgent information about Henrietta’s tap dance class and Harry’s speech therapy.

Step6: If you’ve cut up a friend to secure a prime parking spot, give her a cheery wave as you alight from your car. Do not rush or run. Do not push or drag your child. Irrespective of the chaos of the first-day back, keep a relaxed, happy expression on your face as you wade through a 1400-strong crowd of children and parents, all jostling to find the right line and blinking in the bright sunshine. Greet each member of staff and wish them good morning. Train your children to do the same.

Step7: 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. And have a story ready about the luxury, handmade yurt your family stayed in on holiday. (Yachts are so yesterday.)

Step8: Repeat, another 180 times, until the summer vacation rolls around again.

My little polygamist

I had a quiet chuckle this week when I saw in my blog stats that someone had landed on Circles in the Sand after asking Google: “Can expats have more than one wife in Dubai?”

Any Western men reading this, you know that the answer is no, right? It’s just Muslim men who, under sharia law, are allowed to practise polygamy – that is, they can have more than one wife at the same time, up to a total of four.

So I was having a little laugh at the expense of the hen-pecked Googler who was clearly curious about his chances of polygamy.

But then

I was putting the boys to bed tonight. We were reading an Enid Blyton story, and in it, there was a stepfather.

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Three’s a crowd: Son1’s wedding in 20 years’ time

“What’s a stepfather, Mummy?” Son1 asked.

I attempted to explain. “Well, if anything happens to Daddy [God forbid], and I ended up getting married again, then my new husband would be your stepfather.”

Son1 looked solemn. I probably should have stopped right there.

“And, likewise, if something happens to me, and Daddy gets a new wife, she’d be your stepmother,” I continued.

Son2 made a reassuring sound suggesting he wouldn’t want a new Mummy, but Son1 still had questions so I elaborated, using the example of my brother-in-law – also a pilot in Dubai, who is exceedingly eligible with flight attendants lining up to date him.

“You know your Uncle’s pretty friends who we meet. Well, if Daddy was to marry one of them [Note to DH: I would haunt you], she’d be your stepmum. But you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No,” said Son2, emphatically.

“Can’t I have both of you?”, asked Son1, with an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye. “A stepmum and a mum! Why not?”

Facepalm!

Frequently asked questions

“Your ticket is upgradable,” the nice lady at the check-in informed me. “Do you wish to upgrade?”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied, shaking my head (thinking yes, YES please. Do I want to upgrade? Of course I do! Who wouldn’t?)

But, no matter how tempted I was by the free-flowing wine, champers, gourmet cuisine, canapés, flat-bed and acres of legroom on offer in the A380’s upper deck, it was never going to happen. There was no upgrade for the boys, and they’re too young to sit by themselves (there’s always next year!).

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Bye, bye England! (s0b)

So, instead, I leapt on Son2’s conversational freight train for the 7-hour journey from London to Dubai:

“Mummy, what country are we flying over? What’s the smallest country, Mummy? … Is Dubai bigger than England? … Are we in space? If we’re not in space, is the upstairs in space? When are we there?” …

[The moment my eyes closed] MUMMY! WHEN.are.we.THERE? [Bringing me back to earth, or at least 37,000 feet above it, in a snap.] Is it nighttime in Dubai? I’m hungry Mummy! (Me: “They just served you a kids’ meal, and you didn’t want it!’ said through gritted teeth.) Is there wifi? Can I watch YouTube? How fast is the wind, Mummy? Is England still bigger than Dubai?”

Until I could see his mouth moving, but couldn’t really hear what he was saying and could do nothing but nod at whatever his moving lips were trying to assault me with.

Whereas Son1 plugged himself into the in-flight entertainment and watched back-to-back movies, with a couple of iPad breaks. Oh the difference being nearly three years older makes.

Fashion advice from a 5 year old

I thought that having boys would mean I’d be spared from repeatedly hearing the Frozen soundtrack Let It Go.

But like the snow in the part Norway, part Narnia Disney movie, the song is everywhere: in the car, on the TV, on the YouTube clips my boys devour. It’s their new life anthem, and they can’t seem to get enough of the animated movie this summer.

[Lowers voice] I think because they’ve developed soft spots for the two resourceful heroines – Elsa and Anna (carefully pronounced: “It’s ‘Ah-nah’ Mummy!”).

But it’s not the remodelled princess stereotype, or the way proactive Ah-nah rescues guys from danger by setting things on fire and throwing them at wolves that they like. It’s Elsa’s hair.

"Can I have an 'Elsa' please!"

“Can I have an ‘Elsa’ please!”

“Mummy?” said Son2 yesterday. “Can you have your hair done like Elsa?”

“Erm … I could try,” I replied. “It might be impossible,” I warned. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I could just imagine the look on his face as I came out of the salon without Elsa’s long ice-blonde hair, huge glassy eyes and sparkly gown.

“Not her queen hair, Mummy,” said Son2. “Her ponytail.”

“I know,” I said. “You mean her loose, flowing plait – after her makeover.”

I hesitated. “But I wouldn’t look like Elsa,” I warned again.

Son2 thought for a moment. And, because anything’s possible when you’re 5, came up with a solution: “Just take the DVD box into the hairdressers and show them what Elsa’s hair looks like.”

With dark roots an inch long, dried-up split ends and general neglect due to 7 weeks away, I can almost hear my hairstylist attempting to suppress her laughter.

I do like to be beside the seaside!

Which beach would you rather be on? Here’s a clue: the rocky one on the left is buffeted by a fierce wind, and strewn with seaweed. The one on the right is lapped by the aquamarine waters of the Gulf, with an ambient temperature at least 20 degrees higher.
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Ask my sand-phobic children which beach they prefer, and they’ll say the one on the left: the Great British Seaside (I know!).

Actually, I’m rather fond of it too (for a day or so each year). There’s something about the bleak weather, the stony terrain, the ice-cream sellers – and the fact you need to wear a jumper, a fleece and the beach rug to keep warm – that’s rather refreshing after the high temperatures of the UAE summer.

Today, everything was just as it should be on the English Riviera: the weather was challenging; the seaweed was stringy and the sea was playful, with crashing rollers and white frothy surf.

We enjoyed 15 minutes of determined sandcastle-building before a fast-moving high tide swallowed up our patch of sand with ravenous greed (the effect of the supermoon, perhaps), and spent a pleasant hour wandering around the seaside mecca that is Littlehampton.

But the thing that sticks in my mind isn’t the windburn, the shingle, my win on the two-penny slot machines, or my boys’ love of rocky, cold beaches over the white sands of Dubai. Nor is it the discovery that crazy snooker is now cooler than crazy golf. Or the reminder that seeing happy, hairy dogs diving headlong into the waves is great fun (public beaches are off limits to dogs in Dubai).

No, the thing I’ll remember is this row of beach huts. Price tag: £12,500 each.

Quite possibly the most expensive garden shed money can buy

Prime real estate: At AED76,650 (or more than $20,000) a hut, these are quite possibly the most expensive garden sheds money can buy

Family vacations: Are you having fun yet?

Many of us are travelling with a shouty entourage this summer and, if you’re anything like me, you’ll know there’s an initiation parents must go through before you can honestly say family holidays no longer leave you feeling winded.

Here’s my five-step, tongue-in-cheek guide to achieving holiday zen:

Dream on

Dream on

1-2 years [with a health warning]: While friends with older children sip cocktails and watch the sunset, your toddler has more energy than an atomic explosion. He scales the furniture and hurtles round your holiday home like a hurricane (anything breakable, you’ve already moved higher, or hidden – it was either that or develop such a shrill tone through continually shrieking ‘Don’t touch that” that it doesn’t even sound like you). Relaxing is inconceivable so you’re out and about every.single.day, which means, between your (early) morning latte and lights out, you save his life at least five times. Think of holidays with 1-2 year olds as paying to lead your normal life in a less convenient location.

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“Muuuuuum, MUMMY, where are yoooouuuu?”

2-3 years: By now, there’s a sibling on the scene and travelling with two constitutes a whole new level of pain. Expect nightly games of musical beds and heated debates over who slept the less. Do be careful not to let your guard down: your 2-year-old will be irresistibly drawn to dirt, puddles and dog poo, like bees are to honey. (Remember to bring several changes of clothes per day for each family member – expiry through laundry overload isn’t covered by travel insurance.)

3-4 years: Continually ravenous / thirsty / hot / cold / bickering / or in sudden need of the loo, your children are a zillion times more demanding than your most attention-seeking work colleagues, yet on Facebook it’s all smiley faces in front of stunning backdrops. You’ve tried holidaying with friends so the kids can play together while the adults drink wine, but the downside is you can no longer claim their bad behaviour is a temporary blip when it lasts all week long. You’ve also discovered you can take your children to the best zoos and wildlife parks and introduce them to all manner of cute animals, but they’ll never be as happy as when you discover cockroaches in the kitchen.

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The heaven, hell and humour of family holidays is the new normal

4-5 years: By now, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that holidays aren’t what they used to be, and you’ve learnt how to hit the ground running. On arriving in an unfamiliar environment, you can find the supermarket, buy essentials and whip up a supper for four. Hell, you can even cook fish fingers in an Aga. And with the letting go of any notions of late-nights, lazy days reading and uninterrupted sunbathing (pre-child holiday memories that might as well have taken place in Ancient Rome – because there’s no going back) comes the realisation that family vacations can be fun, especially if there’s a kids’ club.

Don’t think family holidays will now be a breeze. It’s not that relaxing is bottom of your children’s priority list. It’s not even on it

Don’t think family holidays will now be a breeze. It’s not that relaxing is bottom of your children’s priority list. It’s not even on it

5-6 years: Showing your offspring new things, new places and new horizons is not only rewarding, it’s like putting a down payment on developing citizens of the world. On good days, your rosie-cheeked kiddos slip little hands in yours, and swing happily on the farm gate. On bad days, there’s always electronic stimulation to fall back on. Life-long memories are made, bonds are strengthened. Your children become your ambassadors, opening doors to new experiences and conversations. While they race their new Italian friends around the Campo in Siena, you can actually enjoy your Campari. As the years roll by, you look back at holiday snaps of your babies with rose-tinted specs on, and marvel at those precious, crazy moments captured in time.

Happy holidays everyone!

Cash in the attic

Each year in England, it always astounds me that my Mum has kept so many of our childhood things – and is now happily selling them on eBay.

Our 100-year-old antique rocking horse has been sold, but to my delight, she still has my china tea set, wooden recorder and dolls’ house with electric lights (used, in more recent times, as parking space for the vintage, lead-paint matchbox cars).

I’ve posted before about rediscovering my collection of scented rubbers. (No sniggering over there in the US! The British word for eraser is rubber). Goodness knows what chemicals they were made with – probably something quite addictive to a 9-year-old girl.

But it was this year that it was really brought home to me just how much time has passed since my brother and I were small – and that the toys we used to play with might actually be worth something.

Here’s what’s on the floor in a spare room upstairs:

For baby-boomers, the name Fisher-Price is synonymous with childhood (remember the airport set? Complete with a  turning luggage carousel and suitcases)

For baby-boomers, the name Fisher-Price is synonymous with childhood (remember the airport set? Complete with a turning luggage carousel and suitcases)

And, below, is a photo I took in the US – at a toy museum:

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We have the pull-along dog somewhere, too, in the attic

While it was the children who wanted to visit the toy museum, it was me who found myself lingering in the aisles, loving the trip down vintage toy lane:

1952: Mr Potato Head, the first toy ever advertised on television, was released

1956: Ant Farms were developed

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Over the years, he’s been joined by Mrs Potato Head and supplemented with accessories such as a car and a boat trailer

1957: Frisbees were invented

1958: The Hula Hoop arrived

1959: The first Barbie Dolls were released

1960: Etch-A-Sketch, Chatty Cathy and Fisher-Price’s Rock-a-Stack were popular toys

1962: Fisher-Price’s Chatter Telephone was introduced

1963: The Easy Bake Oven was released, and Matchbox offered toy cars with doors that opened

1964: GI Joe was released during the Cold War

1971: Mastermind, the code-breaking board game with pegs, became the most successful new game of the 1970s

1983: In the run-up to Christmas, parents frantically searched everywhere for the coveted Cabbage Patch Kids dolls

It’s all a far cry from the hi-tech gadgets that will leave even the most savvy parents scratching their head and reaching for the instructions this year – if Hamley’s annual predicted Christmas best sellers list is anything to go by. Among the top 10 toys are:

– A WiFi-connected doll that does homework

– Xeno, an interactive monster with pullout snot, farting capability and 40 different expressions

– Barbie’s Colour Change handbag – hold it against any item of clothing and press a button to match more than 100 different shades

– Kiddizoom Smart Watch – as well as showing the time, it can also take and edit photos, record videos and play three built-in games

– Teksta T-Rex, a robotic dinosaur that walks, moves its head, sniffs and chews on its favourite bone, then spits it out with a giant burp

– Doh Vinci 3D Deluxe Styler

– Ice Skating Anna and Elsa dolls from the Disney movie Frozen

Hope you enjoyed the memories – and the modern-day equivalents!