Category Archives: Family

The green-eyed monster

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green-eyed-monster

“Enjoy Sydney,” I said tersely, and I did mean it; it’s just that I wished I was going too. Like I do nearly every time my DH goes on a trip.

Yes, I can be a jealous wife – and it’s a horrid, energy-sapping emotion that I wish I could banish. And, I’m going to be completely uncensored here: it gets worse when you have children. And they’re dangling off you like deranged Christmas ornaments and depending on you for everything.

It was probably just a bad day, but my boys were awful today. AWFUL. I woke up with a small knot of dread in my stomach. I knew the morning would bring with it dark forces: the battle over homework. Getting my youngest to sit down at his wordlist is like trying to trap a will-o’-the-wisp. The older one is in cahoots and just as bad.

But, actually, the homework went OK; it was later in the day that I plummeted into the doldrums. Son2 bailed on a class he’d previously begged me to pay up-front for by screaming all the way there. His punishment – not being allowed to see a friend he’d already spent all morning with – caused his tantrums to crescendo, becoming a punishment for us too, and my equally strong-headed Son1 made a big scene about something else.

By dinnertime, my nerves were frayed, and the work I was meant to be completing still wasn’t done. When DH, nervously, asked what we were doing for dinner, I lost it. “They won’t eat anything I make anyway,” I raged, referring to a lasagna I’d cooked the other night (containing mushrooms) that had actually made Son1 vomit at the table. “Food I’ve spent ages preparing just gets thrown back at me!”

So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I wished my beloved (who does so much for us at home) a good trip as he went to bed at 6pm. I might even have told him he was lucky, and that I wished I could get away. If I’m honest, it’s not the layover in Sydney I’m jealous of (although it is one of my favourite cities); it’s the minutiae of everyday life and the juggling I want a break from.

“Have you seen the state of our cat?” DH asked the other day. “She really needs a bath.” “Look at Son1’s fingernails. You really need to cut them.” Then get the nail clippers. I’m pretty sure you can cut nails too.

Then there’s the Rasputin ants in the kitchen; the two-tonne grocery runs to feed ravenous boys on top of full-time work in media; the fact they’re getting up at 5.30am to play on the Xbox and are like grisly, overtired bears when I put them to bed – not to mention the never-ending logistics of the car pool I’m indebted to because I can’t get Son2 home from school when I’m at the office.

And don’t get me started about the school projects my older son can’t do himself, that last week saw me up until midnight making a beard for an Ernest Shackleton costume. (When do the costumes end?) I can’t be the only working mum who spends lunchtimes sneakily printing pages off the office printer when the bosses aren’t looking?

If there are any men reading this who want to know what a woman’s mind is like, imagine a browser with 2,671 tabs open.

I’ll feel better in the morning, when I’ve laid the green-eye monster to rest and am getting on with everything – because all this stuff, it’s just life, isn’t it? And it’s nearly the end of term.

Adult words

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The word is used in so many songs, but I think it was the rapper, musician and horse dancer Psy who made the biggest impression on my children.

And, now, I’ve just realised, I have to write this blog post without actually mentioning the word, just in case it sends people to my corner of the internet for the wrong reason.

So bear with me.

Psy’s viral hit Gangnam Style didn’t only become the first YouTube video to reach two billion views, it also led to millions of primary school-aged children reciting (endlessly) the lyrics, “Hey, s**y lady”.

This, of course, then evolved to my boys saying, at the top of their voices, and usually at an inopportune moment: “Mummy’s s**y!” … *Awkward*

"Erm, ask Daddy!"

“Erm, ask Daddy!”

“Do you know what that means?” I asked my oldest.

“Well, it’s quite hard to define,” he replied.

I nearly choked on my tea. What, on earth, was he going to say next? Is it possible an 8-year-old could articulate the very essence of **x appeal?

“Daddy says it means beautiful,” says Son1.

“Or I love you,” chipped in Son2.

“I don’t know exactly what it means,” Son1 continued (PHEW!), “but I think I’ve seen it on TV.”

“Well, it’s an adult word,” I told them. “You shouldn’t say Mummy’s s**y.”

The sound of a drumroll echoed in my ears the way it always does when my children ask me hard-to-answer questions about the universe. I braced myself, ready to explain it was ‘complicated’.

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

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.

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?

Travel post: Muscat-eers for Easter

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That's one big sandcastle!

That’s one big sandcastle!

It’s a trip that would be rude not to do from Dubai. Oman is right on our doorstep – you don’t even have to fly there. Except we did, thinking we’d save time (39-minute flight! It took far longer to board and taxi).

The first thing you notice on arrival is there’s none of the bling found in Dubai. Nor is it as organised. Passengers are herded to the long and winding queue for visas, and maybe because it was Friday, things moved slowly.

This could also be because, in Oman, people don’t rush like they do in Dubai. The pace of life is altogether more sedate – even the driving, which is (slightly) less aggressive, probably because there’s far less traffic on the roads.

We picked up our hire car and discovered that most parts of the city are easy to reach. Not far from the airport, you sail past the magnificent, sandstone Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque – big enough to house up to 20,000 worshippers and famous for the enormous 8.5-tonne chandelier hanging inside.

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The grand mosque also contains the world’s second-largest hand-woven carpet

Near our hotel, we came across another splendid building – the first opera house in the Gulf. Its opening in 2011 put the capital firmly on the map. Oman’s ruler Sultan Qaboos is passionate about classical music and his desire to develop this art form in the sultanate culminated in a classic Islamic-style Royal Opera House, made from Omani desert rose stone and stucco wall coverings, and surrounded by landscaped gardens.

Topped with minarets, Muttrah stretches along an attractive corniche

Topped with minarets, Muttrah stretches along an attractive corniche


Muscat itself is actually three smaller towns that have grown together over time: Muscat, the ‘walled city’ and site of the royal palaces; Muttrah, originally a fishing village; and Ruwi, the commercial and diplomatic centre. On our first evening, we drove into Muttrah as the sun set and the evening prayers got underway. At the old port, we saw the Sultan’s rather impressive super-yacht docked at sea, and admired the rows of traditional white homes with intricately carved balconies, stained glass art and elegant eaves.

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Tempting scents waft through the souk


Opposite the port is the ancient – and unmissable – Muttrah souk, where there are bargains to be had, especially sumptuous pashminas, gold jewellery, frankincense, spices and perfumes. “This is just like the Madinat – but real,” I found myself saying to DH, as hawkers touted their wares and I gazed at the stalls set up beneath gorgeous Islamic architecture.

The next day, we’d booked a speedboat trip to spot dolphins (and the occasional whale). This spectacle offers the opportunity to not only see some of the leaping pods of dolphins that live in the Gulf of Oman, but also to view the rugged coastline from the sea. For our boys, witnessing lively, grey bottlenose dolphins in flight was the highlight of our visit, while in my books, meandering along the coast taking in the craggy scenery was equally unforgettable.

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Oman boasts more than 2,000 kilometres of coastline

No trip to Oman is complete without visiting a wadi – a (dried-up) riverbed and lush, green oasis of palm trees, grasses and flowering shrubs – so to round our day off we drove out to a wadi not far from Muscat, where we found at least a dozen car owners washing their vehicles with the trickle of clear, cool water.

I thoroughly recommend Oman for an authentic getaway. With its mountain ranges, dramatic landscapes, warm hospitality and old-world appeal, it’s a refreshing reminder of a bygone age and one of the best places in the Gulf to experience traditional Arabia.

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The fort-dotted, mountainous interior

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Paddling in the wadi

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.