Category Archives: Parenting

14 Reasons Why You Should NOT Move To Dubai

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Every now and then, I get a comment on my blog that goes like this (and this is a real example!):

“Everything is soo fake there makes me cringe how the whole city is set in a dessert”

Did you see what they did there with the spelling of desert?

Anyway, moving on … I’m well aware there are people who think Dubai is a concrete jungle with no soul, no culture. And apart from the general barrenness and lack of greenery, don’t you have to wear a veil, cover up on the beach and abstain from alcohol? Most of these people haven’t even visited.

Here are 14 more reasons to NOT even consider moving here:

1. There are no gardens or flowers – it’s a desert, all sand and concrete.

It takes some watering, but this is our garden.

It takes some watering, but this is our garden.

2. Apart from the Burj Khalifa, there are no other buildings worth seeing.

Dubai Marina

3. And lying on the beach is so boring!

Beach

4. Surely no wildlife other than camels could live in temperatures that reach 47 degrees?

Screen Shot 2015-09-05 at 23.31.40

5. The locals are really unfriendly – don’t expect to ever talk to any.

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6. Only men are allowed to drive.

(Everyone can drive. Just kidding! But in case you’re wondering, yes – women are allowed.)

(Anyone can drive. Just kidding! But in case you’re wondering, yes – women are allowed.)

7. The view from the Burj is … meh! Nothing you haven’t seen before.

View from top of Burj

8. You spend your whole time indoors, in the air-conditioning.

playing golf in Dubai
9. It’s a very intolerant place. If you’re not Muslim, you’re not welcome.

Christmas tree

10. Get ready to don your burka at all times while in Dubai – and prepare to not let alcohol touch your lips. There’s nothing to celebrate!

My bestie and I!

My bestie and I!

11. After a few days, there’s absolutely nothing to do. Yawn.

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12. Everything’s new – there’s no history!

Dubai Creek: The city’s centuries-old trading traditions

Dubai Creek: The city’s centuries-old trading traditions

13. That food! You wouldn’t want to put any of it in your mouth.

Stop drooling over the chocolate fountain!

Stop drooling over the chocolate fountain!

14. Who would want to live in the desert anyway?

Bab al Shams

When 68 days of summer holiday isn’t enough

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You’d think, wouldn’t you, that two months and a week would be long enough for a school holiday. It certainly was for me.

Today the epic summer vacation came to an end for Son1 – Son2 still has another day (can you hear him laughing at his brother?).

xxxxxx

On my knees – but cheering!

Of course the preparations began weeks ago, starting with obtaining an appointment for shoes (yes, that’s how they roll at Clarks in the UK – the slots are like gold dust apparently) followed by the shoe-size shock (Son1’s feet are bigger than mine). Then there was the trip to the uniform store. The queue. The changing room – which was like trying to dress two woodland sprites. Every time I do this it feels like a woodland sprite dies, but do it we must as they keep growing out of their uniforms.

Saturday was spent labelling everything with a Sharpie, bringing out the new lunchboxes, water bottles. Laying out the clothes. Buying lunchbox supplies. We were ready. Night drew in and I silently punched the air, “We’ve made it!”

By the morning, the smell of toast and sight of shiny shoes and packed bags reminded me of that bittersweet feeling from childhood, when you’re excited to see your friends but don’t want the holiday to be over. I remained cheerful as Son1 stared at a sock.

“We’re going to take the new road to school,” I said brightly.

No reply.

He sat glumly on the sofa. The corners of his mouth turned down. His face looked like spaghetti sliding off a plate, all droopy and dripping and sad. “Mum,” he said in a small, indignant voice. “Can I have a day off?”

Murdering Your Darlings

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In magazine publishing, we call it ‘murdering your babies’ – I’ve just found out that in book publishing, the term is ‘murdering your darlings’, and if you’re wondering what it means, it refers to cutting words from a piece of work.

Stephen King is much more descriptive on the subject: “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

091206ablogwritersI’ve a feeling I might be doing rather a lot of this over the next six months: I’m doing an online course called ‘Write Your Novel’, via a writers’ centre in Australia, and it’s opened up a whole new world to me – of online classrooms, workshopping; and downloadable audio programmes. Not to mention fellow students who pop up as little gravatars and chat in the ‘water cooler’ section of the website.

I had no idea learning had moved into such a brave new world (remembering like it was yesterday the moment in the mid-90s when my magazine journalism course presented us with desktop publishing lessons, and we knew that all the cutting, gluing and sticking we’d been learning up till that moment should have been left behind in playschool).

Anyway, if the blog goes quiet, it’s because, in the cracks between work and family, I’m concentrating on the book –a project I’m 40,000 words in to and determined to finish. In six months’ time, there will be a manuscript, which I can then start to murder. I’m hoping that all my time at work spent topping and tailing features like they’re runner beans might come in useful!

A note on school remember lists

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It could be because it’s the last week of term, but I feel like I have a mild form of dementia this week. I’m forgetting all sorts of school-related things. And, boy, do the kids let me know about this!

“Mum, you forgot everything today!” my oldest told me, as he burst through the door yesterday afternoon, the indignance chipping away at the edges of his voice. “My reading book … the zumbathon … money for Tanzania Day.” Never mind the equally long list of things I did remember.

“Well, you are nine now, big boy. It might be time you started remembering some of these things for yourself?” I suggested hopefully. He looked at me aghast, as though I’d proposed chopping him into little bits for dinner. DH glanced up from his chair in the corner, enjoying the distraction from his airplane manuals, and raised an amused eyebrow.

Last week of term and nothing is sticking in my memory

Last week of term and nothing is sticking in my memory

The thing is, there’s just so much to remember, isn’t there? Your child will need: an iPad for Arabic; an oversized white shirt for science; a costume for Book Character Day; a 3D model of the Ruler’s Court (okay, I made the last one up, but I know any mums reading this will relate!).

My friend A, who is frantically busy setting up her own company at the moment, told me she had a chicken bone soaking in vinegar in the kitchen for a science experiment on calcium deficiency, and had just bought plastic juice bottles to make lungs. “Tomorrow he needs recyclable materials to create artwork for the theme ‘a sustainable and happy society’ … and that’s just for the little one. Don’t get me started on the older brother.”

I gave her a wobbly, sympathetic smile, knowing that this is what I’m in for next year.

In our household, having two completely different schools makes the remember list even longer. I’d go so far as to say it adds a bi-polar element to our school situation (the result of a waiting list as long as your arm) – and this morning I found myself cursing my inability to stay on top of things.

Raising money for children with genetic disorders

Raising money for children with genetic disorders

It was Jeans for Genes Day at Son2’s school, necessitating the wearing of denim and a 10dhs donation (which had to be in 10 dirham coins, not a note, as they were going to use the coins to fill the outline of a pair of jeans). A great cause, and I was all for it. We picked out his coolest jeans. He pulled them on, and buttoned up his blue and white stripy school shirt at 7am this morning.

Big mistake – when we get to school, all the other kids are wearing T-shirts with their jeans.

Son2 bursts into noisy, guffawing sobs and runs away. I’m feeling mildy annoyed that he’s having such a dramatic reaction. But then, the teacher goes off to see if there’s a spare T-shirt, and half the class pours out the door like flood water, to stare at my son, who’s hiding round the corner. “A-ha, you’re not meant to be wearing that,” trills one classmate, pointing.

My words, “It doesn’t matter!” fall like rocks in the morning air.

And I feel so bad – so horribly bad – that I go straight home, pick up a T-shirt (his brother’s, another brain freeze) and drive it back to school.

Bring on the Easter holidays! (Now, if someone could just tell me where I put my car keys … )

The school lockdown drill

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“Mummy! There’s going to be actors playing terrorists in school tomorrow!” said my older son, the excitement chipping away at the edges of his voice.

Goodness, I said, my brows knitting together. I knew there was a travelling theatre coming to school soon (I’d sent the money in), but this sounded far too dramatic for a class of imaginative eight and nine year olds.

Further questioning revealed that the school had planned a lockdown drill – something all UAE schools are doing this year, most for the first time. Kind of like a fire drill in reverse: the warning sounds and everyone stays inside.

Today on the curriculum: Hiding practice

Today on the curriculum: Hiding practice

Explaining this to children can be tricky, and you end up mumbling something like, “It’s safest to be outside a building if it’s on fire, and sometimes it’s safest to be inside the building instead.” Pushed into it … “If we were in America there might be a man with a gun.” [their eyes expand like saucers] “But not here …” (lest they suddenly decide they never want to go to school again).

Well, it turned out there were no play-terrorists (over-enthusiastic primary school kids really know how to spin it, don’t they?). And, to be honest, it sounded more like hiding practice as it’s not like they were allowed to pile tables and chairs up against the door or anything. But the novelty factor certainly meant Son1 told me far more about his school day than he usually does – and went to town on the sound effects.

The alarm sounded, he said, demonstrating it loudly with siren-like wailing. And all the children had to huddle in the corner of their classroom, with the lights off. “The head then came round banging on all the doors, kind of pretending he was trying to get in.”

I’m trying to imagine all the children and teachers hunkering silently in darkened classrooms away from closed blinds and locked doors, while the headmaster prowled through the hallways decorated with student art and jiggled doorhandles.

“We made two mistakes,” said Son1. “Ms B forgot to turn the smart board off, and left her phone on her desk.”

“But Ms T’s class made the worst mistake,” he added, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“What was that?” I asked.

“They forgot to lock the door.”

ACBON Day (and a hot-under-the collar mum)

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Yesterday was ACBON Day. Not my favourite day in Dubai: Air conditioning back on day. And it seems to have arrived earlier this year.

It also coincided with what must surely be the best day in the school year: International Day, the day when everyone is proud to share their culture and traditions with their friends, and mums turn up in bosom-revealing costumes (the European ones, at least).

The children go to school wearing the national colours or traditional dress of their home country, then in the afternoon there’s a huge and colourful, cosmopolitan fair on the playing field.

Hello world!

Hello world!

Some 50 countries were represented out of the 85+ nationalities at the school, and browsing the stalls is always a culinary adventure: yesterday you could nibble on kimchi (from South Korea), Brazilian BBQ meat, a Victoria sponge cake (British), German Halal beer, Spanish paella and so much more, while admiring the Kiwi Haka dance and other performances from all around the world. There was a parade too, and the children had all painted flags that were strung up as décor.

It’s a wonderful afternoon – and you’d think all the parents would agree.

Apparently not so.

She was the first woman I met at the start of my stint selling coupons, for drinks and rides (and by rides, I mean the bouncy castle and slide. The amazing food was all provided by the mums, and was free).

“I want a dirham back,” she demanded. A shadow darkened her face. I couldn’t quite understand why she was so annoyed. Her forehead furrowed, and her eyebrows had hooded over eyes that blazed with anger.

Then her friend came over and wanted 20dhs back (the exchange rate, for those not in the UAE, makes a dirham worth about 18p and 20dhs about £3.50).

Ladies, let it go, I’m thinking. A dirham, really? The whole point of the fair is it’s a fund-raiser for the school, which presumably your children attend.

I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt (in Dubai, if you don’t understand someone’s behaviour, it’s always worth reminding yourself that their background is probably very different from your own – ie, they could be from war-torn Syria, or, if it’s a workman botching something in your home, he’s probably from a poverty-stricken village in rural Bangladesh).

But, no, it didn’t work. Their bling suggested otherwise, and they weren’t polite at all.

I’m looking around at all the hard, hard work so many parents had put into the afternoon – the cooking, baking, decorating, signage, assembling stalls, manning stalls for four hours.

While my co-coupon seller disappeared to ask if we could give refunds, I found myself bristling, then saying, “You know, everyone’s just volunteering here – the money all goes to the school.”

YOUR CHILD … YOUR CHILDREN … WILL BENEFIT, from things like iPads in the classrooms, and playground equipment. Except I didn’t actually say that.

“Aha,” she snapped back. “It goes to the parents.”

And I presume she meant the parents’ committee who’d organised everything – and I wondered, what on earth does she think they’re going to do with the funds?

Spend it all on gin?

Roll up! Roll up! To the Grand Tombola

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“You don’t know what a tombola is, do you?” I was perhaps being a little unfair when I told DH about the crazily popular stall I’d been assigned to for the school’s Spring Fair. DH is American, and a tombola is a type of raffle well known in the UK.

“A Stromboli?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow back. His computer screen was reflected in the window behind him and I could see he was googling it.

“Ah, a tombola!” he said, cracking an even wider smile as he stopped thinking about pizza turnovers and started imagining glamour girls drawing tickets from a revolving drum. Even the boys were suddenly interested, if only because it dawned on them that if mummy was helping on the stall, they might actually win something.

Our stall reminded me of the conveyor belt of prizes in The Generation Game

Our stall reminded me of the conveyor belt of prizes in The Generation Game

As it turned out, everyone who bought a ticket won a prize. Not that I can remember exactly what the gifts were – they were literally flying from the shelves behind us, into the braying crowd of parents and kids waving cash at us and literally clamouring for a turn.

And it’s amazing how funny people can be when there are decent prizes like power tools, cameras and household goods up for grabs. Among the sea of expectant faces was the woman who looked me in the eye and said in a hushed tone, “I really don’t want that prize – can I draw again?” And the boy who asked for a refund when I handed him a Costa Coffee mug (poor kid, his face did drop; it was his fourth go and there were some great toys).

My frenetic but fun stint on the Grand Tombola was passing, quite literally, in a blur of money and prize exchanges, when suddenly I looked up and my own sons were eagerly proffering 20 dirham notes DH had given them. I feared they’d win the pink pencil case. Or cry if they didn’t get the helicopter, robot, or bow and arrow set.

First go … a voucher for a cup of coffee.

Second go … another white envelope. I gave it to DH to open. I knew there was a voucher of some kind inside.

I could feel the suspense mounting.

“Vitamins!” announced DH. “A hundred dirhams of vitamins!”

Better luck next time, boys! All for a good cause.

The childless 20-something with no clue about motherhood

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We all know her (and many of us, including myself, used to be a bit like her). I came across her last week, sitting at a table right by me in a small café.

I was doing some work. She was chatting to her friend, leaning towards her like a flower bent by a breeze. She was lovely: Jasper Conran top, satin skirt and soft leather boots. She had clear, peachy skin, glossy auburn hair and thin, crescent-shaped eyebrows.

When, just say, she discovers that having a baby is like starting a demanding new job, beginning a passionate love affair and suddenly mixing with people who speak a different language – all at the same time – she might change her tune!

When, just say, she discovers that having a baby is like starting a demanding new job, beginning a passionate love affair and suddenly mixing with people who speak a different language – all at the same time – she might change her tune!

As she talked, she lifted her coffee up with a freshly manicured hand; she had red nails and I could imagine her in a bar, tapping a cigarette over an ashtray, then pursing her pouty lips around it.

I really didn’t want to hear their conversation, but they had a lot to say to each other, loudly. They’d barely finished one sentence before they were tumbling over the next.

They were talking about mothers.

“If you have children, you should look after them yourself,” she said. Fair dues. They’d covered trips to Sri Lanka, plans for the weekend, a new line of makeup; and after exhausting these topics were conspiratorially discussing a mother they’d met who had hired help.

It was the tone that caught my attention: a little bit sneering. I could see the word LAZY captured in a bubble above her head. Why can’t mothers do it ALL themselves?

I was tempted to give her a look (and maybe I did!), but realised that in her childless state, she’d have no clue what it’s like to find yourself far from home, with a new baby barnacled to your boob, a job to go back to, 20km school runs, half as much sleep as you used to get, a household to manage and someone judging whether it’s right or wrong to hire a nanny.

One day, she’ll find out!

So how was your weekend?

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It’s something you don’t expect to hear when you ask someone about their weekend. But with my son attending a school where at least 60 per cent of the students come from airline families (who get super cheap tickets), I’ve learned not to bat an eyelid when mothers tell me about what they’ve been up to.

“Did you have a good weekend?” I asked a fellow mum.

“Yes … Actually we went to Johannesburg.”

Anyone else want to tell me about their Christmas in Lapland?

Anyone else want to tell me about their Christmas in Lapland?

“Really, just for the weekend?” I have to admit I was impressed – the South African city is a good 8 hours’ flying time from here, and that doesn’t include all the getting to and from the airport shenanigans.

“We had 24 hours there. Yesterday morning, we were in the lion park! The children loved it, especially as they’re doing Africa in class at the moment.”

“An amazing field trip!” I agreed. I’d just been looking at all the photos of big animals and African plains on the classroom wall.

“It was really last minute – my husband was flying there, and I woke up and thought ‘Why aren’t we going too?’ Half an hour later, we were on our way to the airport.”

“It’s not like me at all,” she added. “I usually plan everything far in advance.”

“Well good for you,” I said, as we were spat out the school gates – and I really meant it.

Sometimes you just have to grab life by the horns.

Why dress-up days should be outlawed

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First, let me just say that Son2 loves to dress up, and finds it a big thrill to go to school in anything other than his navy-blue shorts and pinstriped, button-up shirt. In his closet, you’ll find plenty of costumes depicting numerous genres, from spiderboy to alien, vampire and terrorist. Yes, you read that correctly: he came downstairs this weekend looking like this:

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

But every time the school announces a special theme day, I have to admit my heart sinks a little bit. I can’t sew; if you handed me a piece of fabric I’d have no idea what to do with it; and the prop that would accessorise an outfit perfectly is never just lying around the house. It’s usually buried at the bottom of a cupboard, lost, broken or still in the shop.

And I’ve come to realise that this is a universal problem: there’s my good friend in London who had to come up with “a simple homemade fez” – with a tassel. (“We want the tassels to swirl when the children dance,” the teacher said.) Then there’s the kind commenters on my blog who’ve dressed their child up as a triangle and seriously considered crocheting a pilot’s hat after trawling the mall and finding nothing.

Oh yes, we mums do try when faced with these challenges – because you just know that there will be crafty mothers who got straight onto Pinterest. Not to mention that on, say, Book Character Day, school will be invaded by a mini fictional force made up of Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Angelina Ballerina and other favourite storybook characters. The look on your child’s face if their outfit is a laughing stock is enough to make any otherwise sane mum start cutting up the curtains.

I’ve even heard of dads having to get in on the act too, in some cases taking over as costume-deviser extraordinaire, and sewing! Another friend tells me her DH is the go-to person for dress-up days; for an Easter Bonnet parade, he constructed a spring hat with a giant carrot protruding from the top, which we were all still talking about the next year – a pilot by profession, creative genius in his spare time.

In the Circles household, given enough notice, I’m able to dispatch DH to a costume shop in New York on one of his trips here (yes, we cheat, big time!); and he came up trumps last term, with a ghoulish-grey Area 51 costume and mask for the day aliens landed on the playing field at Son2’s school.

The news that today would be African Explorer Day came a week ago, just as the reality of getting back to the grind was hitting, and saw me arguing vehemently with Son2 at 7 this morning over why he couldn’t take that stonking big nerf gun pictured above into class (huntsman, explorer, it was all the same to him).

As we got out of the car, Son2 – donned in hurriedly assembled safari-type garb and wearing binoculars round his neck – got cold feet. No-one was in costume! Mum must have got it wrong! (I hadn’t, it was only for his year). I did wonder for a moment – until, at the gate, we saw a stressed-looking mum with a teary, uniform-clad child, being asked by a teacher if they had anything at home resembling the mishmash my son was wearing. As she headed off (upset boy in tow) to figure it out, I ’m sure she must have wished dress-up days could be outlawed too.