What I’ll be wearing Wednesday

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 dress I had to promise Son2 I'll wear tomorrow

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.

The (elusive) part-time job in Dubai

I recently read on one of my favourite websites – Expat Telegraph – that serious part-time jobs in Dubai (which pay pro-rata) are rarer than a lion in a Landcruiser – that is, you do see them from time to time, but you’ll have to really look.

Before I went back to work, I attended a coffee morning for the mums in Son1’s class. As we took turns telling everyone a little bit about ourselves, including what we ‘used to be’, I learnt that among our very chatty group – who’d moved to Dubai from places such as Germany, Australia, Jordan and South Africa – there was a lawyer, a banker, a child-protection officer and a social worker.

Not one of them was working, because they’d all given up their careers to become a ‘trailing spouse’ (husband gets well-paid job overseas, wife and family pack their bags to follow). I dislike the term, imagining myself trailing after DH with a multi-tentacled, octopus-like grip. Instead, the mothers I met were setting up home in an alien environment, caring for children full-time and protecting their young like tigresses.

I nodded in agreement when everyone promised to not outdo each other when it comes to our children’s birthday parties; entered a debate about what kind of cupcakes to send in for the bake sales; discussed organising a BBQ, a Christmas party, fundraisers and playdates for younger siblings, and found myself thinking, “I don’t know how she does it!” Life in an office sounded less complicated, and not long after, my fledgling writing/editing business was born.

Hats off to mums trying this!

Hats off to mums trying this!

But, as all those who’ve been alarmed by the ‘housewife’ status stamped on our visas (along with the words Not allowed to work) know, it’s not that easy to ‘have it all’ in the Middle East.

For a start, a quick scan of job websites reveals that advertised part-time opportunities are limited (it’s all, or nothing). The unspoken rule many workplaces abide by is “If you don’t have a maid, don’t bother applying”. There are few full-time nurseries; the school day finishes early; and then there’s the elephant in the room: the Dubai summer – those long, impossibly hot months with no school, when most families leave. A good friend of mine in full-time employment tells me she always feels down when the summer rolls around and her children leave for cooler climes while she continues to work.

But moving out here doesn’t have to be professional hari-kari. I advertised myself on Dubizzle, and, by complete coincidence, got hired by the Dubai office of a company I used to work for in London. Four years later, I’m still there – mostly happily, but now wishing I could back-pedal to fewer hours, having been sucked into an almost full-time work vortex (I do, however, get the whole summer off, and know not to look a gift horse in the mouth).

There are so many new schools opening here, and if you click on ExpatWoman.com you’ll find numerous ads for jobs with palatable hours, and holidays.

Then there are the limitless chances to reinvent yourself. I’ve watched in admiration as friends of mine have done this: the nurse, who couldn’t take a hospital job as the pay was too low and became a chocolate taster; the (female) pilot who now works for a radio station and photography studio; the toxicologist who last year helped pull off a fabulous ball for the school parents; and the blogger who gave up a management career and has transformed herself twice in eight years into a Montessori teacher and then a writer and actress.

Even if the job you used to do doesn’t exist here, the UAE is the land of opportunity, especially now the economy is booming again. Career chameleon is a much better term than trailing spouse, don’t you think?

And, anyway, for many, the decision to move out here is a lifestyle one. The chance to stay at home with the children, while the husband works his socks off. With year-round sunshine, so many travel destinations within easy reach, and the fact that both parents working can make life feel like a wobbling Jenga tower, one extracted brick away from toppling over, and you might decide not to rush jumping back into a job. After all, when you look back on your expat experience, you’ll never wish you’d worked more.

Good luck, either way. Circles x

Living near the Middle East’s hot spots

I’m sure I’m not the only person who was taken aback by the recent news that the UAE (along with Egypt) had secretly bombed Libyan militias. There we were settling back in from the summer, dusting off the Lilo after six weeks in cooler climes, when it hit the press that the two countries were responsible for airstrikes against Libya.

Every now and then, someone back home asks me if it’s safe where we live. And I always reply: Yes! Absolutely. Apart from the roads, I feel safer in Dubai than I ever did in London. But, I’ll admit, the UAE’s decision to deploy its air force in Libya left me wondering if the intervention would escalate hostilities in the region.

The air strikes were hugely significant in heralding a more muscular foreign policy out of Abu Dhabi (which has traditionally always taken a conciliatory, mediating role). It was a new, more assertive – and as yet untested – position for the UAE.

Then I got sidetracked by the children starting school and forgot all about it.
Until the other night, when, at precisely 4.40am, it sounded like World War 3 was breaking out right above us.

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Fright in the night: Buzzed (into oblivion, it felt)

Stirred from a deep slumber, I heard the most almighty noise – the deafening drone of jet engines surely heading straight for the house. DH was away, there was no one to grab in terror. All I could do was listen to the crazy loud noise and wonder if I was about to hear (or experience) a terrible crash.

The next day, there was a thread about the low-flying plane on our community’s forum, and I learned that the disturbance had woken hundreds of people up. One mum, who was feeding her baby, said she held on to her infant for dear life; another described her baby as wide-eyed with fear. A two-year-old woke up screaming. (See! To all those who slept right through it, I’m not exaggerating – it really did sound like a plane about to screech into the ground.)

Or was it a fighter jet? On a mission? Of course, the speculation started: “The Australian air force is now based at the military airfield behind our compound. They’re flying to north Iraq to attack Isis,” one post declared.

I carried on reading with baited breath. And finally got to the bottom of it: it was an old Russian cargo aircraft. We hear them frequently in our patch of the desert, but this one sounded even louder than usual because it was becoming airborne very cumbersomely in our direction.

Just the Russians rattling our villas, then. Phew!

A growing boy’s insatiable appetite

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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?

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 overweight families to lose weight, Dubai style

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.

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.

Travel post: Redefining the Scenic Route

Perched high above the Shenandoah Valley, in America’s dreamy Blue Ridge Mountains, Skyline Drive offers impressive views at every bend, with plenty of outdoorsy activities along the way.
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If there’s one thing Son2 is scared of it’s bears. So you can imagine that a little teasing went on this summer, when we visited Virginia’s Shenandoah National Park, for the much-needed relaxing part of our US trip.

And, quite honestly, I could have moved into the mountain cabin we rented and embarked on a new career as a park ranger, wandering around the forests and hollows of the vast, almost whimsical park. According to local lore, Shenandoah was named for a Native American word meaning ‘Daughter of the Stars.’ Whether or not this is true, there’s no doubt it’s one of the prettiest places in the US.

Shenandoah National Park’s scenic roadway, Skyline Drive, follows the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains for 105 miles, and it was this main artery that we intended to drive. Slowly. The speed limit is 35 mph, and people stick to it. Shaking off our UAE driving habits, we rolled down the windows, felt the breeze and experienced every curve and turn of the spectacular drive.

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Rock climbers: Life on the edge

Along the route, there are 75 overlooks offering stunning views of the Shenandoah Valley to the west or the rolling hills of the Piedmont to the east. Each stop is a visual feast, and beckons you to park. Mountaintops have always appealed to me, and to see as far as the eye allows (not to mention witness rock climbers bravely hanging off the cliff-edges) is an awe-inspiring and humbling experience all at once.

The park staff deliberately leave the roadsides unmowed so wildflowers put on a show all year long. June’s display of azaleas is said to be spectacular, and cardinal flowers, black-eyed Susans and goldenrod keep the colour blooming right into autumn.

We visited in summer, when the ridge wears its mantle of deep greens. Birds were nesting, and we kept our eyes open for the resident wildlife, including deer, black bear, wild turkey and a host of other woodland animals that call Shenandoah home and regularly cross Skyline Drive in their daily travels (hence the low speed limit).

We were also told to look out for white-tailed deer fawns and bear cubs, which can be spotted in summer as they investigate their leafy environment. Although much to Son2’s relief, the bears stayed away.

Road to the top
Easily accessible from Washington DC, Skyline Drive was built by President Franklin Roosevelt’s three million-strong ‘Tree Army’ of unemployed young men during the Great Depression of the 1930s, and is today traversed by RVs, camping trailers, horse trailers and daytrippers, as well as holidaymakers such as ourselves looking for easy hiking trails to do with our boys (there are more than 500 miles of trails to choose from in total, catering to all standards).

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Luray Caverns: My big boy and moi (being careful not to stand underneath those pointy stalactites)

If we’re lucky enough to visit again, I’d choose autumn, to see the brilliant fall leaves as Virginia’s mountains turn a kaleidoscope of colours and migratory birds fly southwards down the ridge. Or maybe I’d pick winter, to view the frozen sculptures created by tumbling waterfalls.

Other than a couple of short hikes, we unfortunately didn’t have time to partake in any fishing, horseback riding or canoeing, but we did spend a day at the town of Luray, famous for its world-class caverns. Containing amazing natural formations, such as the ‘Throne Room’, ‘Giant’s Hall’, and ‘Fried Eggs’, the caverns are breathtaking. After all those fabulous bird’s-eye views, I highly recommend going underground – not least because you hear the sound of a ‘Stalacpipe Organ’, hyped as the biggest musical instrument in the world. Beat that Dubai!

The forest cabin with a view: Complete with fairies and woodland sprites at the bottom of the garden

The forest cabin with a stunning view from the two-storey deck at the back: Complete with fairies and woodland sprites at the bottom of the garden (to keep an eye on the boys!)

A maid interview overheard

As anyone who lives in Dubai will know, timing is everything when visiting a mall on a Friday. Get there in the morning, and you’ll have a pleasant experience; arrive later – anytime after about 3 – and you might as well be committing retail hara–kiri.

It was around lunchtime, and you could see the mall population visibly swelling. I popped into Café Nero and, while queuing, realised that an interview was taking place at a nearby table.

The interviewer was blonde, and wore a pea green summer dress. She looked polished and shiny, with eloquent eyebrows and oversized earrings. Across her nose, I noticed the faintest sprinkling of freckles. She had a kind smile, and was leaning attentively towards her interviewee.

“Do you cook,” she asked.

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So when can you start?

The replies were more softly spoken. But the answer must have been yes.

“You can cook Arabic food too, that’s great!” she said, her hand fluttering upwards to push a strand of hair behind her ear.

On the other side of the table sat a petite, dark-haired Filipina lady who you could tell from her body language was nervous, but was being put at ease by the friendly potential Madame.

There was a pause. There are always pauses in these interviews, what with the language difference and the awkwardness you feel when you’re not used to hiring domestic help.

“Can you iron?” she asked next, again perfectly politely.

I could see that they were sizing each other up. The blonde thinking: Will she fit in? Could she make the myriad of tiny logistical manoeuvres that make up my life run a little smoother? Would I feel comfortable having her watch my kids while I’m working, or would I feel strangely untethered? Could she run the household while I’m gone like a Swiss watch?

And her potential employee thinking: Have I got the job? What are the hours, pay? She’s an expat so more time off! Cable TV? A laptop? My own room? I really hope they don’t have pets!

As much as I wanted to hear the outcome of this interview (especially the words You’re hired!), I had to leave before they’d finished chatting. I walked by and heard a shared giggle – a genuine bubble of laughter that floated above the table. And I found myself thinking, I really hope it works out for both of them.

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.

Banned in the UAE!

The other night, I did some work on my blog, behind the scenes. I spiffed up the ‘About’ page, and a couple of the other sections. I also knocked out a quick post – nothing controversial, just a conversation that had taken place with my sons at bedtime.

So you can imagine my surprise when I woke up in the morning and discovered my blog had been banned in the UAE!

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My ban came in the same week that the UAE cracked down on applying makeup while driving and taking selfies at the wheel

Not the whole website, it turned out, but the latest post (below if you’re online). If you click on it in the UAE, you get the Du surf safely message, telling you that the website you’re trying to access contains prohibited material (!) Don’t worry, I’m not writing this from behind bars [laughs nervously].

I’ve no idea what I’d written that was so offensive, but I took this to be a blogging milestone – at a vast quantum leap of the imagination, could it put Circles in the Sand in the same category as the FHM and Maxim websites, which are blocked in the UAE, I wondered? Or, at an even further stretch, The Wolf of Wall Street? Martin Scorsese’s film had 45 minutes of unsuitable content cut, and in places didn’t even make sense. My blog only had about 300 words censored, but I do often wonder if my late-night ramblings about the non-stop party that motherhood is (joke!) are coherent.

Given that I’m pretty sure it comes across in my humble blog that I genuinely love living in Dubai, I can only imagine the censorship software was feeling a little oversensitive – perhaps trying to get its point across to all the newbies here in time for the new school year, and that it will gradually lose interest. Like a really bad teacher.

So, here goes … testing … testing … testing: I’m gingerly pushing Publish and hoping it was a one-off glitch. Fingers crossed. If you don’t hear from me again, I’m writing my novel in jail.