Category Archives: Family

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.

So how was school? Lethal

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If you know and love the author Liane Moriarty, you’ll be pleased to hear she’s nailed it yet again. I recently finished her latest book, Big Little Lies, and it’s a brilliant story about parents behaving badly. It’s also the funniest book about murder and domestic abuse you’ll ever read.

Moriarty has a knack for creating characters who are so believable they could easily be people you know at the school gates: there’s Madeline, a force to be reckoned with; the beautiful Celeste; and Jane, who’s young, single and struggling to make ends meet. Then we meet the hot-shot mums with high-powered jobs; the yogi mum; and the “Blond Bobs” – the ‘Mum prefects’ who rule the school like it’s their religion.

If this book had been written by Agatha Christie, it would have been called “The Kindergarten Murder”

If this book had been written by Agatha Christie, it would have been called “The Kindergarten Murder”

What all these women have in common is that they drive truck-like cars, and take their mothering very seriously: “Their frantic little faces. Their busy little bottoms strutting into the school in their tight gym gear … Eyes fixed on the mobile phones held in the palms of their hands like compasses.”

The cover art for the book (called Little Lies in the UK) depicts a large, multicoloured lollipop exploding into a thousand pieces, and it illustrates perfectly how the sugar-coated lies that people hide behind are smashed into smithereens.

The story centres around Pirriwee Public, a beautiful little beachside primary school where children are taught that ‘sharing is caring.’ So how has the annual School Trivia Night ended in a full-blown riot? Sirens are wailing. People are screaming. The principal is mortified. And one parent is dead.

But who? And who was responsible for this terrible deed?

The book then jumps back six months and cuts back and forth between the characters, revealing complex family problems and putting friendships and marriage under the microscope. Written with impeccable comic timing, the narrative is peppered with parents’ voices commenting cryptically on the root cause of the ‘tragedy’: the French nanny? An erotic book club? Head lice?

Considering everything that is tackled in this book (bullying, domestic violence, date rape, dealing with ex-husbands and more), the plot should not have worked as well as it does. Moriarty pulls it off brilliantly, and I finished the novel wishing I could instantly forget it so I could immediately read about the misbehaving inhabitants of Pirriwee all over again.

Back to school: The Most Confusing and Complicated Time of the Year

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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

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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

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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

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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 out. A 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.

My little polygamist

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I had a quiet chuckle this week when I saw in my blog stats that someone had landed on Circles in the Sand after asking Google: “Can expats have more than one wife in Dubai?”

Any Western men reading this, you know that the answer is no, right? It’s just Muslim men who, under sharia law, are allowed to practise polygamy – that is, they can have more than one wife at the same time, up to a total of four.

So I was having a little laugh at the expense of the hen-pecked Googler who was clearly curious about his chances of polygamy.

But then …

I was putting the boys to bed tonight. We were reading an Enid Blyton story, and in it, there was a stepfather.

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Three’s a crowd: Son1’s wedding in 20 years’ time

“What’s a stepfather, Mummy?” Son1 asked.

I attempted to explain. “Well, if anything happens to Daddy [God forbid], and I ended up getting married again, then my new husband would be your stepfather.”

Son1 looked solemn. I probably should have stopped right there.

“And, likewise, if something happens to me, and Daddy gets a new wife, she’d be your stepmother,” I continued.

Son2 made a reassuring sound suggesting he wouldn’t want a new Mummy, but Son1 still had questions so I elaborated, using the example of my brother-in-law – also a pilot in Dubai, who is exceedingly eligible with flight attendants lining up to date him.

“You know your Uncle’s pretty friends who we meet. Well, if Daddy was to marry one of them [Note to DH: I would haunt you], she’d be your stepmum. But you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No,” said Son2, emphatically.

“Can’t I have both of you?”, asked Son1, with an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye. “A stepmum and a mum! Why not?”

Facepalm!

Frequently asked questions

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“Your ticket is upgradable,” the nice lady at the check-in informed me. “Do you wish to upgrade?”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied, shaking my head (thinking yes, YES please. Do I want to upgrade? Of course I do! Who wouldn’t?)

But, no matter how tempted I was by the free-flowing wine, champers, gourmet cuisine, canapés, flat-bed and acres of legroom on offer in the A380’s upper deck, it was never going to happen. There was no upgrade for the boys, and they’re too young to sit by themselves (there’s always next year!).

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Bye, bye England! (s0b)

So, instead, I leapt on Son2’s conversational freight train for the 7-hour journey from London to Dubai:

“Mummy, what country are we flying over? What’s the smallest country, Mummy? … Is Dubai bigger than England? … Are we in space? If we’re not in space, is the upstairs in space? When are we there?” …

[The moment my eyes closed] MUMMY! WHEN.are.we.THERE? [Bringing me back to earth, or at least 37,000 feet above it, in a snap.] Is it nighttime in Dubai? I’m hungry Mummy! (Me: “They just served you a kids’ meal, and you didn’t want it!’ said through gritted teeth.) Is there wifi? Can I watch YouTube? How fast is the wind, Mummy? Is England still bigger than Dubai?”

Until I could see his mouth moving, but couldn’t really hear what he was saying and could do nothing but nod at whatever his moving lips were trying to assault me with.

Whereas Son1 plugged himself into the in-flight entertainment and watched back-to-back movies, with a couple of iPad breaks. Oh the difference being nearly three years older makes.

Fashion advice from a 5 year old

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I thought that having boys would mean I’d be spared from repeatedly hearing the Frozen soundtrack Let It Go.

But like the snow in the part Norway, part Narnia Disney movie, the song is everywhere: in the car, on the TV, on the YouTube clips my boys devour. It’s their new life anthem, and they can’t seem to get enough of the animated movie this summer.

[Lowers voice] I think because they’ve developed soft spots for the two resourceful heroines – Elsa and Anna (carefully pronounced: “It’s ‘Ah-nah’ Mummy!”).

But it’s not the remodelled princess stereotype, or the way proactive Ah-nah rescues guys from danger by setting things on fire and throwing them at wolves that they like. It’s Elsa’s hair.

"Can I have an 'Elsa' please!"

“Can I have an ‘Elsa’ please!”

“Mummy?” said Son2 yesterday. “Can you have your hair done like Elsa?”

“Erm … I could try,” I replied. “It might be impossible,” I warned. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I could just imagine the look on his face as I came out of the salon without Elsa’s long ice-blonde hair, huge glassy eyes and sparkly gown.

“Not her queen hair, Mummy,” said Son2. “Her ponytail.”

“I know,” I said. “You mean her loose, flowing plait – after her makeover.”

I hesitated. “But I wouldn’t look like Elsa,” I warned again.

Son2 thought for a moment. And, because anything’s possible when you’re 5, came up with a solution: “Just take the DVD box into the hairdressers and show them what Elsa’s hair looks like.”

With dark roots an inch long, dried-up split ends and general neglect due to 7 weeks away, I can almost hear my hairstylist attempting to suppress her laughter.

I do like to be beside the seaside!

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Which beach would you rather be on? Here’s a clue: the rocky one on the left is buffeted by a fierce wind, and strewn with seaweed. The one on the right is lapped by the aquamarine waters of the Gulf, with an ambient temperature at least 20 degrees higher.
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Ask my sand-phobic children which beach they prefer, and they’ll say the one on the left: the Great British Seaside (I know!).

Actually, I’m rather fond of it too (for a day or so each year). There’s something about the bleak weather, the stony terrain, the ice-cream sellers – and the fact you need to wear a jumper, a fleece and the beach rug to keep warm – that’s rather refreshing after the high temperatures of the UAE summer.

Today, everything was just as it should be on the English Riviera: the weather was challenging; the seaweed was stringy and the sea was playful, with crashing rollers and white frothy surf.

We enjoyed 15 minutes of determined sandcastle-building before a fast-moving high tide swallowed up our patch of sand with ravenous greed (the effect of the supermoon, perhaps), and spent a pleasant hour wandering around the seaside mecca that is Littlehampton.

But the thing that sticks in my mind isn’t the windburn, the shingle, my win on the two-penny slot machines, or my boys’ love of rocky, cold beaches over the white sands of Dubai. Nor is it the discovery that crazy snooker is now cooler than crazy golf. Or the reminder that seeing happy, hairy dogs diving headlong into the waves is great fun (public beaches are off limits to dogs in Dubai).

No, the thing I’ll remember is this row of beach huts. Price tag: £12,500 each.

Quite possibly the most expensive garden shed money can buy

Prime real estate: At AED76,650 (or more than $20,000) a hut, these are quite possibly the most expensive garden sheds money can buy