Category Archives: Children

Scooting in heels

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Where my parents live is right next to a sizeable park, where there’s a cricket pitch, pathways, flowers, a play area and a duck pond.

It’s lovely – and a reminder that parklife in the UK is dotted with scenes and characters you never see in the UAE. On my visits to the park, I see joggers, dog walkers, gangs of scantily clad teenagers drinking alcopops, frisky lovers mauling each other in full view, and the odd Heineken-drinking, paper-bag-carrying fella – usually the only person who actually talks to me.

We take the boys to the park after dinner, to burn off energy under the ever-changing, summer evening sky. They go on their scooters, and I go on mine – with me trailing far behind my charges, but getting faster. (It’s amazing what an uncoordinated 42-year-old can master without breaking a hip!)

When my BF visited today, I told her: “I’ve discovered this great new way to exercise – a cardio workout you don’t even realise you’re doing until it’s DONE!

“You should try it!”

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Not just for kids: BF gets a kick out of our grown-up sized  scooter

BF, wearing a skirt and heels, rests one foot on the kick scooter, and gingerly pushes off. She wobbles a little, smiles (it’s impossible not to while attempting to balance, flail a leg and not fall over), then glides round in a semi-circle in the drive.

“But doesn’t it just exercise one leg?” she asks, getting the hang of it, even in nice shoes.

“You’ll see!” I respond. “Let’s go!”

With the boys blazing a trail, BF keeps up admirably while I bring up the rear on foot. There’s no stopping them – BF is hooked. They come to a skidding halt only after reaching the bandstand, where a brass band is playing, bringing some unexpected pomp and circumstance to the park.

“That was GREAT!” a breathless BF gasps afterwards, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. “And you’re right, the weight-bearing leg on the scooter works just as hard.” (Kids make balancing look easy – don’t be fooled.)

But it’s really fun to zoom along, not to mention join in with the children (and we all know how much they love that). If you’ve been wondering how to keep fit on a long vacation, remember, you heard it here first: kick-scooting in heels.

11 things no child says on holiday, EVER

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“These swimming goggles are a perfect fit.”

“I’ll just stand still while you apply the sun cream.”

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“Five minutes until dinner, kids, and you can use my coffee cup to shovel sand”

“Let’s not bother Mum right now, she’s reading.”

“Just one ice-cream a day is fine, thank you!”

“Can’t we just squeeze in one more medieval church?”

“You’re right Mum, I am tired. I’ll think I’ll go to bed even though it’s still light outside.”

“What a lovely view! Shall we walk a bit further?”

“You go and lie down over there, Mum, and play Candy Crush for an hour.”

“I don’t really feel like the gift shop today – let’s just go home.”

“Mum, I’m still sleepy. Let’s sleep in.”

“I started it!”

 

Five weeks down … five to go!

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“So it’s the lipstick and handbag museum today then?” I said to the boys, raising a hopeful eyebrow.

It’s a running joke: keeping them entertained during the long, long holiday involves so many boy-related activities that I do like to rebel every now and then, and threaten them with an art museum, or (to their wide-eyed horror) a spot of shopping.

Plans needed for 10 weeks, in 3 different countries. Gulp

Plans needed for 10 weeks, in 3 different countries. Gulp

They looked at me aghast, as though I’d suggested slow torture. “Lipstick and handbags? NO WAY!” they chorused, in unison.

DH, who’s just spent 36 hours with us in the UK, might have smiled too, in silent agreement – and I might have inwardly sighed at the thought of another aviation museum (on top of the castle with murder holes yesterday; two air and space museums in DC; a train museum in Baltimore; numerous train rides and a submarine tour).

But off we went …

Each year, on our summer sojourn, I’m reminded how much longer my boys’ school holiday is than the six weeks or so enjoyed by British children. This is truly astonishing considering how much my sons don’t know yet and, therefore, how much schooling they need. I’m also reminded exactly why the words, “MUM-EEEE, I’m bored,” grate on your ears far more than the most irritating ringtone.

I digress. Where was I? The birthplace of British motorsport and aviation.

Actually, Brooklands Museum near Weybridge in Surrey is a great place to visit. The boys clamboured onto old airplanes; there’s a Wellington Bomber, a Hurricane and a genuine ‘bouncing bomb’, all carefully explained by friendly volunteers; and a bus museum, too. You could probably even have a sarnie under Concorde’s wing, if you wanted to.

Submarines, vintage racing cars, trains, rockets … who knew?

Submarines, vintage racing cars, trains, rockets … who knew?

But the highlight was the vintage car ride – a thrilling dash up Test Hill, along the Banking and down the Finishing Straight of the world’s first purpose-built motor racing circuit.

“Awesome,” screamed the boys in delight, as we flew up the hill and our world turned sideways while careering round the steep bank.

Displaying high-spirited glee, they started singing, “Everything is AWESOME!!!” And with the wind whistling through our hair, it really did feel like we were reliving the halcyon days of racing.

Our silver-haired driver chuckled, then remarked: “I’ve learnt a whole new language since starting this job.”

He turned round to face the boys after the car came to a juddering stop: “Wicked, eh?” he deadpanned, with a wink.

Yes, it was – and so much better than hearing, “Mummy, I SAID, I’m bored.” On repeat.

Flying with kids: The bad and the worse

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Like many expat mums the world over, I’m currently on our annual pilgrimage to the motherland, to reintroduce our children to their grandparents, grassy fields and Wellington boots.

Most expat kids are frequent flyers, but I think it’s the hollow-eyed, jet-lagged mums – many of whom have to travel long distances with their overactive offspring solo – who deserve recognition for ensuring that everyone arrives intact.

“Please…help….me….”

“Please…help….me….”

Now that my two are older, flying with them is so much easier, but I haven’t forgotten what trial by two-year-old is like at 37,000 feet. During the 22 hours of flight time we’ve clocked up over the past two weeks, I turned my thoughts to the various stages mums go through when taking their little ones back and forth to see family. Without much further ado, here’s my tongue-in-cheek take on the eight steps mothers desperately seeking serenity on board must navigate:

Sky cot: Hands-free flying

Sky cot: Hands-free flying

0-8 months:
Provided your baby doesn’t cry like a banshee due to earache or colic, you’re relieved to discover that small infants are essentially hand luggage, and can be stored in a wall-mounted bassinet – meaning, in between feeds, you’re left with plenty of hands-free time for other, adult-related pursuits. Enjoy it. Indulge in a glass or two (while you can). This phase is over quicker than you can say pass the earplugs.

9 months – 2 years:
Now mobile, your infant is classed as a lap child, a burdensome phase that sees the two of you co-joined like Siamese twins and squashed into one seat. Once sleep finally arrives (for your 30lb lead-weight bundle of joy, at least), you find yourself sitting statue-esqe – and needing the loo – as you attempt to inhale a meal and not flinch an inch in case the slightest movement rouses your child.

2-2½ years:
Your toddler has progressed to a seat, but the games, toys and books you’ve spent days collecting are dispensed with in minutes. Fun is sought in mischievous ways: Meal tray up/tray down. Light on/light off. Window shutter open/shutter closed. Call the flight attendant. Call the flight attendant again. When all the un-dinging you have to do gets too much, you traipse up and down the aisle – jolting several unsuspecting passengers awake as you go – or visit the bathroom together, where double-jointedness is always a plus when assisting your offspring.
flying-with-kids-vs-without-kids-article
2½-3 years:
You’ve reached that murky zone where diversionary tactics are all that stand between you and a mile-high meltdown. Tantrums occur due to the most innocuous of reasons: not being allowed to bring the stroller up the aisle; the seat belt sign coming on. No other passenger makes eye contact – not even the smug mother of two crayon-loving girls opposite.

3-3½ years:
By now, you’re travelling with two small children – a whole new world of in-flight angst – which means that if you’re on your own, losing your oldest at the airport or on board must be avoided (if you have more than two, good luck with that). After collecting all the luggage at the other end, you feel like hugging the kind lady who, on seeing that you don’t have a seventh arm to push the stroller, offers to help.

3½-4 years:
Someone’s told you stickers are great for keeping children entertained on board, so you’re armed with sticker books. But while in the toilet, your kids stick them all over the TV. Bad idea: the heat from the screen can turn the adhesive into superglue. Imagining the entire aircraft being decommissioned while engineers scrape Lightening McQueen and his friends off 35F’s TV, you start peeling and don’t stop until there isn’t a single trace of sticker left. A happy coincidence is it uses up a good 20 minutes of flight time.

Happy travel days await (honestly)

Happy travel days await (honestly)

4-5 years
An iPad loaded with games is your saviour and, whilst still arriving disheveled and decorated with orange juice stains, you realise you had more time to relax on board, and even watched half a movie. A basic aviation knowledge – so as to answer questions like How does the wind move? – is extremely useful during this stage.

5 years+
You’ve made it. Long flights with small children no longer fill you with terror. While queuing at security, you see a mum with a seven-month-old infant struggling with all her baby paraphernalia, juggling her little one, taking her belt and shoes off, then, at the other side of the x-ray machine, pulling it all together again like a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle, and you feel like punching the air with joy that you’ve left the aforementioned stages well and truly behind. Well done, you’ve arrived!

Sponsored by: My own personal experiences. Every.single.example.

An 8-year-old’s embryonic blog

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Thank goodness that, for Son1, at least, the days of bringing back half a rainforest of artwork are over. This week, he’s mostly brought home exercise books, rather than the artistic creations exploding with glitter and glue that used to get piled up to the rafters during his kindergarten years.

The English, Maths, French, Arabic and Music books were certainly interesting to look at, but the workbook I enjoyed the most was the diary documenting his weekends. It was almost like an embryonic blog, with squiggly pictures and illuminating insights into his mind:

On the role DH and I play:
“Families are important because they take us places … They pay for cheeseburgers and crisps. They go to work to get money to buy toys.”

Before we busted him for getting up at 5.30am to play computer games:
“Happily, on Friday morning I played Xbox for 4 hours, then my mum came downstairs.”

Such a hard life:
“If I could make something disappear, it would be homework … and school.”
[“Tell me more,” wrote the teacher!]

In my next life, I’m coming back as an expat kid:
“On the weekend, I flew to Oman and stayed in a fancy hotel.”

On being small:
“I think it is great being a child because we don’t have to pay the bills. We can also fit through small holes, and adults can’t.”

Not Son1's, but this made me laugh. It was turned in by a first grader in the US, and marked by the teacher. The next day, the mom wrote a note: "Dear Ms. Davis, I want to be perfectly clear on my child's homework illustration. It is NOT me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint surrounded by male customers with money. I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm. This drawing is of me selling a snow shovel.

Not Son1’s, but this made me laugh. It was turned in by a first grader in the US, and marked by the teacher. The next day, the mom wrote a note: “Dear Ms. Davis, I want to be perfectly clear on my child’s homework illustration. It is NOT me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint surrounded by male customers with money.
I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm.
This drawing is of me selling a snow shovel.”

Let’s go to Iftar

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Yesterday was the first day of Ramadan in the UAE, and I realised that because we’ve missed it for the past few years, the children don’t actually know much about this holy month of reflection and prayer.

This was brought home to me at our local shopping centre, as Son2 begged me to let him eat a doughnut. I’d slipped into a curtained-off coffee shop to buy him a treat as an end-of-term reward, and warned him he’d have to wait until we got home to eat it, but kids have a short memory, don’t they? Especially when it comes to sticky chocolate doughnuts.

We told Son1 that some of his friends from school were probably fasting, and that a polite way to greet a Muslim who is abstaining from food and drink during daylight hours is to say ‘Ramadan Kareem’, which means ‘Have a Generous Ramadan’.

“But how is not eating generous?” asked Son1. (Good question, I thought.)

Closed off for take-away only: "You can't eat in public when the sun's up," I told Son2. "But there's no sun in here!"

Closed off for take-away only: “You can’t eat in public when the sun’s up,” I told Son2. “But there’s no sun in here!”

“Well, people give to the poor,” I explained. “You’ll see charity tents and there’s lots of good will. There’s also some great sales on at the mall.”

As sunset approached, we decided we’d introduce the children to iftar (the meal eaten to break the fast, of which there are many laid on across Dubai). Apart from the odd speeding car driven by hungry fasters anxious to get home, the roads were eerily quiet (due to working hours being reduced), and, en route, we watched the huge orange sun sink below the horizon.

My DH, who’s spent a lot more time in Dubai during Ramadan than me, mentioned that we’d know exactly when the sun had set, because smokers who’ve been without nicotine all day collectively roll their car windows down to enjoy their first cigarette.

At iftar, we sampled the dates – traditionally eaten to break the fast – and enjoyed a fantastic hotel buffet meal while also attempting to feed the boys a few more facts about Ramadan (ie, music is banned; night becomes day; and it’ll go on all month, until the moon-sighting committee spots the new moon).

I really thought we’d made some progress.

“So you know what iftar is now?” I asked.

Blank looks. “Is it the name of the restaurant, Mummy?”

Well, I suppose, when we talked about ‘going to iftar’, it could be construed as that – especially if you’ve got a short attention span.

Ramadan Kareem to all who celebrate!

Class list Jenga

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This week, many mums in Dubai found out which classes their children are going to be in from September.

Each year (and for Son1, it is an annual event), the release of the class lists is an eagerly anticipated event. Mums anxiously pore over the role calls; they take photos of the lists, and discuss at the school gate who little Sylvie will be mixing with next year.

(Believe me, I’ve seen mums sobbing over this).

As for the children, I’m not convinced they’re as bothered as the mums.

It might be different for girls, but for boys, shaking up the classes doesn’t seem to be too big of a deal – especially in a society as fluid as ours, where numerous children leave at the end of the school year anyway and September always sees a fresh crop.

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll, with no bribes accepted

Son1 was given the chance to pick three friends he wants in his class next year, and the letter said they’d try to make sure he’s in the same class as at least one. (I hear some schools in the UK even let you name one child you’d rather not be with).

There follows a process of list building that I can only imagine is like playing Jenga, with the teachers not only taking friendship groups into account, but also gender balance, ability mix and personality clashes.

Far from just bunging the names in a bag and pulling them out, the decision-making must get complicated: “Sylvie makes Tallulah cry so we should split them, and we’d better share out Boris, Hugo and Tarquin because they’re gifted and talented – almost fluent in Mandarin with rocket-scientist aspirations – and make sure the football squad aren’t all in the same class.”

Repeat x140 children per year.

But, as I said, for us mums, that moment when the list is released can be a little tense. My eyes rapidly scanned the names of the children– of whom son1 knows about three, and (because we all know this is important too) I know one of the mums. Not bad at all.

Happy mixing kiddos!

The end-of-term talent show

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Could you? I know I couldn't

Could you? I know I couldn’t

Today was a nerve-wracking day for myself and DH (who wasn’t even here).

It was the day of the end-of-term talent show. Called ‘2JW’s Got Talent’, it was a more elaborate version of the end-of-term concerts we’re all used to attending – with judges.

DH and I were terrified.

We’d known about it for a week, and were aware the children had been practising their routines (magic, miming, jokes, lip singing, football skills, etc) in groups at school. Son1 had partnered with a friend, but then they’d broken up, and rather than join another group, Son1 had decided he’d go solo.

“Really?” we enquired, astounded that our shy son (who’s had to be encouraged to speak up in class) would even consider a solo performance. When he told us he was doing a dance, our astonishment grew.

The night before, I tried to find out from him if he really was going to bust some moves to one of his favourite songs, Meet the Girls of Norway (!), in front of at least 25 mums and dads with cameras, several teachers and all his class mates.

He got off the sofa, gave his body a shake, then – with arms and legs splaying everywhere – did a crazy four-second dance, which ended with him throwing himself on the floor.

Let’s just say, this didn’t put my nerves at ease, and as I drove to school today, I felt like I was going to an audition myself.

But, you know what, I’d totally underestimated his ‘talent’ – and I don’t mean the dancing (although actually the dance was great, even half-choreographed, with girl backing dancers). I mean the ability to get up in front of a crowd and perform, without feeling embarrassed or struck dumb with stage fright – and that goes for all the children.

Born to be a star

Born to be a star

There were, of course, the natural performers – in particular, the girl in a flouncy, tiered dress with fluttery eyelashes, lip singing to a song from Frozen and loving her moment of fame. And there were several boys who enjoyed their comedy act so much I thought we’d still be sat there at dinnertime listening to jokes (the teacher must have thought so too, as I noticed her desperately signaling to them to wind it up).

But, even the shyer children came across as confident youngsters. And that I realised, is one of the big benefits of education today – the belief and courage being instilled in these kids that they can express themselves, give presentations and think outside of the box. (In a few years’ time, the school has them attending mock UN conventions, and pitching entrepreneurial ideas in business clothes.)

“Were you nervous?” I asked Son1 this evening (just the thought of public speaking makes me shudder). “A bit,” he replied, “but then the teacher suggested I could have girls-of-Norway backing dancers.”

And that did the trick. Smart move.

Three more days to go!

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While I often feel rather daunted by the 10-week-long school break stretching out ahead of us like an uncrossable chasm, I cannot wait to finish work in three days’ time.

It can feel like a double life. I work in a busy news environment, where, sometimes, my contrasting personas come together with a thunderous clash.

I’ll be head down at my desk, writing a headline for a piece on the insurgency in Iraq, when my phone pings and it’s my other life calling.

“Hi, sorry to bother,” texts my lovely car-pool friend, “but M’s lost his first tooth, I think at your house. Can you look out for it?”

“Sure,” I reply, and fire off a text to our nanny to keep an eye out for a tiny milk tooth, the size of a matchstick head.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more lost teeth,” I text my friend, who I realise after a couple more messages is upset she can’t put the tooth in a silver keepsakes box. “No need to go through his poo.”

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

I get back to work. There’s a story on Iran I need to read, and our deadline for getting the magazine to press is looming in three hours’ time.

Then an email pops up, entitled ‘Grade 2’s Got Talent’. It’s Son1’s teacher, giving us more detail about the talent show his class is putting on, and I’m reminded that my (shy) son has to perform some kind of all-singing, all-dancing routine in front of everyone.

But before that social hurdle, we really do have to finish this week’s issue, so I stop Googling ‘easy talent show routines’, and lose myself in a commentary on the jihadist forces from the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria – until another text comes through.

It’s DH. He’s at a climbing party, with Son2, who is struggling. Sometimes I feel so bad that I’m not ‘there’ for all these moments – and the kids are growing up so fast – that it’s as though a chute has opened up in my stomach and my heart is plunging through it.

So, as I said, I’m SO ready to finish work. It’s now just a small matter of getting another magazine to press in the next three days; ducking out for the talent show; organising sausage rolls for the end-of-term party, holding the fort while DH is away; and (keep breathing, Circles!) getting Son2 to a Chuck-e-Cheese party.

Then, finally, it’ s time for a break from the office, the traffic jams and the logistics. The 65-day vacation – let’s call it Operation LongVac (for we all know what it really entails) – is in sight!

Bounce Dubai: The harder you fall … the higher you bounce

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After eight years of mothering rambunctious boys, I’ve found out how to totally exhaust my eldest, without even going outdoors.

The opening of Bounce in Dubai couldn’t have been timed any better – as temperatures reach 113 degrees outside, the owners must have known there are legions of mothers in the UAE wondering how on earth to stop their overactive children from bouncing off the walls at home.

Enter Bounce Dubai. As vast as it is fun, the ‘trampoline universe’ houses about 82 interconnected trampolines in an urban playground loaded with springs and circus-grade sponge. Containing 500+ square metres of foam pits and padding to land on, as well as trampoline ‘dodge-ball’, it was the ideal venue for a party attended by the boys in my son’s class this weekend.

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So much fun, kids don’t even know they’re exercising

As you drive up, you can’t miss the warehouse, located beside the entrance of the industrial maze that is Al Quoz. Stamped boldly on the side, in giant letters, are the words: ‘Bounce Inc. Free-jumping revolution’, and inside, the branding continues with shocks of pink, blue and yellow on the edges of the ‘tramps’.

Given that it was only the second weekend since the Australian import’s opening, I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised to see so many edgy-looking teenagers queuing up, all seeking an adrenalin rush with a soft landing at the bright, bold, in-your-face trampoline park.

Energetic staff members with job titles like ‘experience manager’ and ‘bounce master’ were on hand to manage the hordes of youngsters who’d turned up to jump, and my son was shepherded away to put on his rainbow-coloured gel gripper socks. (As well as freestyle trampolines and an airbag-fitted section, there are 45-degree trampolines against walls that you can run up and launch yourself off.)

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

It was at this point that Son2 broke down with fury that he wasn’t going in too, so we made a hasty departure, leaving Son1 to enjoy his high-octane party while we grabbed a far more leisurely coffee at the nextdoor Times Square Center.

That evening, as I put his ‘sticky socks’ in the laundry and Son1 let out gaping yawns of exhaustion, I resolved I’d definitely take both boys back to burn energy – and might even give it a go myself (yep, Bounce is aimed at adults too!).

Anyone remember being a kid and jumping up and down on your bed before being yelled at to stop? Well, here’s your chance to experience that giddy euphoria all over again.

Click here to visit their website. Do call if you’re planning to go as sessions sell out.