Category Archives: Parenting

Home sweet Dubai

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We arrived back in the sandpit on Sunday, but it’s taken me until today to resurface – because, despite there being a tiddly three hours’ time difference in summer, I always develop a flu-like case of jet lag when travelling eastwards (pathetic, I know!).

My pilot DH has to put up with me lamenting about needing to sleep, but never at the right time (at bedtime, I’m bog-eyed with a fidgety wakefulness for hours), and believe me, he shakes his head at me, absolutely dumbfounded that anyone could be so utterly *hopeless* at jet lag.

While this should only apply to mums travelling back from the US or Canada, with an 8-hour-plus time change, it's not far off.

She’s travelled back from the US. I have no excuse.

“But I think I was still on a mid-Atlantic time zone after the US,” I protest, with a yawn. “You have to fight it,” he responds, at a loss.

And so it goes on: me plodding through the day, which has a surreal, otherworldly quality when you’ve just landed in the post-apocalyptic 43° heat of the desert, and unable to sleep at night; him business as usual despite having flown to six different time zones while we were away.

Aside from the insomnia (which the kids also have. Ugh.) and the wading through hot treacle, the other thing about arriving back in Dubai after a long period away is the brain dump that takes place while travelling. Simple things, like the route to your local retail centre, making a packed lunch, or locating the cupboard in which mugs are kept, require deep thought, while grocery shopping feels like a thousand-piece 3D puzzle.

Still, even though I drifted onto the highway today in a daze rather than into the supermarket car park, and have climbed the staircase a total of eight times tonight to soothe the two riving insomniacs upstairs, it feels good to be home.

EDITED TO ADD: At 11.30pm and decamped to the children’s room with my laptop, I can now say, hand on heart, jet lag is the SCOURGE of summer travel. Sigh.

Silent Sunday: Summer camp

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Camp has got to be one of the greatest inventions known to mumkind, especially in countries where the summer vacation goes on…and…on. This camp, I’m not so sure about, however. At Happy Camp, participants should maintain a general sense of anxiety at all times:

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Thank you to Nina at Francey Pants for this photo.

Emirates Aviation Experience: Say hello

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“C’mon, let’s go in,” I said to DH, who didn’t need that much encouraging, to be honest.

We were about to ride the Emirates Air Line cable car, which crosses London’s River Thames at a vertigo-inducing altitude, when we noticed a small building housing the newly opened aviation experience.

I must have been feeling a bit homesick, because suddenly the idea of paying money (£3 each) to get a little Dubai fix seemed a good idea. It might even be air-conditioned, I reasoned (this was a few weeks ago, during the hot spell).

PicMonkey Collage2

Inside the £4m attraction, we walked round a real-size replica of the A380’s nose and a 165,000-brick Lego engine. I tried an aviation-themed interactive game and decided we didn’t need to sit in the mock economy cabin and put the headsets on to watch the TV screens, as I’ve only spent, like, a MILLION hours sitting in those seats for real. (Now, if it was business class and they were serving champagne ….)

And, I can honestly say I really enjoyed the panoramic video following a suitcase’s journey, from check-in to the plane’s hold via a system of rollercoaster-like conveyor belts.

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Luggage moves through an amazingly intricate behind-the-scenes structure, with slopes, bends and junctions. (Riding on your case would be so much fun)

But it was upstairs that DH and I had the best time. In one of the A380 simulators, where you can try your hand at flying a superjumbo (sort of).

Though nothing like what pilots actually train in (just the stick, rudder and thrust work), it allows you to take-off, manoeuvre the aircraft and land – or crash, in my case. The high-definition screen and advanced graphics simulate a flight between London Heathrow and Dubai, with weather conditions of your choosing. You could opt for drizzly rain coming into LHR, buttery sunshine in Dubai, or a starry night sky if you want to command a night flight.

My DH isn’t one to boast about what he does so as I took the controls he kept his job quiet, until the staff pretty quickly figured it out and left us to it. But let’s just say that, even with him coaching me, I’m not the most coordinated of pilots.

“Just small corrections,” DH instructed as I attempted to keep the plane on the glide path, while watching the landing lights. Half red and half white is the ideal. Nose up. Left a bit. The runway starts rushing up towards me. Those small corrections rapidly turn into clumsy lurches and I plunge the aircraft into the ground, where it bumps along noiselessly, magically passing through highly pixelated objects.

My second attempt is much the same, and I have to concede that, in the unlikely event that the entire crew of a 380 is struck down by a dodgy prawn, I’m not your hero.

After a while, I hand over to DH to watch and marvel. And then something occurs to me: “Try flying it under Tower Bridge!” Why, the worst that could happen is they’d have to reboot the software.

The simulator costs £40 for a 30-minute session. This isn’t a sponsored post. I actually did spend my birthday riding the Emirates Air Line.

The expat mum endurance test

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The best thing about summer leave is, of course, seeing family and friends, and this year, more than any other, I’ve marvelled at how certain members of my tribe are becoming super fit. There’s my sister-in-law who went for a bike ride, and can now do 60 miles from London to Cambridge, and my cousin, who’s doing a triathlon this weekend.

But for us expat mummies, it’s not so easy over the summer, is it? Aside from being ‘on the road’ for 6 weeks or more escaping the Dubai heat, there’s the small matter of all that good food in your home country, the shelves of wine in the supermarket and the ‘holiday’ treats you deserve because you’re solo with the kids.

So, I’ve been having a little think, about some of the endurance contests that expat mums across the world are competing in this summer, so we can pat ourselves on the back too.

Ready, steady….GO:

Pole-position passport queuing: With a child desperate for a wee

Sprint to the toilets: Before the inevitable

The bath-book-bed triathlon: With wide-awake time travellers

The time zone leap: No napping

The sweat-athon (in a British heat wave): Where will you hide?

The cross-country: How many relatives / landmarks / toilets can you visit en-route?

Team-member down: When DH breaks away from the pack and streaks to the finish line a month before you

The last hurdle

The last hurdle

The stamina test: After 5 weeks of children’s activities, August shows up with a wry smile and a “So, how will you entertain ’em for ANOTHER FIVE WEEKS?”

Hitting the wall: How long until the noisy / messy / hazardous things our offspring do to fill their days get too much?

14-hour cycle: Two weeks to go and too tired to go anywhere, the 14-hour cycle of front garden, back garden, side garden kicks in

The home straight: Just THE PACKING still to do [shudders]

Crossing the finish: And time to play beat-the-body-clock again

Good luck everyone – bonus points for putting petrol in yourself.

Our world … and their world

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“LOOK out the window!”

I don’t know how many times we’ve said this to our children in the car, and in how many different countries, but however amazing the view, it falls on deaf ears.

Kids! You're missing so much by not looking out the window... it's boring.com to them

Boring.com to my children. But, kids, you’re missing so much by not looking out the window!

I’ve long since learnt that if someone pipes up, “Sheep!”, they’re not looking at a flock of fluffy animals grazing on grassy meadows outside the window. There’ll be a pixelated sheep swimming across the small screen in whatever world they happen to be inhabiting on Minecraft.

And, another thing, the vast swathes of life that took place in our BC (before children) world? No interest to them. Whatsoever.

In Florida, we drove by the apartment we used to rent when DH and I were newlyweds. “Look, boys, that’s where mummy and daddy lived before you were born!” I said, pointing excitedly at the grey-timber building, nestled in lush landscaping.

There was a flicker of interest, a brief glance out the window, with one eye still on the square-headed sheep.

Then Son1 says, nonchalantly: “C’mon, let’s go! You don’t live there anymore!”

And returns to his electronic stimulation.

If my eyebrows had risen any further, they would have shot past the atmosphere.

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Florida parklife (and breaking the rules)

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Of all the many fun-filled, wallet-emptying attractions that Orlando has to offer, there were two my boys really wanted to visit: Legoland and Titanic: The Experience.

The latter was unsinkably brilliant, and I really recommend it; the former, we didn’t do, because they’d literally just been to Legoland in Windsor. But, kids, they have a short memory, don’t they?

Obviously, you can’t bring children to Florida and not take them to Disneyland, so we knocked out Animal Kingdom, and, because we used to live near Orlando and always enjoyed SeaWorld, we spent a day there, too. And it was here that Son1 experienced his first white-knuckle rollercoaster – completely by accident.

SeaWorld was heaving with visitors, and after deciding we didn’t fancy waiting 90 minutes to see some penguins (albeit in a whirly saucer thingy), we bankrupted ourselves further by purchasing two fast-passes.

"It's only gentle. Really!"

“It’s only gentle. Really!”

We wandered over to the famous Kraken rollercoaster (guess what? No queue anyway! You should have seen DH’s face) and went to the fast-pass entrance, where we were told there was a short delay as the ride was experiencing a technical fault.

The staff were distracted. All no more than college age, they were busy testing the floorless, sea serpent coaster and not paying the waiting visitors much attention. So, when it was ready to go again, Son1 and I walked on and took our seats.

For a panic-stricken moment, I felt like the worst parent ever, because just as the ride was unleashed, Son1 decided he wanted to get off. “You can’t,” I hissed, imagining the scene I’d have to create to stop the ride mid-roll. “It’s very gentle,” I lied.

He went quiet, and the rollercoaster hurtled round at break-neck speed, flinging us down a 144-foot drop, through two loops, a dive loop, a zero-G roll, a cobra roll and a corkscrew.

“You okay?” I asked as we clamboured off, clutching each other’s hand and wondering which way was up.

“Yesssss!” he replied, eyes shining. “Can we go again, pleeeeeease!”

A little later, DH took him back, only to reappear shortly afterwards with a disappointed Son1 – who, this time, had been turned away by more-attentive staff for being quite a bit too short.

Ooops.

Silent Sunday: I love the US because…

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…They really do know how to make life easier. I spotted this vending machine at SeaWorld – definitely a ‘momvention’, it’s filled with all the kiddie essentials that parents on the go might need, from diapers, wipes and cream to formula, bottles, pacifiers, Tylenol and sunblock.

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Desperately seeking diapers? No problem, Nanny Caddy to the rescue (and no junk food in sight). When my children were this age, this handy machine would certainly have helped ensure our survival away from home.

And, while at SeaWorld, I couldn’t help noticing that sea creatures aren’t the only things they keep behind glass.

She's a pearl diver. Several are 'working' the tank and dive for oysters pointed out by visitors

She’s a pearl diver. Several ‘work’ the tank and dive for oysters pointed out by visitors

Note to SeaWorld: How about some mermaids next?

What to expect if you’re an heir

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Last royal post, I promise.

The guessing game is finally over: it’s a boy (those wanting a girl are now, according to Twitter, hoping he might be gay); they left the Lindo Wing with a tiny wave; and He Who Had No Name is called George.

Named after my first cat, I believe.

(Despite sounding like a stripper, Royal Baby will stick in my mind for quite a while longer, though).

But if there’s something we don’t have to guess, it’s that his upbringing will be nothing like that experienced by the garden-variety of child.

Below is my compare-and-contrast with the hoi polloi, and, out of interest, what previous royal generations did …

When all this is trained on your birth, and you start trending within your first five minutes of life, it's unlikely to be an ordinary existence

When all this is trained on your birth, and you start trending within your first five minutes of life, the chances of having an ordinary existence are zilch, I’d say

MEETING THE FAMILY
Circles household: Immensely grateful that DH made it to Son2’s surgical birth (on an overnight flight) with five minutes to spare.
HH: Wills was in attendance the whole time and the royal grandparents were helicoptered in for an unscheduled flying visit.
Previously: Prince Charles was the first dad to see his heir arrive; before that, multiple officials were present and births took place in royal residences, not hospitals.

"AHEM, to the hospital, please!"

“AHEM, to the hospital, please!”

HIS CRYNESS, ALL.NIGHT.LONG
Circles household: Schlepped into our nursery room in a fug of tiredness, eyes clamped half shut; often still on the floor in the morning.
HH: What prosperous parent doesn’t employ a maternity nurse these days?
Previously: Believing breastfeeding was the ‘ruin’ of refined ladies, Queen Victoria handed all nine of her children over to a wet nurse.

FIRST PAD(S)
Circles household: A modest two-bedroom home in Minneapolis.
HH: Apartment 1A at Kensington Palace, although why this is called an apartment is BEYOND me. It’s a four-story, 20-room property. There will also be a 10-bed country mansion in Norfolk.
Previously: Prince Charles lived in Buckingham Palace’s remote nursery, cared for by nannies, governesses and footmen, and only seeing his parents at designated times.

The 'apartment' at Kensington Palace

The ‘apartment’ at Kensington Palace

HIGH TEA WITH FRIENDS
Circles household: Decamped to friends’ homes whenever it felt like the walls were closing in on me.
HH: No shortage of mates with estates and big digs for little George to visit.
Previously: While growing up, the Queen didn’t get to meet ordinary folk under ordinary circumstances, only leaving the palace under carefully controlled conditions.

ON RAINY DAYS
Circles household: Braved the germ-ridden, windowless hellholes that are soft-play areas.
HH: Chelsea’s Purple Dragon, where there’s a pristine indoor play centre, pool, recording studio, etc, and the clocks on the wall tell the time in Narnia, the Shire and Neverland, is surely in his future.
Previously: At a guess, wellington boot activities were popular.

If the blue Bugaboo breaks, one has other options

If the blue Bugaboo breaks, one has other options

FEASTS FIT FOR A KING
Circles household: Had good intentions, but resorted to jars, followed by fish fingers, all too often cooked with my coat on after rushing home.
HH: Any fish fingers eaten are more likely to be made of salmon and coated in gluten-free breadcrumbs.
Previously: Wills and Harry were weaned on organic purees, prepared by Princess Diana’s chef.

EARLY LEARNING
Circles household: Put Son1 in a US daycare centre teeming with snotty children and hoped for the best.
HH: A likely contender is Chelsea Pre-Prep and Nursery, which offers ballet, French and animal care among its extracurricular activities.
Previously: Queen Elizabeth was home schooled for her entire education.

AIR MILES
Circles household: These, we have clocked up a few of.
HH: I don’t see those ski holidays and island-hopping trips stopping, do you?
Previously: As a toddler, Prince Charles’ parents often went on official overseas trips, sometimes lasting months and, as was custom, left him behind. (Keeping routines intact, people – or had they discovered the joys of child-free travel?)

I wish the new royal family all the very best, I really do. They honestly seem like a jolly nice couple.

The posh push day

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Some two decades ago, Baby Cambridge’s grandmother, the late Princess Di, brought her children over. Well, not exactly over to ours, but to the theme park where I worked during Uni vacations.

It was the Easter holidays and the news spread round Thorpe Park like wildfire that Princess Diana was visiting with young Wills and Harry. The park wasn’t closed or anything; they mingled with the crowds and queued for rides along with everyone else, while I stood at a cash register in a frilly Alice in Wonderland costume desperately hoping the royal party would come into my sweet parlour to buy some pick ‘n’ mix.

They didn’t, but one of the press photos taken that day, of the Princess and Princes on the Logger’s Leap water ride, became one of the most famous images of Diana relaxing with her sons.

I've LOVED watching the royal family being dragged into the 21st century

I’ve LOVED watching the royal family being dragged into the 21st century

(My DH claims to have met Princess Diana, too, when she nearly ran him over on a zebra crossing in Kensington. At the wheel of a dark-coloured car, she apparently appeared out of nowhere, sped up to the crossing, looked my DH directly in the eye as he scurried across, and zoomed off. But my story is more relevant here.)

I was glued to the #GlobalCervixWatch Royal Baby Watch as history was made today. I devoured the 24-hour news coverage, the fillers, the interviews with knackered, bemused new mums who’d also given birth today. I laughed out loud at the electrifying false alarm, triggered when a security officer walked out of the hospital with a file, and ‘ahhhed’ at the news the fountains in Trafalgar Square would be filled with blue water if the baby was a boy and pink if it was a girl.

Never mind that when the announcement was finally made (four hours after the birth), the internet ground to a halt as millions of people checked the news, and the TV was being hogged by my boys racing each other on Super Mario.

My point, though, is I’m really glad the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge enjoyed this private, bonding time with their newborn. Tomorrow, they’ll be thrust under the most intense media scrutiny as the public demands images of her leaving hospital, and perhaps struggling with a car seat.

And, as this heir-to-the-throne will inevitably be brought up in the public eye, I hope that Diana’s legacy – the way in which, contrary to previous royal generations, she attempted to give her boys a more normal, grounded upbringing (you can say what you like about her, but she was an amazing mother) – will continue to live on. I’ve a very good feeling that with hands-on parents and the help of Kate Middie’s family, it will.

Silent Sunday: First flight

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This was a day I knew would come sooner or later. “You can stay on the ground if you like,” DH said. “No way!” I replied, not wanting to see my whole family go up in a light aircraft without me. What I hadn’t bargained on was sitting in the back peering out at central Florida below while Son1 received a lesson from his Dad.

Holy guacamole, the seven-year-old is flying!

Holy guacamole, the seven-year-old is flying!