Hannah’s shoebox project

Last week, an extraordinary eight-year-old who overcame serious illness brought happiness to 56 labourers toiling in the heat outside our desert compound. This is the story of Hannah’s incredible spirit

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German-born Hannah and her younger brother with the men who help build Dubai

Standing in bright sunshine, outside a dusty, hastily erected camp, a very special little girl brought beaming smiles to the faces of the construction workers gathered around her. “Thank you,” she told them, speaking off the cuff to at least 30 men in hard hats and overalls, “for making our road.”

It’s not every day that labourers in Dubai – most of whom have their own children living in countries such as Bangladesh and Pakistan – get to meet a blue-eyed, blonde haired little angel like Hannah. The workers at the back craned their necks to see, and everyone listened intently, even if they didn’t fully understand the English, to hear what Hannah, aged 8, had to say.

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Hannah presented the gifts individually

After her impromptu speech, delivered with the confidence of a child much older, there were more smiles as Hannah handed out gifts, 56 in total, to the crowd. The bags, crammed full of goodies, were the culmination of an initiative she had dreamt up and organised herself. Quite extraordinary. Except we already knew that about Hannah – who, five years ago, beat cancer.

Battling illness
Hannah, from Munich, Germany, was almost three when her mother was given the devastating news that she had a childhood cancer called Wilms’ tumour. A type of kidney cancer, it affects 500 children a year in the US. “I took her to the doctor because she had a swollen belly,” says her mum Kate Mestermann, a midwife. “It wasn’t all that noticeable, but my mother kept telling me to get it checked out.”

And thank goodness she did, because within days cancer had been diagnosed. “The doctors sat me down and told me,” says Kate, recalling the shock. “My husband, a pilot, was away, upgrading to become a captain. I didn’t tell him that day because he was about to do his final check ride. When he called afterwards to let me know he’d passed, I had to tell him our daughter had cancer.”

Hannah had chemotherapy for several weeks, followed by surgery to remove the kidney. As her other kidney showed signs of developing the same tumour, she then underwent another 20 weeks of grueling chemo. “She lost all her hair and suffered from sickness,” says her Dad Marc. “It became daily life for us, to be honest, but anyone with us who saw her suffering the chemo side effects was quite shocked.”

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Shopping done and bags packed

Five years later and now living in Dubai, cancer survivor Hannah is a healthy, happy little girl, who knows that having beaten this illness, she’s got what it takes to tackle whatever life throws at her. “The saying, ‘God won’t give you more than you can handle’ definitely applies to our daughter,” says Marc. She also displays a remarkable and highly developed sensitivity to others – personality traits that led to her shoebox project idea.

“We were driving along our compound road, and she looked out at the workers, who for months have been building a new access road through our patch of desert, and said, ‘We should do something to thank them.’ It was all her idea,” says Kate.

Shortly after that, Hannah’s shoebox project started taking shape. She started with a mind map, showing how she’d raise money, then, with her parents’ help, set about fundraising. “She approached the managers of our local stores to ask them to donate raffle prizes, and sent emails,” says Kate. “Hannah also went door-to-door around the compound, selling cookies, brownies and cupcakes that we’d made. In total, she collected 3,800dhs.”

It was then time to hit the retail store Carrefour, with a lengthy grocery list. Items she purchased to put in each bag included rice, lentils, sunflower oil, sugar, teabags and other food items; toiletries such as razors, shaving cream, toothpaste, soap and deodorant; and pillow cases and sheets.

If you don’t live in Dubai, you might wonder why people here would need basic items like this, but the truth is Dubai’s labourers are paid a pittance. They pay employment agencies to get here – to escape the poverty of their home countries – and instead toil for low pay in the extreme heat of one of the world’s richest economies. All, or nearly all, of the money they earn – which can be as little as £150 a month – is sent back to their families. They live in crowded labour camps, where facilities are basic, and work long shifts (you can read more about this here).

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Cancer survivor Hannah is full of determination

Whilst it’s clearly very wrong that their employers think it’s okay to bring them over here and pay them so little that charity drives are needed to provide essentials, you only have to see the radiant smiles on their faces when strangers show them kindness to understand how appreciated charity boxes are.

“It was wonderful to see the different reactions and expressions on their faces when we did the handover,” says Kate. “And Hannah took it all in her stride – that’s just how she is. Her next project is already on her mind.”

I’m sure I speak for everyone in our compound when I say we’re all moved by Hannah’s story. As one resident put it, “What a great thing! I wish more people in the world could be as super sensitive as you sweet angel.”

A mother’s illusion

“Mummy, when you went to the hospital to be chopped up, did they have a party?”

It was a question I wasn’t expecting to hear from my youngest son. I knew what he was referring to – my surgery last week, but good Lord, what on earth did he think had happened? Some kind of ultimate mummy sacrifice?

On the day, they didn’t even know where I was going. I think they just thought I was at work a long time.

But, of course, when I got home, we had to explain why they couldn’t jump on me; why I had a ‘big ouch’ that hurt and why I couldn’t carry LB or even do bear hugs.

“A party?” I responded. “Erm, no, it wasn’t a party LB.”

“Oh.” [looks disappointed]. “But wasn’t there a wabbit? A white one?”

And for my next trick, mum will pull a white rabbit out of a hat

For my next trick, mum will pull a rabbit out of a hat

“There was no rabbit, just the doctors, and nurses – rabbits aren’t allowed. Sorry darling.”

“But they chopped you in half, didn’t they?” [makes sawing motion].

And the penny dropped: he thought I was the (glamorous? ha!) female assistant in a magic show, the lady who gets put in a box and apparently sawn in half.

The one who might just look like she’s playing a supporting role to the magician, but is, in fact, making the mechanics of the illusion work.

And, actually, come to think of it, that IS exactly how I feel in my role as mother much of the time. Thanks LB, you hit the nail on the head!

The golden years

I do love the fact that, in retirement, my parents are busier than ever. My mum has been visiting this week, and she’s literally squeezing it in between family engagements at home.

“Why are you only staying five days,” my older son keeps asking. “Last time, you stayed seven.” (he’s keeping tally)

“And where’s Grandad?” (Kids like a full set, don’t they? But Dad couldn’t come as he had commitments for the various charities he’s involved with, plus he’s fitting in FOUR rounds of golf.)

But it’s not just keeping busy that fills my parents’ time – my Mum is continually doing things to the house, and if I haven’t been home for a few months, it’s amazing what changes.

“Well, the guest bathroom is finished, and we’ve got new brown, leather sofas in the living room,” she told me today.

“Then there’s the traffic light in the garage.”

Who knew that British driveways near stations are paved with gold?

Who knew that British driveways near stations are paved with gold?

Seriously?” I replied.

“Yes, Dad’s new car is very long. The traffic light changes from green to amber to red, telling him exactly when to stop so he doesn’t crash into my freezer.

“And we have a Porsche parked outside now.”

“A WHAT!” I exclaimed (I mean, if it was Dubai, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid, but my parents live in suburban England where I presume those kind of cars still cost a fortune).

“Yes,” she smiled. “Parkatmyhouse.com. We registered on the website, and a young man turns up in his Porsche at 7 every morning, leaves it in our drive and walks to the station.

“Never see him, but presume he’s one of those, you know, city types.”

What an ingenious way to turn living in the commuter belt into a little earner.

The working mum’s costume fail

Tomorrow is book character day at school – the day school is invaded by a mini fictional force made up of Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Angelina Ballerina and other favourite storybook characters.

Sigh.

It’s all part of book week, during which we’re invited to send in money so our kids can spend it at a book fair (or attempt to buy crisps instead, as I suspect my son might try), take part in the Gazillion Minutes of Reading @ Home initiative (okay, it’s a million, not gazillion) and come up with a costume for the dress-up day.

Don’t get me wrong. I do think all this is great – I absolutely love reading, and trying to impart a love of reading to my sons has been really rewarding, as has watching BB learn to read.

It’s the dress-up part that’s bothering me. Because tomorrow BB will go to school wearing a pair of too-small yellow plastic trousers (part of an old fireman’s outfit), a T-shirt emblazoned with a train and a kids’ pilots hat – the dishevelled assembled sum of which is meant to make him look like a steam train driver from his Flying Scotsman book.

Not an accurate depiction of the blogger

Not an accurate depiction of the blogger

Even he knows it’s a crumb-y costume. And I know there will be outfits that mums will have spent ages making. Costumes that originated from Pinterest and were then lovingly hand sewn and accessorised.

Still, it’s not that I didn’t try. I’m just having a crazy busy week, with a new freelance job (ironically, for the PR company handling the Sharjah Children’s Reading Festival, which we dragged the boys to this weekend and STILL failed to come home with a suitable book) and I haven’t had a spare minute.

After work today, I sped into our local bookstore, practically setting the paperbacks alight, to try to buy a Fireman Sam book, to go with the old fireman costume I knew was hanging in the cupboard (they not only have to dress up, but also take the book in).

“Do you have Fireman Sam?” I asked the man in the bookshop hopefully.

“No,” he replied after glancing briefly at his computer screen.

“How about any book about firemen, perhaps?” I tried.

“No, nothing,” he said, shaking his head (and I’m sure he laughed, sensing my desperation).

I tried to persuade BB he could wear his Halloween costume instead. “Look, we can use a pen to colour in the skeleton so it looks like a normal pirate’s outfit,” I trilled, as he looked on glumly.

“Or maybe your brother’s spiderman top will fit.”

“That’s a film, mum.”

“I want to go as a dog,” he finally said, getting excited at last. “Floppy the dog from my phonics book. Can you make a dog costume? Please, mummy, please make me a dog suit?”

And mums who work and also leave things like this to the eleventh hour will know exactly what the answer to that request is.

Silent Sunday: So what do you DO all day?

Ask any stay-at-home mother this question at your peril! My experience of SAHM-hood was a challenge, and certainly jam-packed with chores, errands, running the household and, the part that makes it all worthwhile, spreading the love around.

So I really laughed when my friend K, a fellow pilot’s wife, showed us her five-year-old’s adorable drawings, depicting what she thinks her mom and dad do all day.

So I really laughed when my friend K, a fellow pilot’s wife, showed us her five-year-old’s adorable drawings, depicting what she thinks her mom and dad do all day.

In the 5 minutes between school runs, grocery shopping, food prep, organising maintenance, yelling at the bank, parents’ meetings maybe!

In the 5 minutes between school runs, grocery shopping, food prep, organising maintenance, yelling at the bank and parents’ meetings, maybe!

RIP Hanny-Wanny

The hamster is no more. I can’t even begin to tell you what happened. Let’s just say, I’ve vowed that, other than our cat, we won’t have any more pets until after the summer.

Summer 2018.

Our astounding failure at rodent petcare aside, I’ve been answering some tricky questions about hamster heaven.

“Is it on a cloud?” (yes, very high up); “What do they do up there?” (they’ve got wheels, tunnels, exercise balls and all sorts); “How do they get there?” (erm, fly); “Can you see them go up?” (no, it’s too fast).

Hamster heaven: The fun never ends

Hamster heaven: The fun never ends

And the question that had me stumped: “Which was the first hamster to go to hamster heaven?”

Then there’s the difficult, thorny issue my older son is really angry about: “Why did the vet kill Hanny-Wanny?”, followed by a dramatic outburst of tears.

He was surprisingly attached to his hamster, despite the brevity of it all (two weeks!), and even my DH wouldn’t sign the euthanasia paperwork, leaving that one on my conscience.

But it was the kindest thing after the unspeakable, and the vet (who was gorgeous!) was very understanding.

“It’s a good idea to replace the hamster,” he mentioned helpfully as we said goodbye to dear Hanny-Wanny, “for zee emotions.”

“And, for boys of this age group,” he said, glancing at BB and LB standing silently and solemnly by the examining table, “I suggest a guinea pig. They’re a lot more robust.”

On finding out your kids know nothing about pet care – a.k.a. parent FAIL

“NOOO, don’t drop her,” I yelled, steam coming out my ears. “Put her back in her cage THIS MINUTE!”

The boys had been mysteriously quiet upstairs for over an hour, and I thought I’d better check on them. Turns out I was right to be concerned. They were on the top bunk, about to let their new hamster kamikaze over the edge onto the rug below.

(The equivalent of jumping off a 20-storey building, I’d imagine).

O.M.G!

For some reason, I’d thought it would be in-bred in my children to be kind to animals. Surely? I mean, I can’t even kill an ant without feeling guilty – that must have rubbed off?

Last week, when the hamster arrived, the boys’ excitement knew no bounds. Here’s a photo. BB likes using my phone to take ‘jail bird’ pictures of her behind bars.

They’d already been through stages of wanting a mouse, then a rat (spare me, please!), so fulfilling their rodent-owning desires by adopting a hamster seemed a great idea in comparison

They’d already been through stages of wanting a mouse, then a rat (spare me, please!), so fulfilling their rodent-owning desires by adopting a hamster seemed a great idea

Before you tell me to start saving now for the years of psychotherapy BB’s probably in for, I should add that this was a much-wanted pet.

And, as members of the rodent family go, she’s really very cute, snuffling her way around and propping herself up onto her back legs to sniff the air.

For the first four or five days, the children treated her like royalty, carrying her cage downstairs every day and setting it in the middle of the living area as a centerpiece. They renamed her Hanny-Wanny and made her a selection of toys to swat out of pieces of cardboard and string.

The only time they suddenly weren’t interested in her (and disappeared, in fact) was when it was time to clean out her cage (“We don’t have gloves, mummy!”)

But, then, I realised they might be getting a bit carried away. A never-ending procession of friends were invited over for a meet-and-greet, and they started doing more than just putting her in her exercise ball.

What I’m trying to say is they didn’t flick through a book on Keeping Pets to find some hamster-friendly ideas. They looked on YouTube, where they found video clips of hamster mazes made out of Lego. And then copied what they saw.

DH and I put a stop to the hamster maze game, and thought everything was under control. Until we caught them red-handed on the top bunk, the fun gone way too far, about to send her on a cordless-bungee jump.

We were furious, believe me. I attempted to teach them about empathy, while DH raged: “She’s NOT a cheap Chinese toy. You HAVE to look after her. If anything happens to her, you won’t get another one.”

BB started crying, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks, his lips quivering – at least showing some remorse – and begged us to believe he’d look after her better. “I promise,” he whimpered. “I’m the hamster’s daddy, we won’t do it again.” [his eyes welling up once more]

Then, to our dismay (revealing he thought she would be replaced), whispered: “But won’t she lay an egg soon?”

Quite honestly, I wasn’t expecting any of that. I’m now doing all I can to make sure this hamster isn’t the brightest two weeks of my children’s life.

“Move over Mum!”

“Just wait till they’re 15 and think all their friends know better than you,” my mother-in-law once said, locking eyes with me.

Or maybe it was 11, or 9, I can’t quite remember.

Whichever age it was, she was right – the signs are all there.

My oldest son’s just got home from school, and within milli-seconds of him bursting through the front door – the school bus still pulling away with a growl – he always asks: “Mummy, can M come over? And J too? We arranged it on the bus.”

It’s one of the kiddie-perks of living in a compound – his friends are literally on the doorstep, or over the wall. The furthest away is N block. “All you have to do is call J’s mummy to say it’s okay!” he’ll say, bringing me my phone, then vanishing out the door to call for M.

From my 7yo, I’m guessing this is normal behaviour, but I’m beginning to wonder if my 4yo isn’t 4 going on 11.

He has another week of holiday and, with his brother already back at school, we’re scratching around for things to do. The past three days have seen some apocalyptic weather in Dubai. Sandstorms have swept through the region, bringing lightning, rain and howling winds. If Tom Cruise had appeared in a swirl of dust to battle the storm with perfectly groomed hair, I wouldn’t have been surprised. It was wild.

"I have ways, LB, to make you have fun!"

“I have ways, LB, to make you have fun!”

But, today, it was absolutely gorgeous. The storms had cleared the air, and the rain had washed all the sand away. The temperature was a perfect 26 degrees, and I was determined we should make the most of the freshly laundered weather (with summer coming, such days are numbered).

“Let’s go to the beach LB,” I called out, while running round the house grabbing towels, sun-tan lotion, buckets, spades, etc.

He looked up at me, and with a quizzical expression enquired: “Who are we meeting?”

“No-one LB, it’s just you and me.” (thinking how nice, some one-on-one time).

I might as well have told him we were meeting the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang – he shook his head and lost interest straight away.

“Okay, LB, you can play with the iPad in the car, but NOT on the beach,” I bribed said. “Deal.”

He reluctantly came, after I promised we wouldn’t be too long. We jumped the rolling waves, I swung him round in the frothy swell until my arms nearly dislocated, and pushed him on a swing for at least 15 mins to finish my arm muscles off. I swear we had fun (and I did get to work on my tan too).

On the way home, I asked chirpily: “LB, that was good, wasn’t it?”

No answer – then, “Erm, yes,” in a small voice.

“Can D come over?”

I get the hint, I do.

Schmaltz alert: I love you all the way to…

Several months before BB was born, our realtor in the States gave me a gift: the children’s book Guess How Much I Love You.

It was the first story I read to BB and quickly became part of our nightly ritual – a.k.a., my desperate attempts to get him to go to sleep.

How did we go from this at bedtime to a sneaky go at Minecraft under the covers?

How did we go from this at bedtime to a sneaky game of Minecraft under the covers?

The book still holds a special place in my heart because, just as Little Nutbrown Hare thinks he’s found a way to measure the boundaries of love, the children and I like to fondly one-up each other at bedtime.

“I love you all the way to the moon,” BB will say.

“I love you all the way to Pluto and back,” I’ll respond.

And so on, until we find ourselves doing circles round the Universe.

Recently, though, there’s been an uninvited guest at bedtime: the iPad. BB has managed to sneak it up to his top bunk a few times now to play games under the covers (and with a BYOD – Bring Your Own Device – programme at school, it won’t be long until it finds its way into his school bag too).

My 4yo is fast following in BB’s electronic footsteps, and took our little game to a whole new dimension tonight.

“I love you Mummy,” he called out in the dark. “I love you all the way,” he said, pausing for a second to think how to outdo me…“all the way to the highest level.”

“C’mon! MOVE!”

A little problem developed this week – just of the frustrating variety, so nothing serious, but I think we’ve ALL been there.

It started on Mother’s Day. Sunday is a school/work day for us and it began like any other, with the addition of my parents staying.

I’d parked the car to drop LB at school, and that’s when it hit me between the eyes: A Mother’s Day special.

head-strong someecards“I’m not getting out,” LB huffed.

“Oh yes you are,” I replied.

“Oh no I’m not!” “Yes you are”; “No”; “YES” [possibly said with a hiss]. Back and forth we went, like a game of ping-pong.

I won this battle, but it was just the prelude. He refused to walk through the mosque (strange phobia about only taking this short-cut if no-one else is there), then stopped at the edge of the sizeable, grassy field we have to cross to reach the right side of the school.

He crossed his little arms, and planted his feet firmly in the grass: “Too far. NOT walking.”

And, believe me, I tried everything. I talked nicely. I got cross. I gave him an evil look (apologies: way too early, knackered, lost the will to parent). I walked all the way across the field myself, thinking he’d follow. He didn’t.

After being locked in Round 2 for five minutes or so, and getting late by now, another mum, who happened to also be a teacher, came to the rescue and distracted the inner monster LB enough to allow me to drag – yes, drag – him to his classroom.

The next day was of course groundhog day (as was the next day). But, happily, this morning, I found the solution! And it was nothing more than parking next to the big yellow school buses, which not only meant a slightly shorter walk but also made it fun – for the four-year-old, at least.

Who knew? That, as a parent, you’d have to conjure up fun and games at 7.45 in the morning. Talk about absolutely.blimin.clueless!

The route he has to walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can't be more than 250m

The route we walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can’t be more than 250m