Category Archives: Family

Parents are JUST like rock stars

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I saw this on Facebook today and thought I’d share it here as suddenly assuming rock-star status has done wonders for my evening. Enjoy!

How being a parent is like being a rock star:

The eye bags add to the up-all-night rock-star look

The eye bags add to the up-all-night rock-star look

– Endless hours on the road with too many people in the vehicle

– Your job is to entertain a room full of loud, writhing maniacs

– If you do your job well, people ask you when you’ll produce more

– You ask yourself daily: “Am I tripping? Or did I really just see that?”

– Your name is always shouted, never spoken

– Someone is always pulling at your clothes

– Groupies follow you to the bathroom

– There’s a different person in your bed every night. Sometimes even two

– At the end of your work day, you’re sweaty and your hair is a mess

– Screaming is just part of the job

Thank you to Kim at letmestartbysayingblog.com, who wrote this and whose blog I’ve just discovered.

Apples and peers

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My DH finally bought an iPhone the other day. I say “finally” because he’s held out for a very.long.time.

His five-year-old Nokia was, in his mind, perfectly adequate, but it started to show signs of ageing – and I (gently) suggested it was time it was euthanised.

“It’s got to go! It barely works!” I urged [okay, maybe I wasn’t very gentle]. “You need a smartphone. How about an iPhone for Christmas? I’ll buy you one.”

Which really means he’d buy it, because he pays the credit card bill, but he reluctantly agreed this was a good idea. He wasn’t sure what to opt for, though. An iPhone or the Samsung Galaxy?

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While mine is practically attached to me, DH isn’t so sure

He went back and forth. Christmas passed. Every day, I’d ask: “Well, shall we buy your present today?” But he was still deciding, still weighing up the pros and cons of the iPhone versus its peer.

I’d raise my eyebrows, absolutely astonished that anyone could take so long to buy one of the most artfully polished gadgets anyone has ever designed (I’m an Apple kind-of gal).

The new year arrived and DH still didn’t have his Christmas present. Our shopping styles couldn’t be more different, like apples and pears, I realised (his, measured, restrained and thoughtful; mine impulsive, more like a hungry hyena – though, to be honest, I’ve known this for a decade).

At last, as the Dubai Shopping Festival started, I felt we were getting close. DH had read loads of reviews online, talked to a tech-savvy friend, visited several stores selling both rival phones, tried them out, and, finally, the stars had aligned.

He bought a gleaming black iPhone 4S, despite not being a convert to Apple at all. “You’ll love it,” I promised. “It’s worth the money.” [more than 2,000dhs, even though it’s not the latest model].

“I hope so,” he replied, yet to be won over. “The Samsung looked great.” [and must have looked even greater when DH discovered half his contacts had vanished].

Then, the very next day, the email arrived, on a community Yahoo group I belong to: “Brand-new Samsung Galaxy for sale. Won in a raffle and still in its box. 800dhs.”

I can’t tell him, can I? That if he’d waited just one more day…

Good (enough) housekeeping

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It’s not all that long ago that I worked on women’s magazines in London. Okay, it was a decade ago – and two countries ago – but sometimes it feels like yesterday.

As well as writing for several health and beauty titles, I was a magazine junkie. I literally gobbled them up. My London flat was crammed to the rafters with glossy magazines (Marie Claire, Red, Vogue), which I’d leaf through for ideas, their beautiful pages becoming progressively more dog-eared and tattered as the years went by.

Any space remaining in my single-girl flat was taken up with the freebies I received from PR companies. Eye creams, moisturisers, vitamins, hair products, makeup, body-firming lotions – you name it, you could probably find it in my bathroom.

Oh yes, there were benefits to working on magazines (dah-lings!), especially the pharmaceutical title I edited for a few years. I was plied with ‘gifts’ from big-budget drug companies, and swanned off on press trips abroad at the drop of a hat.

Smart cheats, easy fixes - what's not to love?

Smart cheats, easy fixes – what’s not to love?

But, today, things are different, aren’t they? I realised this while standing in line at the supermarket this morning.

The new issue of Good Housekeeping Middle East was out and I actually felt a ripple of anticipation. I picked it up. I put it back on the shelf. I picked it up again. The feeling of excitement was undeniable. So I tossed it in the trolley, on top of the broccoli.

Fifteen bags of groceries later, I was able to snatch 20 illicit minutes on the sofa with the January issue, while sipping tea and being used as a climbing frame by LB (there may have been some Maltesers in there too).

I pored over the page with the headline ‘Declutter Your Fridge’; read all the quick tips on freeing up shelf space (square, stackable containers are better than round ones – who knew!); I learnt that eggs stay fresher if you keep them in their carton, not the fridge’s built-in egg holder (a revelation!); I even drooled over some rather nice bathroom sets.

I sped-read an article on having too little time, and found myself engrossed in an interview with New York City lawyer-turned-writer Gretchen Rubin on getting into the right mindset for decluttering (bring it on!). Can you guess what exciting things I’ve been doing this week? Yes, clearing out our accumulated junk.

LB might have started gnawing on my leg by now he was so peckish, but I was inspired – 2013 will be the year I become a better housewife, I vowed. I will never be THAT person who moves unopened mail half-way across the world again.

Boy, how times (and taste in magazines) change!

Kidnapping Helicopter Mum’s DD

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A while ago, we met Organised Mum, whose fait accompli in getting her children ready for the new school year left us all vowing to iron the name-tags on earlier next time.

As a new term gets underway, there’s another mum I’d like to introduce you to. You all know her. She’s the mum who follows her young up slides, down plastic tubes and into the toilet. We all share her protective tendencies to varying degrees, and hover over our offspring at times, but let’s just say Helicopter Mum is hyper-present in her children’s lives.

You’ve just dropped your kids at school for the first day back and you’re skipping returning to the car – with four child-free hours ahead of you – when you bump into her.

She’s sobbing into her hankie. Big fat tears and Bobbi Brown mascara streaming down her crumpled face.

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Helicopter Mum does their schoolwork in her spare time

Your bolt for freedom screeches to a grinding halt and you stop to chat, aware that those four precious hours (in which you planned to knock out several chores in double-quick time, buy a week’s worth of groceries and get a blow-dry) are already slipping away.

“We had such a wonderful holiday,” she blubs, dabbing at her puffy eyes. “I just wasn’t ready for term to start again.”

She regales you with sniffly tales about the cookies they baked, the trip to see Santa (in Lapland) and the Christmas stories her children wrote, while you almost start twitching with the urge to get going.

Helicopter Mum brightens noticeably when you – to get her off the school grounds – suggest a (quick) coffee. It’s the death knell for that morning’s to-do list, but at least it stops her calling her oldest on his mobile – the world’s longest umbilical cord – at break time.

As you part ways, she’s distracted from missing her children – until disaster strikes. It’s pick-up time for the little ones and her car won’t start. She calls you, so breathy with distress you think at first it’s a prankster.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I’ll bring your DD home, no problem at all.”

But it is a problem, because her DD has never been in anyone else’s car before. It’s never been necessary, because Helicopter Mum is always there. She comes in a taxi, but by the time they reach the school (the driver not needing much encouragement to step on the gas), you’ve already grabbed her child.

You’re heading towards Emirates Road, with her DD doing hightails with her legs in her carseat she’s so excited, when you look in the mirror and realise Helicopter Mum is right behind you. She’s caught up in the taxi and is peering out the front window with an anxious, frightened look on her face.

You’re on her radar, and you realise you haven’t been terribly helpful at all. You’ve kidnapped her darling, bubble-wrapped DD. You wonder if you should stop to hand her child over, but, no, this little bit of separation will do them both good, you decide.

Her DD – singing along to the radio at the top of her voice and fluttering her eyelids at your son – certainly thinks so, even if Helicopter Mum sprouts a smattering of grey hairs on the way home.

Our turn for a break!

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School started again today – and I wouldn’t be being entirely honest if I didn’t admit to feeling more than a little pleased.

Okay, after whooping with relief, I’m now grinning from ear-to-ear and lying poleaxed on the sofa, feet up, magazine in one hand, TV remote in the other and the iPad back in my possession (I’m sure I’m not the only mum who multi-tasks while relaxing).

Don’t get me wrong – I (mostly) loved our countless outings to the beach, the park and the mall over the Christmas holidays; we had several successful playdates where the children didn’t injure or maim each other; and as well as spending time with my beloved cheeky cherubs, I finally caught up with mum friends I hadn’t seen in ages.

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I’m not moving, I’m really not!

I feel a lot more relaxed than I did before the holidays – and not particularly thrilled about getting back to crack-of-dawn starts (why do schools in Dubai have to begin at 7.45am?), packed lunches, homework and the cat-walk that is the Dubai school drop-off.

But, what I won’t miss is the need to keep your little ones entertained every day, for fourteen hours a day – with new ideas and venues required each day and no afternoon at Grannies to break up the holiday.

If you’re not a parent, I may need to explain:

It starts early, shortly after sunrise and while your tightly shut eyes are still flitting from side-to-side in dreamy REM sleep.

They come bounding in, full of the joys of the morning, and in unison chorus, “Mumm-eeee, what are we doing today?”

If you ignore them (say, you bury your head in your pillow), they simply try again… on a loop:

“Mumm-eeee, WHERE are we going today?”

They know you’ll have to think of somewhere to take them out to, because if you don’t, you’ll be the first to throw crockery at the wall.

There may then be a period of play (or perhaps TV) punctuated by sibling spats, but by 11am, the antsiness has started to build.

“Mumm-eee, I’m bored,” you’ll hear, followed by: “I SAID, I’m bored!”

“I’m SUPER bored!” the other one chips in, not to be outdone.

And, believe me, this isn’t music to your ears. So you trigger ‘the plan for the day’. You run round the house, packing beach bags, filling water bottles, wrapping snacks, looking for lost items. You give them a quick lunch so you don’t arrive somewhere with whiny, hungry children. You even get them to go to the toilet, find the swimming goggles and run a brush over your own hair.

“Right, let’s go,” you pant. “Shoes on.”

Only to be met with cries of:

“Awwww, muuum! It’s my favourite programme… why can’t we just stay home today?”

Cue: a further 10 minutes spent cajoling them out of the house.

As I said, it’s been lovely, but I’m revelling in the mummy break today!

Looks like sand again this New Year’s Eve

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Silent Sunday this week is another Christmas photo, which I thought was a suitable image as we slide into the new year …
Happy New Year

The turkey left-overs

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This week, I’ve been having my favourite lunch of the year: turkey soup and a turkey sandwich made with gravy.

It’s why, despite not enjoying cooking, I insisted on having Christmas dinner at home. The reason I spent four hours in the kitchen toiling over a hot stove, preparing sweet potatoes with marshmallows, creamed onions, stuffing, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, custard and brandy butter. (The bird was a take-out turkey, from a local Lebanese restaurant, which DH picked up rather like you’d collect a pizza.)

DH had wanted us to eat out at a Christmas brunch to save all the effort. “BB will just ask for bread and hummus,” he argued. “And LB will say he doesn’t like it.” All true, but I stood my ground, salivating at the thought of a whole week of my favourite, easy-peasy lunch.

I looked a lot more stressed than this

The cat will help me finish the turkey at least

And, you know what, apart from a minor incident with some burning oil that caused the kitchen to fill with smoke and LB to run round the house shrieking excitedly, “The kitchen’s on fire, the kitchen’s on fire,” the Christmas dinner was a big success – if I may say so myself and even though I had to lie down afterwards it took me so long.

But back to the cold-turkey sandwich. It’s such a simple, no-hassle, tasty lunch. I was sure the rest of my family would agree.

They didn’t.

“Yuck,” harrumphed BB. “Not turkey a.g.a.i.n. Can I just have bread with nothing on?” Then when I practically shoved a bite in his mouth: “EUUUGHHHH! What’s that brown stuff?” he cried, eyeing the gravy suspiciously and dropping the sandwich like it was about to explode.

LB was less vocal in his complaints, and having eaten all the sweets off the gingerbread house wasn’t particularly hungry.

Until five minutes later…when he asked in a small, plaintiff voice, “Mummy, what’s for lunch?” (after serving a perfectly good meal, I literally bristle at that question).

If you’re sensing some frustration it’s because my children are going through a particularly fussy phase at the moment (I say phase, it’s lasted since BB was first weaned) and they’ve thrown a few too many meals back at me recently.

The turkey soup, needless to say, was a no-go, as the children took one look at all the veggies swimming around in it and gagged.

But I was confident DH wouldn’t think I was trying to poison him. He’d just got back from a long flight and what better way to show-off my wifely skills than by serving him some homemade soup with French bread.

“You’ve got to try my soup,” I enthused. ‘It’s delicious. I’ll bring you some.”

He took a few sips. I waited for a reaction. He ate a little more. I went back into the kitchen, still hoping he’d like it.

He sort-of-did – but only after he followed me into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard for the Hot Sauce, and poured a whole load in.

“Just needs spicing up a bit,” he said, before running for cover.

I may not be one of life’s cooks but, boy, was the brandy butter I sought solace in good.

The real Santa

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“Santa came to my school, to music class,” announced LB proudly last night.

“No, he did not,” retorted BB, more knowledgable about such matters. “That wasn’t the real Santa. That was just a man dressed up as Santa.”

Christmas Eve: (having already had a visit from Santa on the 23rd) "Will he come twice, Mummy?"

Christmas Eve: (having already had a visit from Santa on the 23rd) “Will he come twice, Mummy?”

I listened in to hear where this conversation was going, especially as pulling off Santa this year involved a little more trickery than usual.

The ‘how he gets in’ questions – our villas obviously have air-conditioning ducts rather than chimneys – had all been fielded successfully, I thought (he slides down the mobile phone mast just outside our compound and makes his way through secret, underground tunnels to each villa).

We’d also carefully got round the fact that Santa visited our house on the night of the 23rd, so we could have Christmas with DH before he left on a ‘sleigh ride’ to Tokyo.

But there was a chance BB was getting suspicious.

“Don’t you know?” he continued, causing me to nearly choke on my tea, thinking he might actually be about to tell LB the truth (maybe the secret tunnels were a bit far-fetched).

“The real Santa,” he said, summoning up every ounce of his three years’ seniority over his brother, “lives on YouTube.”

Phew – thank you www.portablenorthpole.com for keeping the magic alive.

Silent Sunday: Sandballs

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I tend not to put personal photos on the blog, but as I’ve made some lovely bloggy friends on here, I’m breaking my rule. I also went to great lengths getting everyone to co-operate for this photo (let’s just say, it was nearly me throwing sand) and so I decided it was worth getting some extra mileage out of it. Have a wonderful festive season and thank you for reading Circles in the Sand!

christmas photo

What are you planning for our last night?

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You’ve probably heard that the Earth is detonating tomorrow. According to the ancient Mayan prophecy, 21 December 2012 will be the end of the world as we know it, and if you look at the shooting meteorites forecast for Friday, this appears to be true.

end of world

While contemplating this fiery damnation, I asked DH: “What would you do if the world really was ending tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t be doing SIMs [airline speak for simulator training] the day before,” he grumbled, barely looking up from his Airbus test preparation.

I tried again with BB. “How about you? What would you do if this was our last day on Earth?”

He looked alarmed. I tried to explain that it (most likely) wasn’t true, but that if it was, we could spend our last day doing whatever he wanted to do. Perhaps playing Lego, or eating cake all day.

“I know,” he said. “I’d stop the Earth from going away.” [that’s my boy, young enough to still think he can save the world].

If he couldn’t do that (and I really didn’t mean to put a dampner on the idea), I suggested we get on Daddy’s airplane  – there’s an on-board shower spa – and fly it to space.

“Don’t be silly Mummy!” exclaimed BB, raising his eyebrows at me. “We’d run out of gas long before we got to space. Far better to take a space rocket.”

You’ve got to hand it to seven-year-olds – absolutely anything is possible.

Circles in Space: This is us making our escape

Circles in Space: This is us making our escape

Of course, I’d spend my last day on Earth with my family, but there are a few other things that I haven’t got round to doing yet that I might try to squeeze in:

– Sleep under the stars (en famille) on one of The World desert islands (the one with beach-club facilities, not deserted, obviously)

– Sand board down a massive sand dune, standing up

– Raid the Gold & Diamond Park, hot foot it across the marble floors of the Mall of the Emirates to Harvey Nicks and play dress-up with the loot

– Take a helicopter to the Burj Al Arab hotel, check in to a VVIP suite and order absolutely everything from the room-service menu

– Tell the very annoying person I see at work that he’s a muppet

– Give every roadhog I come across the birdie

– Go skinny-dipping at midnight in a pool filled with pink champagne

– Shimmy on the tables at the Cavalli Club

– Do the school run in my pyjamas

On the off-chance that it is 1250 degrees tomorrow (a dark comet is the most likely scenario), have a fabulous night!