Category Archives: Parenting

Class list Jenga

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This week, many mums in Dubai found out which classes their children are going to be in from September.

Each year (and for Son1, it is an annual event), the release of the class lists is an eagerly anticipated event. Mums anxiously pore over the role calls; they take photos of the lists, and discuss at the school gate who little Sylvie will be mixing with next year.

(Believe me, I’ve seen mums sobbing over this).

As for the children, I’m not convinced they’re as bothered as the mums.

It might be different for girls, but for boys, shaking up the classes doesn’t seem to be too big of a deal – especially in a society as fluid as ours, where numerous children leave at the end of the school year anyway and September always sees a fresh crop.

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll, with no bribes accepted

Son1 was given the chance to pick three friends he wants in his class next year, and the letter said they’d try to make sure he’s in the same class as at least one. (I hear some schools in the UK even let you name one child you’d rather not be with).

There follows a process of list building that I can only imagine is like playing Jenga, with the teachers not only taking friendship groups into account, but also gender balance, ability mix and personality clashes.

Far from just bunging the names in a bag and pulling them out, the decision-making must get complicated: “Sylvie makes Tallulah cry so we should split them, and we’d better share out Boris, Hugo and Tarquin because they’re gifted and talented – almost fluent in Mandarin with rocket-scientist aspirations – and make sure the football squad aren’t all in the same class.”

Repeat x140 children per year.

But, as I said, for us mums, that moment when the list is released can be a little tense. My eyes rapidly scanned the names of the children– of whom son1 knows about three, and (because we all know this is important too) I know one of the mums. Not bad at all.

Happy mixing kiddos!

The end-of-term talent show

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Could you? I know I couldn't

Could you? I know I couldn’t

Today was a nerve-wracking day for myself and DH (who wasn’t even here).

It was the day of the end-of-term talent show. Called ‘2JW’s Got Talent’, it was a more elaborate version of the end-of-term concerts we’re all used to attending – with judges.

DH and I were terrified.

We’d known about it for a week, and were aware the children had been practising their routines (magic, miming, jokes, lip singing, football skills, etc) in groups at school. Son1 had partnered with a friend, but then they’d broken up, and rather than join another group, Son1 had decided he’d go solo.

“Really?” we enquired, astounded that our shy son (who’s had to be encouraged to speak up in class) would even consider a solo performance. When he told us he was doing a dance, our astonishment grew.

The night before, I tried to find out from him if he really was going to bust some moves to one of his favourite songs, Meet the Girls of Norway (!), in front of at least 25 mums and dads with cameras, several teachers and all his class mates.

He got off the sofa, gave his body a shake, then – with arms and legs splaying everywhere – did a crazy four-second dance, which ended with him throwing himself on the floor.

Let’s just say, this didn’t put my nerves at ease, and as I drove to school today, I felt like I was going to an audition myself.

But, you know what, I’d totally underestimated his ‘talent’ – and I don’t mean the dancing (although actually the dance was great, even half-choreographed, with girl backing dancers). I mean the ability to get up in front of a crowd and perform, without feeling embarrassed or struck dumb with stage fright – and that goes for all the children.

Born to be a star

Born to be a star

There were, of course, the natural performers – in particular, the girl in a flouncy, tiered dress with fluttery eyelashes, lip singing to a song from Frozen and loving her moment of fame. And there were several boys who enjoyed their comedy act so much I thought we’d still be sat there at dinnertime listening to jokes (the teacher must have thought so too, as I noticed her desperately signaling to them to wind it up).

But, even the shyer children came across as confident youngsters. And that I realised, is one of the big benefits of education today – the belief and courage being instilled in these kids that they can express themselves, give presentations and think outside of the box. (In a few years’ time, the school has them attending mock UN conventions, and pitching entrepreneurial ideas in business clothes.)

“Were you nervous?” I asked Son1 this evening (just the thought of public speaking makes me shudder). “A bit,” he replied, “but then the teacher suggested I could have girls-of-Norway backing dancers.”

And that did the trick. Smart move.

Three more days to go!

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While I often feel rather daunted by the 10-week-long school break stretching out ahead of us like an uncrossable chasm, I cannot wait to finish work in three days’ time.

It can feel like a double life. I work in a busy news environment, where, sometimes, my contrasting personas come together with a thunderous clash.

I’ll be head down at my desk, writing a headline for a piece on the insurgency in Iraq, when my phone pings and it’s my other life calling.

“Hi, sorry to bother,” texts my lovely car-pool friend, “but M’s lost his first tooth, I think at your house. Can you look out for it?”

“Sure,” I reply, and fire off a text to our nanny to keep an eye out for a tiny milk tooth, the size of a matchstick head.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more lost teeth,” I text my friend, who I realise after a couple more messages is upset she can’t put the tooth in a silver keepsakes box. “No need to go through his poo.”

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

I get back to work. There’s a story on Iran I need to read, and our deadline for getting the magazine to press is looming in three hours’ time.

Then an email pops up, entitled ‘Grade 2’s Got Talent’. It’s Son1’s teacher, giving us more detail about the talent show his class is putting on, and I’m reminded that my (shy) son has to perform some kind of all-singing, all-dancing routine in front of everyone.

But before that social hurdle, we really do have to finish this week’s issue, so I stop Googling ‘easy talent show routines’, and lose myself in a commentary on the jihadist forces from the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria – until another text comes through.

It’s DH. He’s at a climbing party, with Son2, who is struggling. Sometimes I feel so bad that I’m not ‘there’ for all these moments – and the kids are growing up so fast – that it’s as though a chute has opened up in my stomach and my heart is plunging through it.

So, as I said, I’m SO ready to finish work. It’s now just a small matter of getting another magazine to press in the next three days; ducking out for the talent show; organising sausage rolls for the end-of-term party, holding the fort while DH is away; and (keep breathing, Circles!) getting Son2 to a Chuck-e-Cheese party.

Then, finally, it’ s time for a break from the office, the traffic jams and the logistics. The 65-day vacation – let’s call it Operation LongVac (for we all know what it really entails) – is in sight!

Bounce Dubai: The harder you fall … the higher you bounce

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After eight years of mothering rambunctious boys, I’ve found out how to totally exhaust my eldest, without even going outdoors.

The opening of Bounce in Dubai couldn’t have been timed any better – as temperatures reach 113 degrees outside, the owners must have known there are legions of mothers in the UAE wondering how on earth to stop their overactive children from bouncing off the walls at home.

Enter Bounce Dubai. As vast as it is fun, the ‘trampoline universe’ houses about 82 interconnected trampolines in an urban playground loaded with springs and circus-grade sponge. Containing 500+ square metres of foam pits and padding to land on, as well as trampoline ‘dodge-ball’, it was the ideal venue for a party attended by the boys in my son’s class this weekend.

xxxxx

So much fun, kids don’t even know they’re exercising

As you drive up, you can’t miss the warehouse, located beside the entrance of the industrial maze that is Al Quoz. Stamped boldly on the side, in giant letters, are the words: ‘Bounce Inc. Free-jumping revolution’, and inside, the branding continues with shocks of pink, blue and yellow on the edges of the ‘tramps’.

Given that it was only the second weekend since the Australian import’s opening, I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised to see so many edgy-looking teenagers queuing up, all seeking an adrenalin rush with a soft landing at the bright, bold, in-your-face trampoline park.

Energetic staff members with job titles like ‘experience manager’ and ‘bounce master’ were on hand to manage the hordes of youngsters who’d turned up to jump, and my son was shepherded away to put on his rainbow-coloured gel gripper socks. (As well as freestyle trampolines and an airbag-fitted section, there are 45-degree trampolines against walls that you can run up and launch yourself off.)

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

It was at this point that Son2 broke down with fury that he wasn’t going in too, so we made a hasty departure, leaving Son1 to enjoy his high-octane party while we grabbed a far more leisurely coffee at the nextdoor Times Square Center.

That evening, as I put his ‘sticky socks’ in the laundry and Son1 let out gaping yawns of exhaustion, I resolved I’d definitely take both boys back to burn energy – and might even give it a go myself (yep, Bounce is aimed at adults too!).

Anyone remember being a kid and jumping up and down on your bed before being yelled at to stop? Well, here’s your chance to experience that giddy euphoria all over again.

Click here to visit their website. Do call if you’re planning to go as sessions sell out.

June in 12 phrases

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With the summer holidays hurtling towards us like a steam train, here are 12 things on every mum’s lips this month as we sweat our way around Dubai running errands and making sure our little ones don’t expire in the heat:

– “Are you all set for summer? What date are you leaving? Wow, France, Italy AND Austria!”

– [to DH] “I know I keep withdrawing money, but none of it’s for me. I’m dishing it out in envelopes for teachers’ gifts / support staff appreciation funds / class parties / library fines.”

Meanwhile, in the car...

Meanwhile, in the car…

– “Ouch, the steering wheel just burnt me.”

– “Put your shoes on! The ground’s too HOT to go barefoot, and I can’t carry you.” [Think: scalding hot coals]

– “Ahh, the swimming pool water’s cool. They’ve turned the chiller on at last.”

– “When is Ramadan, again?” [Go moon! FYI: Expected to start this year on 29 Jun.]

– “You will be back in September, won’t you?”

– “No, we’re not going to America today, tomorrow, or the next day. We’re going in three weeks’ time. 1 – 2 – 3– WEEKS.”

– “Lucky kids! Outdoor playtime is cancelled, and school’s taking them to the local softplay instead.” [Cue: another money-filled envelope.] “And more party food?”

– “Could you show me where the fake tan is please? Everyone at home expects me to look sun tanned.”

– “Try the hot tap. The water should be colder.”

– “Mwah! Good-bye! Safe travels.”

Expat paperwork

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We made a trip to the American consulate in Dubai this week: I had to surrender my US green card (long story); and Son2 needed his passport renewed.

DH and I, and Son2, all had to attend, in case one of us was trying to spirit him out of the country without the other knowing. The appointments for consular services were helpfully during school hours, so the place was crawling with children in school uniform, adults clutching paperwork, steely eyed officials and guards.

Son2 wasn’t happy at all about missing swimming at school, so DH told him a little white lie: “We’re going to the president’s mansion,” he said. “You’ll have to be good,” we added. “There’ll be handcuffs there and everything.” (That bit’s probably true.)

xxxx

So we might have glorified it a bit to Son2

On arrival, we passed through the body scanner, gave up our phones, the car keys and my handbag, and proceeded to Fort Knox’s main area – a large space containing half a dozen rows of chairs and a concession stand selling pizzas and other snack foods.

We waited our turn, and I asked DH for the umpteenth time if we had all the paperwork we needed:

– My green card – tick

– Son2’s passport, and copy of the bio data page – tick, tick

– Original birth certificate, and one copy – tick, tick

– Mine and DH’s passports, plus copies – tick, tick, tick, tick

– Passport form (fill out online, print and bring with) – tick

– Passport photo (US size, full-face, no looking down, ears exposed) – tick

– Fees: 388 AED – tick

I was almost holding my breath at the counter, sure there’d be something we’d overlooked. Son2’s school reports perhaps. His great great grandmother’s (on the paternal side) proof of pioneering voyage across the Atlantic and first homestead. Our tax returns. First pet’s photo, eye level 28-35mm from the bottom of the photo, no sunglasses.

“Do you have another picture?” asked the official, frowning at the perfectly proportioned, US passport-sized headshot we’d had taken of Son2.

“No,” we answered, glumly.

“The background needs to be white,” he said, pointing out the so-opaque-it-was-barely-there tinge of colour visible in the backdrop.

Any mum who’s ever felt like she’s trying to pin a woodland sprite to a studio chair when getting her young child photographed will understand why we groaned – then crossed our fingers and toes when he said he’d put the application through and let the system decide!

Quiet car anthems

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There are some mornings when Son2 doesn’t say anything on the way to school. Then there are other mornings where it’s like having a pint-size dictator sitting in the backseat, and you realise that, compared to dealing with a small child, pregnancy was really a nine-month massage.

Today, I banned Son2 from bringing the iPad into the car, so he grabbed the Kindle instead. For some reason, there was heavier traffic than normal, and I was just attempting to merge onto a fast road when he started shouting.

“MUM! LOOK! Stop the car, quick, look!”

It was something on the Kindle he’d found incredibly funny.

xxxxxx

“I’m just a bit busy right now darling!”

“I can’t look,” I replied, keeping a watchful eye on the slow-moving Datsun Sunny in front of me, and the much faster Land Cruiser I could see in my mirror about to sling-shot across three lanes. “I’m driving.”

“Just look quickly!” (What could be more pressing than Robo Shark turning mines into missiles, he’s thinking.)

“I really can’t!” A motorbike was now vying for pole position too.

He reluctantly agreed he’d have to wait for me to look until we’d parked. But then something on the radio disagreed with him. At age 5, he’s developed opinions about whether the DJs are talking too much and which songs he likes – his favourite, ironically, being I Crashed my Car into the Bridge by Maytrixx.

I switched channels. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument and knew I’d soon have the car to myself and could then rock out to some quiet car anthems (a mum has to take her chance to rock out when she can).

At school, I kissed him goodbye and his eyes suddenly looked downcast. “Don’t go to work Mum. What takes you so long there?” he asked, forlornly. “Just quit!”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked him why he didn’t want me to work.

“Because I love you,” he said quietly, as a teardrop squeezed its way out of one eye and trickled down his cheek.

Miss you kiddos when I’m gone all day.

The green-eyed monster

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green-eyed-monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adult words

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

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

So bear with me.

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

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

"Erm, ask Daddy!"

“Erm, ask Daddy!”

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

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

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

“Daddy says it means beautiful,” says Son1.

“Or I love you,” chipped in Son2.

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

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

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

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

A role reversal

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Normality returned today. Son 1 had his first day back at school (and was secretly quite excited) and I went back to work with a hop and a skip.

DH, meanwhile, has some time off, due to a runway being closed at Dubai International airport. I say ‘time off’, but we all know what staying home means in reality – school drop-offs, pick-ups, homework, refereeing small children, feeding time at the zoo. You get the gist.

For me, knowing that DH is home while I’m at work is such a relief. I worry less about the boys driving our helper to distraction, and I know he’ll deal with any problems that arise.

I’m well aware, though, that pilots aren’t the kind of guys who can happily spend time picking the fluff from their toenails. Plucked from a life of world travel, luxury hotels, far-flung cities and telly in bed, it must be quite a shock to suddenly find yourself grounded in a houseful of children with a to-do list as long as your arm.

So I was pleased when DH announced this morning that he was going wakeboarding for an hour on the ocean with his brother.

But that wasn’t what I heard about when I got home.

No, it was the shoes he’d bought that he told me all about.

Let me just say first that DH has no interest in shoes at all – I’m not sure if he’d know the difference between a pair bought from Payless and the designer brands stocked in Saks Fifth Avenue. He looks at my shoe collection as though I’ve been breeding them uncontrollably, and mostly wears flip-flops himself. So you can imagine my surprise when he texted to say he’d bought some Italian shoes.

“Wow,” I replied. “Are they pointy?”

Watch out for suited Italian salesman flogging shoes from their boot

Watch out for suited salesman flogging Italian shoes from their boot

No, he responded. He definitely draws the line at pointy, but it seems a chance encounter with a dapper, suited-and-booted shoe salesman piqued his interest.

“This really well-dressed Italian man asked me for directions to Emirates Road, then said he’d just opened a new shoe shop and had some really nice samples in his car to give away before leaving the country,” DH explained later.

“He said I could have a pair if I gave him a small donation towards buying his wife some perfume in Duty Free.”

$100 later (yes, US dollars), and DH was in proud possession of a stylish pair of black patent leather lace-ups with tobacco-brown buffed leather soles.

I admired how shiny they were and stroked the contoured toes (you could see your face in them they were so glossy) – while wondering what on earth had come over DH.

“They’ll be perfect for the ball we’re going to soon,” he remarked.

“Mmmm,” I replied, “they’re great”, and I thought to myself, “Not in a month of Sundays did I expect DH to buy shoes for the pilots’ ball before me.”

I wonder what tomorrow will bring for my stay-at-home aviator.