Category Archives: Dubai

A role reversal

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Normality returned today. Son 1 had his first day back at school (and was secretly quite excited) and I went back to work with a hop and a skip.

DH, meanwhile, has some time off, due to a runway being closed at Dubai International airport. I say ‘time off’, but we all know what staying home means in reality – school drop-offs, pick-ups, homework, refereeing small children, feeding time at the zoo. You get the gist.

For me, knowing that DH is home while I’m at work is such a relief. I worry less about the boys driving our helper to distraction, and I know he’ll deal with any problems that arise.

I’m well aware, though, that pilots aren’t the kind of guys who can happily spend time picking the fluff from their toenails. Plucked from a life of world travel, luxury hotels, far-flung cities and telly in bed, it must be quite a shock to suddenly find yourself grounded in a houseful of children with a to-do list as long as your arm.

So I was pleased when DH announced this morning that he was going wakeboarding for an hour on the ocean with his brother.

But that wasn’t what I heard about when I got home.

No, it was the shoes he’d bought that he told me all about.

Let me just say first that DH has no interest in shoes at all – I’m not sure if he’d know the difference between a pair bought from Payless and the designer brands stocked in Saks Fifth Avenue. He looks at my shoe collection as though I’ve been breeding them uncontrollably, and mostly wears flip-flops himself. So you can imagine my surprise when he texted to say he’d bought some Italian shoes.

“Wow,” I replied. “Are they pointy?”

Watch out for suited Italian salesman flogging shoes from their boot

Watch out for suited salesman flogging Italian shoes from their boot

No, he responded. He definitely draws the line at pointy, but it seems a chance encounter with a dapper, suited-and-booted shoe salesman piqued his interest.

“This really well-dressed Italian man asked me for directions to Emirates Road, then said he’d just opened a new shoe shop and had some really nice samples in his car to give away before leaving the country,” DH explained later.

“He said I could have a pair if I gave him a small donation towards buying his wife some perfume in Duty Free.”

$100 later (yes, US dollars), and DH was in proud possession of a stylish pair of black patent leather lace-ups with tobacco-brown buffed leather soles.

I admired how shiny they were and stroked the contoured toes (you could see your face in them they were so glossy) – while wondering what on earth had come over DH.

“They’ll be perfect for the ball we’re going to soon,” he remarked.

“Mmmm,” I replied, “they’re great”, and I thought to myself, “Not in a month of Sundays did I expect DH to buy shoes for the pilots’ ball before me.”

I wonder what tomorrow will bring for my stay-at-home aviator.

When the drugs don’t work

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“But I’m the patient!” The words roll of his tongue, and we can hardly argue with him. Not after everything that happened after the surgery.

This is the last medical post, I promise, but I’m writing it because it might help other parents in similar circumstances. And because, I guess, I’m still processing it all myself, and filing the memories in a safe place in my heart.

Everyone told us he’d bounce back from surgery fast. “He’ll be on his feet in no time,” people said. “Kids are so resilient.” I believed them because I wanted it to be true; I’d nod, agree and remind myself what the doctors had said about doing this surgery (on his bladder) while he’s still young.

I imagined him eating jelly in bed, and being discharged a few days later.

The first hint that these things don’t always go to plan was when the surgery to remove a diverticulum took longer than expected. At the allotted time, DH and I nervously positioned ourselves outside the OR, where we’d been told to wait. I anxiously peered through the oblong window, willing the surgeons to appear.

They didn’t.

We went back to the room to wait, for another hour – until finally, the tension was over. Five hours after Son1 was wheeled away, we got him back, half asleep and wired up to medical equipment.

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

When the surgeon told us all had gone well, I could have hugged him. He then went on to explain that it had been more technically complex than anticipated; he used words like ‘stent’ and ‘reattaching a ureter’, and, again, I nodded, in full faith that they knew what they were doing.

Which they did. Our doctor is great (he’s promised to take Son1 out for a burger), but what they didn’t know was that Son1 would suffer from the most excruciating bladder spasms – a distressing side effect of catheter useage that can cause severe cramping.

I can only compare these spasms to labour pain. They’d come on suddenly (3 or 4 times a day), and Son1 would scream for an hour or more in absolute agony as his bladder involuntarily contracted. He’d sweat profusely, his hair matting to his head, and at one point – after becoming horribly sensitised to any kind of pain – I was terrified he was going to black out.

The painkillers they administered didn’t touch the pain. Morphine would eventually send him into a drowsy stupor, but the other medicines did little to relieve the spasms. The only thing that worked was flushing the catheter, a procedure only the doctor could do at first. And, believe me, I fought tooth and nail to get the doctor into the room. (I quickly figured out that with all the nurse shift changes, we knew more than they did about how to manage the pain.)

But the truth is, we weren’t able to manage his severe spasms. While he did have long periods of being perfectly fine, when the spasms hit, he was demented with pain, and after seven rough nights, during which DH and I took turns to attempt to sleep on a narrow sofa in the hospital room, we were going out of our minds too.

To cut a long story short, the catheter was removed a little earlier than it should have been, and once we’d got over the hurdle of retraining his bladder to pee (major potty training flashbacks for me), and teaching him that peeing would hurt for a while, the spasms stopped, and he hasn’t had one since. Thank.God.

The thing I want to remember, however, is how brave Son1 was. Yes, he screamed the hospital down (I saw a lady with another child deliberately avoiding walking past the door), and was frequently inconsolable. I’d stroke his hair, wishing I could take the pain away, and cried myself several times as my heart broke in two. But I saw a strength in him that took my breath away.

He walked on day 1; accepted and understood what was going on without question; and really tried to follow the nurses’ instruction to breathe through the pain, until it became overwhelming. I was so proud of him, and for many of those endless hours spent sitting with him, we enjoyed a closeness borne out of his new-found maturity (as well as lots of jelly).

On day 8, they let us go home. I can’t tell you how good that felt, and now he’s bouncing back, like everyone said he would, and I’m beginning to breathe easy that the ordeal is over.

EDITED TO ADD: Six weeks post-op, and it’s like it never happened! As soon as we got home, he recovered fast. It’s amazing how kids bounce back, and move on. As for us parents, it takes us a little longer!

Get well soon Son1

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It’s been a rough week for us, but surgery does have its upsides if you’re 8 and being operated on by a guru surgeon who flies in from Mumbai for just a couple of days every six weeks. That upside, for my son at least, was no choice in dates: hence the two weeks off school he’s getting.

I’m (supposedly) doing a little bit of homeschooling with him while he convalesces – the extent of which so far has been reading the get-well cards from his classmates.

They arrived at the hospital in a big packet, and were such a lovely boost at a time when we all really needed it.

More than half the cards featured the Titanic - his classmates know him well it seems!

More than half the cards featured the Titanic – his classmates know him well, it seems!

I just love how this one says who it's illustrated and 'wrote' by at the bottom.

I just love how this one says who it’s illustrated and ‘wrote’ by at the bottom.

And there's this one, from one of the girls in his class, with a 'get-out-of-hospital' escape plan. (A way out, good thinking!)

And there’s this one, from one of the girls in Grade 2, with a ‘get-out-of-hospital’ escape plan. (A way out, good thinking!)

But it was this one, wishing him the 'best holiday' and the 'best day ever', that really made me laugh. "I think I'll see you in Grade 3," he adds! I certainly hope you'll see him back at school long before then - as there's only so much Baileys this mummy can drink.

But it was this card, wishing him the ‘best holiday’ and the ‘best day ever’, that really made me laugh. “I think I’ll see you in Grade 3,” adds the writer. I certainly hope you’ll see Son1 back at school long before then – as there’s only so much medicinal Baileys this mummy can drink!

And here he is, with all the get-well cards. It was so good to see him smiling again.

And here he is, with all the get-well cards. It was so good to see him smiling again.

School bags: A Pandora’s box

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So we’re in hospital this week with Son1*. Last night, it was DH’s turn to do the night shift, so I came home for some much-needed R&R and time off from ‘nurse duties’.

Son2, who I hadn’t seen in a couple of days, welcomed me home with a running hug – ie, he launched himself at me like a torpedo, and wrapped his arms around my neck.

Do pigs rap?

Do pigs rap?

Later, I took him upstairs to bed, and passed his school bag on the staircase. It’s not that I was fearful about what I’d find within, but you know how peering into their school bags is sometimes like opening a Pandora’s box of homework, notes about lost library books, crumpled artwork and permission slips.

But I knew I should check it, so I did (reluctantly). And in the communication book, I saw a note:

“Your child is a PIG in our school assembly.”

(I think to myself, I’m glad he’s not Muslim)

“Please send him to school wearing sunglasses, a medallion and ‘attitude’ clothes (ie, jeans, boots and a t-shirt). The children will be singing a rap song.”

Quite honestly? Styling a rapper pig look. That, I wasn’t expecting!

*Thank you to everyone who’s sent get-well wishes for Son1. Apart from scaring the nurses when the strongest pain medication didn’t work, and getting the surgeon up every half-hour last night from 1am-3.30am (I could have told them they wouldn’t get off lightly!), he is recovering and he’s being incredibly brave. We hope (everything crossed) to be out of hospital in a few days’ time.

The one in which Son1 discovers drugs

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This blog post is coming to you from a darkened hospital room. As I look over at my precious sleeping Son1, I can see the shadowy shapes of medical equipment, a screen with flashing, fluctuating numbers, and his finger – glowing red like ET’s as the sensor transmits his vital statistics.

We’ve known for at least two years that Son1 needed a complex surgery to correct some internal plumbing. He was born with a birth defect in his bladder (a diverticulum) and, today, he was operated on in Dubai to fix the problem. To my amazement, other than not being allowed breakfast, he went along with everything like a lamb first thing this morning.

“Will I get my own room, Mummy?” he asked.

“Yes, you will.”

“And a TV?”

“Yep.”

Hospital food - eugh!

Hospital food – eugh!

“Will there be room service?”

And that’s when I realised he was thinking hotel room, with chicken club sandwiches served Intercontinental-style on a platter – not hospital suite with congealed scrambled eggs and cereal that looks like fish bait.

Then, to his dismay, a nurse handed him a gown to change into.

“I’m not wearing THAT!” he declared. “It’s for GIRLS.”

“Would it help if Daddy wore one too?” I offered, shooting DH a pleading look and at least getting a laugh from my now cross (and hungry) son as we wrestled him into the offending teddy-bear-motif overall with ties at the back.

A few minutes later, the nurse brought the magic potion I’d been waiting for – the pre-op sedative. At first, there seemed to be no effect, until I noticed the grin plastered on Son1’s face.

“I sh-feel diz-shy,” he slurred, with a spaced-out expression. His eyelids might have looked heavy, but his glazed eyes were as wide as saucers. I’m surprised they didn’t start spinning. He then sat up in bed to enjoy the full, trippy effect, and experimented with a few different moves to maximise the dizziness.

“He’s completely high,” DH whispered to me.

“Totally stoned,” I agreed.

“And loving it.”

“So what are you going to dream about?” I asked Son1, who, by now, had dissolved into laughter.

“A duck delivering room service,” he pronounced with a giggle – and that was the thought I held onto as I let him go, into the operating theatre, where he spent the next four hours undergoing (a successful) surgery.

Let’s hope the post-op drugs are just as good.

Flashy cars and making good choices

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Something you can’t fail to miss in Dubai is the number of luxury cars on the roads. There’s a car culture in the Middle East, fuelled (excuse the pun) by the wide roads, distances and the fact petrol is cheaper than milk.

If you know Dubai, I don’t need to tell you that Dubai Police even has its own separate superfleet, enabling the cops to drive around the city in much-admired vehicles, including a Mercedes SLS, Lamborghini Aventador and a limited edition Aston Martin One-77.

If this comes as a surprise, imagine how strange it seemed during Dubai’s economic downturn to see expensive cars left abandoned in car parks and on roadsides. I’d drive past two each day, on my way home – left gathering sand on the hardshoulder near our compound (their bankrupt owners having fled the country).

How odd, I thought, that while some cities have a litter problem, and others suffer from high crime rates, in Dubai there was the unusual problem of high-end cars being dumped.

Not your average student car park. These vehicles are driven by 18-24 year olds studying at the American University of Dubai

Not your average student car park. These vehicles are driven by 18-24 year olds studying at the American University of Dubai

These days, when a flashy car streaks past me, I don’t bat an eyelid. And the truth is, although Dubai might be about to get its own tram, and a few years ago introduced a metro system that governments around the region are attempting to copy, the preference for the latest Italian and German sports cars isn’t going to change.

Anyway. I digress. This blog post was meant to be about my school run yesterday. It’s not lost on my sons that there are lots of nice cars here, and we see a fair few parked outside the school gates each day.

It was the last day of the school/work week, and I was talking to Son2 about the day ahead as I edged our Ford Explorer into a space not much bigger, right behind a gleaming, silver Porsche.

“Now, you’re going to have a good day today, aren’t you?” I said to my five year old. He’s not liking school at the moment, and his teacher and I are spending lots of time chatting to him about making ‘good choices’. (I don’t mean choosing an apple over a Big Mac, I do mean behavioural).

He chose not to hear my question, and I saw him eyeing up the car in front with a glint in his enormous chocolate brown eyes.

“Mummy?” he said, the corners of his mouth turned up in a cheeky grin. “See that car?”

“Yes, I see it. It’s a Porsche”

“STEAL IT, Mummy!”

Sweet Jesus – what am I in for during his teenage years?

The power of the patch

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Browsing through my emails this evening, my eye was drawn to a press release from Unilever Arabia about Dove’s new social experiment involving women not happy with how they look.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to watch the YouTube video (Dove’s latest attempt at a viral video), but I dutifully clicked on the link (here) – no doubt trying to put off the inevitable ruckus that dinnertime brings in our household.

In the commercial, the women are given ‘beauty patches’ to wear for two weeks. They aren’t told what’s inside the RB-X patch, merely that it’s supposed to enhance the way they see their own beauty.

"Kids, it says right here in the recipe, 'This dish contains no yucky stuff'"

“Kids, it says right here in the recipe, ‘This dish contains no yucky stuff'”

Now, I’m all for the power of a sticker. After Son2 had a particularly bad day at school the other week and had to be picked up from the principal’s office, no one was happier than me when, the next day, he emerged from the classroom wearing not one, but two, smiley stickers – awarded for good behaviour.

But as I watched the video, I found myself thinking seriously? I mean, really? The psychologist reveals at the end that the patches are fake. Yet they’ve had quite an impact on the women, who tell the camera that the patches have made them feel great, want to show off their arms and smile at people and go dress-shopping.

After the revelation that there’s nothing inside, you see the women giggle. And then cry. [Cue faint music and a clip of another woman revelling in her new-found self-esteem.]

Never mind empowering them, it just made them look gullible, in my opinion.

But it did get me thinking. A patch that stops my skin bristling and allows me to say no calmly every time my children dislike the dinner I’ve cooked and demand cereal. Yes, please!

A mother’s Thursday night

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Me: “Right come on, upstairs. Now.”

Son1: “But it’s the weekend. And I haven’t finished watching YouTube!”

Me: “Well, how many more minutes are left? Eighteen. No way. Too many. It’s getting late.”

Son1: “Can we have a day off from shower?”

Me: “Yes, if you come upstairs, RIGHT NOW.”

Me: “I said, NOW!”

Me: “Pajamas on. Quickly. Stop messing around. Just put them on.”

Son1: “Can you bring me my toothbrush?”

Me: “Only if you promise to brush them well. No, longer than that. Those teeth have to last you 70 years, you know.”

"So the little boys who missed their bedtime were eaten by a monster .."

“So the little boys who missed their bedtime were eaten by a monster ..”

Me: “Just one book okay. Then lights out. That one’s too long. How about this one? No, I can’t read it twice.”

Me: “Now, I know the tooth fairy didn’t come last night, but I sent her a message and she said it was because she didn’t see the note on the door about swallowing the tooth, and she’s going to come tonight.”

Me: “No, I’m not lying!”

Son1: “Did you send her a message on Facebook?”

Me: “Erm, no. I mean, yes. I did. But she’ll only come if you go to sleep quickly.”

Son2: “What colour is the tooth fairy’s skin?” [Might sound odd, but with so many nationalities in Dubai, it’s a question that children here often ask about someone.]

Me: “It’s fair, like yours. Now settle down, or she won’t come.”

Me: “And are you sure you don’t need the toilet? Really? Are you sure? You must do. When did you last go? Are you really, really sure?”

Son2: “Stay for two minutes.”

Me: “Just two minutes. That’s all.”

Me: “You want to know why mummies have squidgy arms?”

Me: “Don’t wake me up too early in the morning. Alright, if we’re playing Thursday Opposites, then do wake me up.”

Me: “Okay, two minutes is over.”

Son2 [sits up in bed and signals with his hands time rewinding]: “Guess what Mummy? I’m starting two minutes all over again!”

Meh! I love Thursday nights, but they’re not what they used to be.

Travel post: Sharjah Uncovered

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I’m tagging this as a travel post, but if you live in Dubai, you don’t have to go far to discover Sharjah – an emirate of contrasts with some prized assets and great-value family attractions.

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Northern neighbour: Sharjah from Al-Mamzar Beach Park

After moving to the UAE in 2008, it was a couple of years before I stepped foot in Sharjah. My only knowledge of the UAE’s third-largest emirate was gleaned from the traffic reports on the radio, and I couldn’t imagine tackling the congestion myself.

Not only that, but I knew it was dry (as in, no booze), conservative and nothing fancy. Why bother? Better to stay put in Dubai, where the decency laws aren’t so strict and there’s more than enough to do.

Now I know better. Over the past few years, I’ve discovered that Sharjah is a gold mine when it comes to entertaining a family. The city’s varied attractions are hidden gems that not only provide inexpensive days out, but are much quieter and more low-key than Dubai’s top tourist spots.

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Religion: Sharjah is home to more than 600 mosques

Sharjah might not dazzle with glitz like its neighbour Dubai, but it more than makes up for this with its authenticity.

There are cultural footprints all over the emirate, in the picturesque outdoor gardens, architectural spaces and nature reserves, and at the prominent festivals, such as the Sharjah Biennal art fair and the Sharjah International Book Fair, that draw worldwide attention.

The restored central Arts and Heritage Areas are among the most fascinating neighbourhoods in the UAE, and preserved historical sites abound, from the Bait al-Naboodah museum, a fine example of a traditional Emirati house, to the Al-Eslah School museum, the first formal school in the emirate.

Sharjah’s rich history is also evident in the numerous museums covering Islamic art and culture, archaeology, heritage, science, marine life and the civilization of Sharjah and the region. Among these is the Sharjah Art Museum, the largest art museum in the Gulf housing both temporary exhibitions and permanent collections by renowned artists.

Add to all this some lively traditional souks, the numerous child-friendly attractions and popular corniche and it’s easy to see why Sharjah is a destination that’s worth braving the traffic for (and even that’s not bad at all, if you go the quiet way).

Our top spots
This list is by no means exhaustive, but here are some of our favourite places to visit in Sharjah. One caveat: Check the opening times of everything mentioned before setting out.

Al-Mahatta Museum: You might also be interested to learn that the UAE’s first airport was opened in Sharjah in 1932, and used as a staging post for commercial flights en route from Britain to India. Built on the site of the airport, the Al Mahatta Museum provides a unique glimpse into what air travel was like in the 1930s – a highlight for my boys being the four fully restored propeller planes displayed in the hangar alongside the original refuelling tanker.

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Ferris wheel: After a spin on the Eye of the Emirates, we took a boat ride from Al-Qasba

Eye of the Emirates: For panoramic, birds-eye views of both Sharjah and Dubai, take a whirl on the Eye of the Emirates, a 60m-high Ferris wheel with 42 fully air-conditioned gondolas (open in the late afternoon and at night). This landmark observatory wheel is situated in Al-Qasba, which offers car-free strolling opportunities and is particularly busy on Friday night and Saturday. Set along the banks of a canal linked by a twinkling bridge, there’s an upbeat mix of restaurants, cafes and family-friendly fun. You’ll also find a superb contemporary art gallery, the Maraya Art Centre.

Sharjah Discovery Centre: Packed with hands-on gadgets and educational exhibits, this interactive facility comprises seven colourful, themed areas, designed to teach children that science and technology are part of our daily lives. Youngsters can also learn to drive, become a TV star and climb a wall.

Sharjah Classic Car Museum: We love this museum – the iconic exhibits, from the 1915 Dodge straight out of a period drama to the 1969 Mercedes Pullman Limousine (belonging to the Ruler of Sharjah), are truly impressive. In total, there are more than 100 vintage cars, manufactured between 1917 and the 1960s. A fun game to play with the kids is ‘find the petrol tank cap’ – hint, look behind the licence plate (who knew!).

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Wildlife centre: In fact, I’m off here again tomorrow on a school trip

Sharjah Aquarium: Step into an ‘abandoned dhow’ to get up-close and personal with marine-life from the UAE’s west and east coasts. The clown fish, seahorses, moray eels, rays, reef sharks and jellyfish are sure to delight.

Arabia’s Wildlife Centre: Last but not least is this excellent facility at Sharjah Desert Park, showcasing animals found in the Arabian Peninsula. There’s also a children’s petting farm, where the kids can ride ponies and camels at the weekend.

The Tardis: I can't resist leaving you with this photo! We spotted this human drying machine by the Al Qasba fountain. It lights up with eerie red lights and blasts hot air at you – like the climate doesn’t already do that!

The Tardis: I can’t resist leaving you with this photo. We spotted this human drying machine by the Al-Qasba fountain. It lights up with eerie red lights and blasts hot air at you (like the climate doesn’t already do that!)

An Easter bonnet (for a boy)

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Thursday is the last day of term for Son2 and his school is holding an Easter parade for the two Foundation years.

I always find Easter a bit of an enigma here as it’s distinctly unspring-like. While in other parts of the world, friends and family are experiencing the joys of spring and life bursting forth, in the UAE it won’t be long until life is scorched under the blazing hot sun. Easter Sunday is also a regular work day. Nevertheless, we make every effort to celebrate the holiday, and the shops are piled high with chocolate eggs.

The Easter parade requires a bonnet – to be made at home with the help of your child. So at the weekend, I attempted to interest my (non-creative) son in this task.

“NO FLOWERS,” he wailed in protest as I pointed out a hat I’d found online with daffodils sprouting out of the top.

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Not a flower in sight

“No flowers,” I promised. “How about this one? Look, it’s a bunny coming out of a bowler hat.”

He’s still not impressed.

‘I’ll have this one Mummy!” he cried, on seeing a hat that looked like it must belong to a scarecrow. He was clearly overjoyed that he’d be able to go to school with a bird’s nest on his head.

The concept of making it didn’t register with him, though, as when I returned from Creative Minds on Umm Sequim (a gold mine for crafters in Dubai), he was genuinely surprised I hadn’t bought the hat.

“Did you get it Mummy?!” he asked hopefully, from the sofa. “No, we’re going to make it together,” I said, through gritted teeth. And there followed at least three hours where I channelled Blue Peter and singlehandedly, apart from a few minutes of gluing by Son2, attempted to recreate the chicken hat using a bag of Spanish moss, raffia, felt, a picture of a hen, plastic eggs and fluffy yellow chicks.

You might not understand this reference if you’re not from the UK, but I think Worzel Gummidge would be proud.