Category Archives: Parenting

Our ‘snow day’ in the Middle East

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Within hours of my first son’s birth in Minneapolis, the ground started glistening as though a fairy had sprinkled dust over the entire city.

No, I wasn’t still high on the cocktail of drugs. It was the end of November and a blizzard had set in, covering everything with a blanket of thick white snow and turning the houses, with their undisturbed snowy roofs, into works of art.

We drove BB home from the hospital – very gingerly – in a snow storm and during the first two years of his life in the midwest of America, there was snow and ice on the ground for at least four months each winter.

Yet, of all this, BB remembers nothing! Despite my valiant efforts to bundle a wriggling, obstinate toddler into an all-in-one snow suit (I honestly think it would have been easier to dress an octopus) and drag him along on a sled, he has no recollection of the fluffy, white stuff.

LB has never seen real snow and so it was with great excitement that we set off last week to the top of a mountain range in Lebanon. Our goal was to build LB’s first ever snowman and so carrots were grabbed from the kitchen, jumpers stuffed into the back of the car.

I have to admit I was sceptical: it was so hot in Beirut. How could there possibly still be snow, I wondered? The temperature remained warm even as we climbed higher – our slow ascent through 1850 metres monitored by my DH and his Dad who, being pilots, checked the altitude on the car’s GPS at every opportunity.

Songs were sung, wrong turns taken, then, low and behold, we suddenly saw snowy peaks! Real snow pasted on the already-stunning scenery like icing sugar.

In Lebanon, you can surf the sea and ski all in one day! Snowballs were thrown, of course – despite the lack of gloves

The winding mountain road led us to a ski resort called Faraya, closed now for the season but beautiful nevertheless. Beautiful and cold.

Straight out of the desert in Crocs and with a constitution that means they shiver in the refrigerated section of the supermarket, the boys whined at first – but after wrapping LB in a pashmina and donating DH’s socks to BB (who knew we’d need winter clothes in the Middle East?) we set about building our snowman with cold wet hands.

A glamorous Lebanese lass climbed on a snowmobile – driven to the very edge of the snow so she wouldn’t get her bejewelled black-suede boots wet – and set off at speed clinging to her boyfriend. If she can do it, I can too, I thought – and so I hopped on the back when the boys went for a spin.

Precious memories were made, but I have to admit one of the most memorable moments was a conversation in the car on the way up:

“Have you ever seen snow before?” my mother-in-law asked the boys.

“Yes,” they replied, nodding their heads earnestly.

“Where? In England? America?” she prompted.

“Nooo. Dubai,” corrected BB, as though it was the most obvious answer and you’d be a ninny to think otherwise.

And then, “Will we see penguins on the mountain Grannie Jane?”

Ski Dubai (our ski slope in a shopping mall and home to the most-pampered penguins in the world) has a lot to answer for!

Overheard after flying (with kids)

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Last week I was listening in on my two sons and LB’s best friend D, the cutest boy with the most beautiful white-blonde curls.

“Just look at those gorgeous curls,” I always say to his mother, as though she hasn’t noticed!

D’s dad is also a pilot and D had just returned from a trip home to see family in South Africa. We’d just got back from visiting my in-laws in Lebanon and LB and D were over the moon to see each other again.

In between discussing D’s new pirate ship, the three boys started talking about their trip. Obviously, being expat children, seeing family involves an airplane ride and it made me smile how small boys, who know no other way, view the mode of transport that takes them *home*.

BB: “I just got back from Leb-alon.”

LB: “And meeee!”

BB: “What country did you go to D?”

D: “Af-rika!”

BB: “Is that a long way?”

D: “Yes. But my daddy’s airplane went fast! Like this….whoooooosh”, pretending his fingers were an airplane and whizzing them through the air.

LB: “Whooooosh,” for effect.

BB: “But my daddy’s airplane went faster than yours,” his hand turning into a blur of motion as he illustrated high speed.

D: “No, it didn’t! My daddy’s airplane went super-fast!”

Followed by a detailed explanation from BB of the games he played on the in-flight entertainment system.

It’s a funny ole’ lifestyle sometimes, but never seems to phase little boys.

With a ‘need for speed’ already ingrained, heaven help us when they’re 16!

Wishing all my American mom friends a very happy Mother’s Day next weekend!

20 things to do before you’re 12 (in Dubai)

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On my favourite radio breakfast show this week, the DJs – Catboy and Geordiebird – were talking about a list that’s been compiled of things to do before you turn 12.

Skim a stone, climb a tree, roll down a really big hill, camp out in the wild, play conkers, get behind a waterfall, hunt for bugs, feel like you’re flying in the wind and go on a nature walk at night were all included in the list of 50 things to do before the age of 11 ¾ – put together by the National Trust.

It was nostalgic stuff, especially as the NT’s intention was to inspire today’s high-wired pre-teen generation – shackled as they are to their computers, Xboxes and TVs – to get out the house and have a go at what we used to do by default.

Listeners to the show then came up with a number of other suggestions – like buy your own school shoes, drink water from a hose pipe, ring the bell and run away, drop a stone down a well and listen for the splash, race lolly sticks under a bridge, let frogspawn run through your fingers and show someone yours (if they show you theirs).

By this point, I was getting so wistful, I was ready to ditch city-living, move to the hills and raise BB and LB as free-range kids – hunting for worms with them every morning and playing Pooh sticks.

Anyway, it got me thinking that a Dubai version of this list would look somewhat different. It might read something like this:

● Feel like you’re flying in the wind at iFLY, Dubai’s indoor skydiving facility

● Go sand boarding down a massive sand dune, standing up

KidZania is a scaled-down city where kids can play at being grown ups. They can take jobs such as doctor, mechanic, pilot; drive cars; earn money and spend it on petrol and pizza

● Spend the night at KidZania

● Go camping / drumming / hunting for scorpions in the desert

● Take a telescope into the desert at night and try to spot at least three planets among the stars

● Get picked up in a Hummer to go to a party at the Atlantis hotel

● Climb the stairs up the Burj Khalifa

● Throw snowballs / cuddle a penguin at the Mall of the Emirates

● Play pass-the-parcel and unwrap a Tag Heuer watch at the end

● Go on a hot-air balloon ride over the desert at dawn

● Run around in the rain

● Visit a World Island

● Find gold, at a gold-dispensing ATM machine

● Canoe down the creek

● Take a glass-bottom boat ride on top of the Dubai Aquarium

● Get behind the fountain inside the Dubai Mall

● Swim with dolphins

● Play with a friend’s lion cub

● Fry an egg on the bonnet of a car in summer

● Learn Arabic and the history of our amazing little-fishing-village-that-could

To see the National Trust’s list, click here

Empty nest syndrome

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Other than bad news from home, if there’s a day in expatland that rocks your boat it’s surely the day visitors leave.

And, having been an expat for nearly a decade now, I’ve realised something: good-byes don’t get any easier.

Departures are generally abrupt and tend to sneak up on you. The day before is normal, full of activity, but with some packing-by-stealth in the evening (so the kids go to bed without a scene).

The next day, the leaving day, can even start quite normally with cups of tea served and some chit-chat. Then, suddenly, suitcases appear downstairs, placed by the door as though standing guard. Before you know it, good-byes are being said and, like a plaster being ripped off, your visitors are gone. Vanished. Whisked off to the airport by DH.

Mum and Dad are, once again, a 7-hour plane ride away

Where there was a book and a pair of reading glasses, there’s now a space. Where there were multiple mugs, there are suddenly empty coasters. Whereas just 12 hours previously my mind was buzzing with arrangements, meal plans and grocery runs, it’s now a void – the lists I made that served as my brain redundant.

As your visitors settle down to an airplane meal and a movie, you realise you hit pause on your expat life, turned down invites, disappeared off the radar so you could enjoy your guests, and now need to pick yourself up and resume day-to-day life. The only trouble is it’s hard to get off the sofa you’ve been so busy entertaining!

The other thing I’ve realised about visitors leaving is that grandchildren take empty nest syndrome to a new, and vocal, level. Oldest son was spirited away by the school bus before The Departure. Youngest son slept through it, then awoke to an echoey-quiet house.

“Where’s Nanny gone? Where’s Grand-da?” he cried, tears rolling down his cheeks. His face crumpled as a frantic search round the house revealed that I hadn’t hidden them.

His sobbing intensified further when he realised his brother had gone back to school (a week earlier than his nursery re-opens).

“I w.a.n.t to go to school,” he pleaded!

With a determined look on his face, he then put his shoes on and marched out the door – and we had no choice but to walk to ‘school’ to prove it was, indeed, locked.

“Where’s Ms Annette? Where’s evwy-one gone?,” he spluttered while standing at the gate in disbelief. “Evwy-one swimming? Nanny and Grand-da swimming too?” he enquired, finally satisfied he’d got to the bottom of it.

“Yes, LB, everyone’s swimming,” I replied to buy some time – thinking to myself, “Yes LB, I know. I feel it too.”

You can take a horse to water…

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The temperature was perfect. Just a hint of summer heat hanging in the air. Turquoise highlights glistened on the surface of the Arabian Gulf and sail boats dotted the horizon.

A kite danced in the sea breeze. There were sculpted bodies in beautiful bikinis. Children playing happily. Mums reading – the sand cushioning their toes with marshmallow softness.

Waves rolled towards the shore, lapping the white sand. Kids squealed as the watery haven moved perpetually closer. The smell of sea salt and sunscreen filled the air.

Expat life at its finest.

Except this Easter weekend, BB wasn’t in the mood for the beach. All he wanted to do was play with his new Lego helicopter, a present from my parents, who’ve just arrived (and are providing the most wonderful distraction at silly o clock, when the kids – on school holidays – leap out of bed).

A bigger hit than the Easter eggs


You can take a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink, I’ve realised – especially when the ‘horse’, ie, my oldest son, has suddenly and inexplicably developed a fear of crabs.

And scorpions.

As the rest of us enjoyed some sun, sea and sand and LB busied himself jumping waves – dissolving into laughter every time there was an incoming rush of water – his brother looked on forlornly.

“Mumm-EEE! Can we go home?” he pleaded. “I really W.A.N.T to go home.”

For a few moments at this point, I’m sure I saw a knowing smile flicker across my mum’s face – a kind of ‘been there, experienced that many years ago’ expression that was quickly hidden.

And then, “Mumm-eeee, I don’t like the beach. I just want to go home and sit on the sofa.”

Oh my goodness. I’m raising a couch potato. And there are 15 more days of Easter holidays to go!

HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE!

Mother’s Day week

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I’ve realised that being a binational family, living in a country in which none of us was born, means Mother’s Day can go three ways.

Our surname is Lebanese, because that’s where DH’s family is originally from. DH is an American citizen and I’m from the UK. This all melts down into two kids who hold both US and British passports.

DH is really keen that the kids know they’re American and learn about American traditions, while I teach them all the British bits – Bonfire night, royal weddings, CBeebies, etc (in case you’re wondering, they have British accents and call ‘erasers’ ‘rubbers’!)

Since leaving the States, I've become mummy rather than mommy. They call pants 'trousers' now, but still say 'awesome' all the time!

When it comes to Mother’s Day, we’re a bit confused because DH has, for his whole life, observed American Mother’s Day, held each year on the second Sunday of May. I lean towards the British one (Sunday just gone) and then yesterday (Wednesday 21st) it was the UAE’s turn to celebrate mothers.

The result is it either all gets a bit diluted – or you can spin it out and spend a whole week doing Mother’s Day activities. At LB’s nursery, they made cards and roses out of tissue paper on Sunday, while BB’s school held a special picnic and sing-song for the mums yesterday.

Although the boys probably have no clue which day is actually ‘our’ Mother’s Day, they are being particularly affectionate at the moment, and as I’ve been feeling guilty that I’ve given them a bit of a bad press lately, I thought I’d elaborate.

“I lub you,” says LB, every 20 minutes or so – his deep brown eyes scanning my face and his little mouth breaking out into a grin the moment I return the sentiment.

His older brother, not to be outdone, notices every time my hair looks different or I’m wearing something new and always says something nice. They might be wrestling on the floor two minutes later or getting into some kind of mischief, but their loving ways bowl me over.

I know one day they’ll have wives who are the centre of their world (and you might remember that I already share BB’s affections with Girl Next Door), but for now I’m basking in their attention.

“I love you to the moon and back, round the sun a thousand times and all the way round the universe,” BB told me the other day.

“And all the way to Girl Next Door’s house and back,” he finished.

The student-led conference

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Back in my day, parent-teacher conferences involved mums and dads trooping into the classroom at allotted times to talk to the teacher, with the student otherwise occupied elsewhere.

Knowing full well you were being discussed, you had little choice but to wait nervously – your ears ablaze – until your parents returned and you could gauge the expression on their faces as they walked through the door.

How times change.

Today we went to my six-year-old’s school for his student-led conference – which I presume are becoming popular the world over.

The information reminded forgetful parents to express pride in their children's progress and provided sample questions!

We’d been prepped by the school beforehand with a letter telling us what to do. It would be a ‘non-teaching day’ (which, and I did have to think about this, was a fancy way of saying ‘a day off for the kids’) with 30-minute slots for each child/parent combo.

The idea was for your child to take you through his or her work in the classroom. In case this whole concept was beyond us, we were advised to be supportive, be positive, be curious and to listen to our children.

A slight, okay glaring, error on my part meant our son was the only child not in school uniform when we rolled up for our turn (DH and I both looked at each other as if to say, “do you not read the emails?”), but I think I made up for it by asking BB lots of questions. Whilst lavishing praise, my journalism training meant I practically quizzed him and what I’d heard about these conferences was right: the kids jump at the chance to show off their work.

One of the books was a diary and, on further inspection, I realised his teacher must know everything about what we do as a family. Our trip to an airport museum in Sharjah, outings on the monorail, parties and visitors – it was all there, coloured in and with scrawly handwriting in places. Thank goodness there weren’t any pictures of mummy sitting on the sofa, glued to the iPad (phew).

As we went through his ‘portfolio’, the teacher was obviously listening from behind her desk, but wasn’t participating – BB did most of the talking and thoroughly enjoyed it.

At the end, as we were leaving, I nudged DH to remind him he’d wanted to ask the teacher about something on BB’s report card. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll wait till next time.”

Kids – when it comes to student-led conferences, you’re onto a winner!

On yelling at your kids

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I know you’re probably getting bored of this theme, but just bear with me.

A friend of mine, also a pilot’s wife – whose DH is regularly away for much longer than mine – mentioned this week that she had, yet again, come to the conclusion that 5-7 days with just her and their young boys was her limit.

“I’m at the end of day 5 today and I’m suddenly the ‘yelling mom’,” she said. “It came out of nowhere and I’m just spent!”

Can't think why I was drawn to this scene, can you?

The conversation, taking place across the globe on Facebook, was joined by several mums, who all said the same thing, along the lines of, “Good grief, love…that’s longer than I can do.”

I honestly think my friend’s a trouper. Don’t you? To save the yelling until day 5 deserves a round of applause and a row of G&Ts, I reckon. I’d buckle far sooner – as I [confession] proved yet again this weekend.

The rising temperature here in Dubai might have had something to do with it (you forget that running around with kids in the heat leaves your nerves not just frayed, but shredded as everyone gets hot and bothered). Plus the fact it was another unstructured weekend alone. Or I might just be low on patience and energy and making excuses.

But, whatever the reason, as the weekend draws to a close in the UAE, I can still hear myself firing off, ‘NOOO!’ ‘STOP!’, ‘W.A.T.C.H. T.H.E. R.O.A.D.’, ‘WAIT’, ‘JUST LISTEN’, ‘I said NO’, ‘GET OUT OF THE DRIVER’s SEAT’. I could go on (and will for the purpose of this blog post).

Love my children so much it hurts, but when DH is away, they love to test their boundaries. I’m hoping mums of small children reading this will identify with the following exchanges – not all yelled, but certainly not whispered – and I won’t get bombarded with comments recommending I attend Effective Parenting classes (or counselling!):

“It’s 6 am in the morning! GO BACK TO BED!” Delivered sternly, not long after the birds started squawking the dawn chorus.

“I SAID open the door carefully!” After squeezing the SUV into a space not much wider, between a new-looking convertible BMW and a Ford Mustang, at the jam-packed supermarket car park.

“But two minutes ago, you DIDN’T WANT a sandwich.” In response to BB’s sudden un-ignorable hunger pangs, developed shortly after leaving Subway, where he’d flatly refused to eat.

Sometimes it feels like they just don't hear me

“Just let mummy talk for two minutes – perleeeez!” On meeting a friend at the JESS school Spring Fair and wanting to chat rather than be dragged off to the bouncy castle (my friend and I had imagined ourselves sitting in the Tea Garden, then browsing the craft stalls together – Ha! What were we thinking?)

“GO AND PLAY – I just paid 100 dirhams to get you in!” Directed at both boys who were still hanging off my t-shirt at the indoor play area I’d brought them to for a break (okay, the break was more for me than them).

“If you didn’t want the yogurt, WHY DID YOU OPEN IT!” After LB helped himself and smeared half of it over the table – squelching dollops onto the floor too.

“DON’T KILL EACH OTHER! JUST DON’T!” On trying to break up a fight, in which LB bit his brother in frustration (and I started tearing my hair out).

“WHAT HAPPENED??” After asking the boys to sit and wait quietly outside while I nipped into a store, then came out to find LB horizontal, red faced and screaming his head off (he’d fallen off the chair).

“NO you can’t have that *insert* doughnut / KitKat / over-priced toy / flashing gadget.” Repeat 20 times.

“Turn the volume DOWN!” After the noise coming from Tom and Jerry on the TV threatened to reach the level at which ear drums implode.

“RIGHT, bed…NOW!” At the end of a long day, after cajoling and jostling them through the bath/book/bed routine. Then quietly, “Oh no, really? You feel sick?”

Is it any wonder I’ve finished the weekend with all this echoing round my head?

Feel free to add your own.

When the cat’s away…

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It’s another dusty, windy Saturday afternoon and I’m drinking tea at a formica table while the boys burn off energy at an indoor play area.

There’s noise, bad music, lurid plastic, flashing lights, crying children and constant interruptions, but this is my downtime – two hours of respite from being the sole parent in charge today.

I’m sure all mums will know what I mean when I say single-handed parenting can sometimes be like doing a marathon in Manolo Blahniks, backwards and with no-one to tag.

OK, so on DH's list I left off the work bit, the jet lag and travel fatigue, but you get the picture. Jealous? NOoo

From the early morning wake-up calls to tantrums at bedtime, from oldest son’s non-stop, brain-bending questions to youngest son’s refusal to eat anything but chocolate, it always feels like a HUGE responsibility being the only adult on duty at the weekend.

[Said in a hushed voice]: They don’t leave me alone, not even to go to the toilet! And don’t get me started about the fighting.

So when I waved DH off this morning, to the bierhauses and beautiful architecture of Munich, it was with a hint of jealousy on my part, even though I’d actually hate to have to leave home the whole time (and, if the truth be told, I wouldn’t swap roles with him in a million years – nor did I actually see him off as he left even earlier than the kids got up).

But I missed his help when, in the car today while trying to concentrate on traffic, BB started shouting, “MUM, L.O.O.K!! LB’s got his willy out!” – upstaged only by an incident at the supermarket 10 minutes later which saw the Little Boy FLASHING shoppers while my back was turned getting cash from the ATM.

“Enjoy every moment,” well-meaning, nostalgic parents always advise. “It goes by so fast.” And I do try to savour it – just not *this* moment. Or the moment last Saturday when I discovered they’d etched a 1.5 metre-long scratch on the TV cabinet and filled the CD player up with soil.

Angels in standard-issue devil's horns: Nice try BB, but I don't think this will stop your brother from bugging you!

I’ve actually got off pretty lightly today – on previous occasions when DH has been gone, far worse has happened. I came home from work a few weeks ago to be told, by our nanny, that she’d lost BB that afternoon and found him up on the roof, hollering to our neighbours.

We do have lots of fun, too, when it’s just the kids and me, but it does seem that while the cat’s away, the mice will play up, especially on weekends.

When DH gets back from trips, he scoops up the boys, his eyes shining with joy. “They’re such angels,” he’ll say, turning to me.

I’ve learnt to smile sweetly and respond – in a measured way – “Yes dear. Little angels.”

“Both of them.” Before retreating for what I consider to be a well-earned break.

This has been doing the rounds on Facebook recently - love it!

The school assessment

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It might only feel like yesterday that the Little Boy was born, but here in Dubai children can start school at three – providing they pass ‘The Assessment’, in which your kid is expected to perform tricks like a monkey. Except it would probably be easier taking a monkey along than a stroppy three year old.

“We should have got his hair cut,” lamented DH, as I tried to comb LB’s overgrown mop into a tidy style on the morning of his first assessment last week. “And done more prep. A captain I flew with told me they’d done loads of prep with their son.”

“It’s ok,” I retorted. “He’s great with colours – and he knows all our names. Watch,” I said, running through our family names, only hitting a problem when it came to my name. “Cath-wynn,” he replied. Erm, close (she’s our nanny) but no!

“He can hold a pen – and count in no particular order,” I ventured, grasping at straws at this point.

Bittersweet: It's hard to believe that in the autumn I'll have two boys at school!

This assessment – for a nearby school so popular it has a 10-year waiting list – was the easy one out of the two schools we’re applying to because we didn’t have to be there. A teacher came to LB’s nursery and ‘observed him’. All we had to do was get him there by 8 in the morning and keep our fingers crossed that he didn’t bite anyone in front of her.

I knew all along that today’s assessment for his older brother’s school would be harder, for several reasons. It was at 7.45am, we had to go with him, and every time we take him to BB’s school, it’s to ride bikes in the kindergarten play area, not be asked questions by a complete stranger with a clip board in a room full of kids he doesn’t know.

As I filled in a form about LB’s behaviour, routine, strengths and weaknesses, I was acutely aware I’d come across as a complete liar. “He enjoys playing with children,” I put, as LB – who’d just thrown the predicted tantrum over not being allowed to go to the school play area with his brother – clung to me for dear life.

“He’ll play independently,” I wrote, while DH tried to prize him off me, with no luck.

“And his love of Lego suggests a future Norman Foster … That is, if the accuracy he displays when throwing things at his brother’s head doesn’t lead him to play sport competitively,” I toyed with the idea of putting.

With ALL the other kids playing happily, DH and I tried using bribery, coercion and even logic to get him to participate, until finally a teacher came over and asked if he was part of the assessment. “YES … It might not look like it, but yes!” I fumed in my head… “Certainly not here, Mrs Clip Board, at this ungodly hour for the fun of it.”

If it sounds like I was getting stressed, I was.

From this point, it actually got a bit better. He ran through the colours, mumbled a few words, and drew a train. He flunked the numbers and refused to jump when asked (“That’s just silly,” I could tell he was thinking), but it was enough.

They emailed later to say that – pending receipt of his birth certificate, passport, visa, his fourth-cousin-once-removed’s passport, nursery reports from birth, finger print, iris scan and 20 passport photos – Monkey Boy was in.

In return, a G&T at the door would have helped. A lot.