Category Archives: Parenting

Penguins in the desert

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Just when you think you’ve seen it all: Sharks at the Dubai Mall. Swarovski crystals on a BMW. The world’s highest restaurant.

Dubai goes and does it again, flying 20 penguins to the UAE ‘business class’ from SeaWorld in San Antonio so desert dwellers can pay 175 dhs (£30) to get up close and personal with the lovable birds in a giant freezer.

The interactive penguin colony has moved to a Dubai shopping mall, taking up residence at a fake Antarctica created inside Ski Dubai. In true UAE style, they’ve got private living quarters, an ice-cold pool and a staff of 13 butlers including a penguin curator who feed them restaurant-quality fish imported from Canada.

Snow penguins on show at Ski Dubai: You ever seen penguins on a mountain before?


In return, the 10 king penguins (the second largest type) and 10 gentoo penguins are expected to ‘offer a unique experience’ to visitors, including a penguin march several times a day from 2pm – which my kids couldn’t wait to see.

Checking over my shoulder that there weren’t any animal rights activists around with ‘Penguins for Profit’ placards, we paid the entrance fee to the snow park, got the kids bundled up and discovered for ourselves whether it was a case of Happy Feet in the desert or marketing gone mad.

Here’s what you need to know:

● Hand-reared from birth, you can’t help but fall in love in love with the penguins when they waddle in, flapping their wings and playing footie with their butlers.

● Newly established pairs are said to be courting already in their Dubai digs, meaning it could only be a matter of time before native-born penguins are hatched at Ski Dubai. We did see evidence of a love match – a bickering pair were having a right old barney.

Bird's eye view from the Costa Coffee above - in the words of Ski Dubai’s operations manager, “We ask the birds what they want to do, we never force them.” (!!!)

● You WILL get cold. You can opt to pay for the snow park and see the penguin march at close-hand, or shell out more for the ‘Peng Friend’ programme, in which visitors over three get the chance to interact with the penguins and view underwater swimming.

Alternatively, you could strike a deal with your DH and get him to take the kids in, while you go upstairs to the Costa Coffee and enjoy a great bird’s eye view for the price of a cup of tea.

● All visits are accompanied at all times so there’s no snow-ball throwing.

● While we didn’t do the face-to-face encounter, I’ve heard the penguins love meeting humans, will sit on visitors’ laps and even hug them.

● I won’t get into the rights and wrongs of this attraction, because it’s causing controversy, but the penguins weren’t captured from the wild and bundled off to the desert. They were born and bred in captivity as part of a breeding programme at SeaWorld.

● Being leered at by thousands of school kids aside, the penguins do seem to be enjoying the lifestyle of respected diplomatic ambassadors. And, another upside, there’s no chance they’ll be turned into lunch.

● One of the most hilarious things is the ‘poop and scoop’ guy who has to follow the penguins around cleaning up puddles of yellow snow.

Worth a visit, definitely, but it did make me wonder what’s next for Dubai: polar bears playing volley ball?

For more information, click here

The to-do list that keeps growing

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Last week was my first whole week at home in a little while, following a stint of work – but, and I’ve always said this, getting back to one’s housewifely/motherly duties is when the hard work really starts.

I had so many plans for the week. BIG plans.

Top of the to-do list was sorting out our clothes – not just mine, which are now so crammed into the wardrobe I can’t even see what’s there, but also the boys’ clothes. Their baby clothes (they’re 3 and 6 now) were to be given away, their shoes tried on and organised and their t-shirts filed in size order.

The guest-room vision: No Disney characters in sight

I was then going to move into our spare room and redecorate so visitors don’t have to sleep with giant Winnie-the-Pooh stickers above their heads, choosing muted, gender-neutral tones picked at leisure while browsing the paint store.

I was going to go jogging every other day, and cook several low-carb, low-fat dishes – stashing extra portions in the freezer. I saw myself making vegetable soup with the radio on in the kitchen and eating it for lunch, with a brown roll, every day. I was sure I’d lose at least 2lb and feel great.

I was going to reply to emails dating back to 2010, get passport photos taken of LB and start writing an article for a friend who’s doing a jolly good job raising awareness of coeliac disease in the UAE.

Oh, the optimism.

What I’d forgotten was that DH was home for 4 days last week, the school day is over in a blink and the kids are always so ecstatic I’m not working, they won’t let me out of their sight. Needless to say, our clothes are still clogging up the wardrobes, the article didn’t get written, I’m still a hopeless pen-pal and I didn’t even buy the paint.

So what did I achieve?

● I hung out with the boys and marvelled as BB miraculously started to read [proud moment – he can be challenging]

● Ate chips and a giant pastry-rich vol au vent at the Belgium Beer Cafe on a date night with DH

● Drank tea with friends in Costa Coffee and Starbucks

● Went down the road to Silicon Oasis to catch up with friends I haven’t seen for a year

● Enjoyed seeing my in-laws who surprised us with a visit from Beirut, where heavy rain had stalled work on the house they’re building

● Had my hair chemically straightened

● Power-walked round the block, once

Wonderfully sociable, even if nothing got ticked off the list.

There’s always this week, though DH has just got back, it’s LB’s half-term and, snow-permitting, we’ve got more visitors arriving on Tuesday for a week-long sleepover with Winnie the Pooh.

INSPIRATION: Dubai’s Desperate Housewife; PHOTO CREDIT: New Bedroom Designs

Ships passing in the night

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Sometimes, when you’re juggling two kids, half-a-job and one DH – who keeps odd hours (often going to work in the middle of the night) – getting the whole family on the same time zone can be quite a challenge.

Yesterday morning, DH actually left at a normal time, but as he’s gone all weekend (sigh) and I’ve been busy with work all week, I got that ‘ships-passing-in-the-night’ feeling again:

6.50am (alarm goes off): Carry 50 pounds of boy, too sleepy to walk himself, down the cold, marble staircase. Pad… pad… pad. Shiver

7am: Persuade boy to get dressed, amid complaints about the bitter cold (13°C!)

7.05am: DH comes down the stairs, in his uniform, his suitcase trailing behind him. Clop… clop… clop. Thud… Thud. Klunk

7.10am: The Little Boy appears half-way down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and whimpering. “Mummee, carry meee … Itsch cold!”

7.10-7.15am: Interact briefly with DH, while he pulls up the flight plan on the iPad and figures out how to save it

7.15am: Our nanny appears and deposits Boo-boo the bear on the sofa. Fortunately she remembers there’s a teddy bear’s picnic at nursery (thank God for the wife!)

7.20am: School bus pulls up outside and BB darts out the door in a flash. Beep-beep-beep. Ker-thunk, as the doors clap shut

7.20-7.30am: More snatched conversation with DH as he raids our ‘bus bank’, where we keep all our foreign notes

DH's pocket money: He's got most currencies covered! (pretty, don't you think? The red Australian note bang in the middle is my favourite)


7.35am: DH’s ‘work car’ arrives, the engine humming outside – yes, he’s picked up and chauffeured to the airport – jammy, no?

7.45am: LB is peeled off me and handed over to our nanny amid protests (“Mummee, Nooooooo! No go!” so I can get ready

8.30am: I dash out the door into the car (no driver for me) and realise I’ve forgotten my jewellery AND lipstick (Thursday, the last day of the week, always throws me as it’s mufti day and finding something trendy takes at least 20 minutes)

8.32am: Feel naked, not trendy, but too late to fix this so I reverse out the garage and set off on the rat-race to Media City

And so, that was it, we all went our separate ways – to nursery, school, work and Hong Kong. [Confesses:] In fact, that was a lengthy conversation compared to when DH leaves at 2 in the morning and all I can muster is a half-formed, muffled good-bye from under the duvet.

The girl next door

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When I joined DH in Dubai – LB a six-week-old newborn, BB a just-turned three tear-away and me blinking in the sunshine with sleep deprivation and the newness of it all – we moved into a small compound that was bright orange in colour with disco lights on the gate and goats round the corner.

Our temporary company accommodation, the complex was quickly renamed The Pumpkin Patch and wasn’t popular, partly because of the goldfish-bowl-style living. The villas were so close together you knew your neighbours’ comings and goings better than they did.

Despite the fact we now all own orange beer coolers emblazoned with “I survived Al-Badi”, I have blurred but fond memories of this compound as it’s where I made my first friends in Dubai – friendships that remain firm today.

By chance, our opposite neighbours hailed from the same part of the US that we’d recently moved from and had a daughter just a bit younger than BB, giving us an instant connection. Within days I’d made a lovely Dubai BF. And, what’s more, the kids hit it off too.

Today, in our permanent compound, I’m lucky enough to have Dubai BF right next door, and our children, who are in the same class at school, play together all the time.

BB calls round for his gorgeous Girl Next Door at least three times a day, and I’m sure they must at times want to disconnect their doorbell as he’s quite persistent.

Little girls are made of sugar and spice!

Inevitably there are boy/girl differences – which, at a later age, make you wonder if your partner could possibly be from another planet – and watching our two lovebirds together has proved to me that these characteristics are hardwired into the brain at birth. Men and women, boys and girls really do think differently.

The sweetest conversation that took place yesterday morning made me more sure about this in-built brain circuitry than ever.

“I just know I’m going to marry BB,” Girl Next Door confided to her mom. “When we went to the playground I told him I was going to marry him, but he told me he was going to marry a toilet [she laughs]. Mommy, can I marry BB?”

“Of course you can sweetie,” Dubai BF replied.

Girl Next Door: [closing her eyes and smiling] “Mommy, are there hearts coming out of me?”

My verdict: girls are from Venus, boys are from Pluto.

The airport run

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I don’t know about you, but the school holiday/Christmas combo wore me out – if I’d propped my eyelids open with cocktail sticks, I would still have fallen asleep.

And as BB’s school goes back a week later than nearly every other school in the world, I decided to take him home to his grandparents in England so they could do some advanced babysitting.

So here we are – in chilly Surrey (it’s 7 degrees and I arrived in flip-flops!), having got here by the skin of our teeth.

Suffice to say, our tickets – which were meant to be confirmed, weren’t – so standby it was, again. We tried four different flights over 24 hours, which involved lots of waiting (and you know how painful this can be with a small child in tow – personally I’d rather sit on those cocktail sticks), plus trotting backwards and forwards to the airport in a taxi.

On day 1, after our first crack-of-dawn attempt to get away, the taxi driver didn’t quite get that all we’d achieved that morning was an airport breakfast, and from the yawning I was doing presumed we’d just got off an international flight. So I went along with it. Later that day, we had afternoon tea at the airport too.

On day 2, after an even earlier start, the boarding pass fairy smiled on us and, with less than 45 minutes until take-off, we set off on a high-speed chase through passports and security to the gate – me dragging BB and our bags along at speed past Dubai International’s endless bling bling stores.

While everyone else settled down to enjoy a good movie, BB and I watched the map and counted down the minutes. "Look, Mummy - the front of the airplane has reached England. Are we in the front?"

The airplane, of course, was parked in the furthest-away spot, in the overflow parking by the airport fence, and we had to get to it by bus. As BB whined about how long the bus ride was taking – with eight hours of playing Tray Up/Tray Down, Light On/Light Off on the actual flight to go – my mood plummeted further.

The final hurdle was a seating problem. Having got the last two seats, BB and I were sitting in separate parts of the aircraft – and while I would have loved someone else, and even paid them good money, to sit next to him, this obviously wasn’t going to work. So I enlisted the help of a kindly cabin boy to ask passengers if they wouldn’t mind moving.

The shuffle that ensued resulted in a young man being left without a seat and, it was at this point, that my over-tired, over-active mind whirled into action, with visions of BB and I being deplaned.

“She doesn’t look like a terrorist,” I imagined the other passengers thinking, as I pictured us being marched off the aircraft. “Surely not with a child. Maybe they’re drug mules. No, the mother must be drunk. That’s it! She’s drunk – and in charge of a small boy! Disgraceful!”

Thankfully, my nice cabin boy returned and found the young man a seat – and we were on our way.

And so that’s how my relaxing break began. Just don’t get me started about the flight itself!

Boys will be boys

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What is it about motherhood that makes a congenital worry-wart grow 10 times bigger?

Since having kids, it seems I spend half my life talking the boys down from high walls, breaking up fights at home and stepping in when their antics get a bit too dare devilish.

Yet there are times when all I can do is stand by and watch their risk-taking ways – with my heart in my mouth.

As it’s a little chilly for swimming right now (if you live here, that is, tourists are not deterred), we’re making the most of Dubai’s park life. The city has wonderful parks – green, landscaped, clean and strewn with flowers and things to do, from train rides to trampolines.

One of my favourites is a smaller park near BB’s school that looks like this:

From lush golf courses to grassy parks, Dubai is surprisingly green

The landscaping, fountains and bridges are lovely and it’s set in the middle of a gated community of luxurious million-dirham villas, in which many of BB’s school friends actually live.

The only drawback – as is the case with most of Dubai’s parks and play areas – is it’s mainly nannies who watch the kids, so the chances of striking up a conversation with a like-minded mum are reduced. But that didn’t bother me today, as I imagined myself sitting on the grass with a book.

On arriving, however, we found a towering plastic inflatable slide, with various other 15dhs (£3)-a-pop rides, and I immediately knew my plans for an afternoon of wholesome, inexpensive fun were thwarted.

As BB clambered up the giant slide, I tried to close my ears to the deafening din of Bollywood music competing with ‘Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush’ coming from the helicopter ride opposite.

A couple of kids, supervised by a nanny with no teeth (I don’t mean that literally, I mean a timid, overworked nanny with little control over her charges), were climbing the wall of the slide and, thankful that BB wasn’t doing the same, I relaxed a little – until I saw what he was doing.

He was bouncing at the top of the slide to gain momentum, then took a flying jump, which I can only describe as a backward flip with a twist – landing half-way down the slide on his head with an audible jolt.

“BB NO,” I roared, far too late. I was honestly scared he could have broken his neck. Didn’t bother him, of course. He simply sprung up at the bottom with a massive grin on his face and an expression that said, “Mummy, look at me!”

Boys – they’re not for the fainted hearted – and I know I just have to get used to it, because the day will come when they’ll want flying lessons.

PICTURE CREDIT: CollectAir

Our life on the small screen

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My humble and tiny corner of the blogosphere has kept me busy this year, providing a creative outlet and distraction for me and, I really hope, some entertaining insight into life in Dubai for people who’ve read it.

And a huge thank you for reading.

My goal when I started this blog was to attract one or two readers who aren’t related to me and, amazingly, I’ve achieved that!

Desert dwelling: Sandy pastures outside our compound

One of the fascinating things about blogging is being able to track the readership via your ‘blog stats’. I keep an eye on these because it’s fun to find out where traffic is coming from and also good to know if anything dodgy is going on.

Talking of which, I should probably change the title of my post Things that get you in trouble in Dubai (yes, sex on the beach!), because when people Google ‘sex in Dubai’ they blaze a trail to yours truly.

The seedy side of the internet aside, the blog stats also tell me which are the most popular posts – and I have to admit, I’m fascinated to see which posts about desert living people are most interested in; which nugget of expat knowledge has been most valuable; which parenting challenge has struck a chord.

As it happens, none of the above.

My most popular post has nothing to do with expat life — or kids for that matter.

A half-mile-high skyscraper, known as the Burj Khalifa, is responsible for a whopping 6,340 hits, nearly half the hits on my blog.

Watch out: No job too big, or too small

The second-most popular post was Expat brats: The signs to look out for, closely followed by Happy 40th birthday UAE (thanks to the photo of the blinged-out BMW) and the Dubai driving post with tips on how to be a roadhog.

Of course it would be silly to spend far too long online looking for a good picture of the world’s tallest building just to get another peak in my blog stats. So jettisoning the image I just found, I’ll leave you with a photo of something I saw parked near us recently that made me laugh (and wonder if I should hide).

That’s it for 2011. I have to get ready now for the black-tie-do taking place tonight on board the Queen Elizabeth 2 (QE2), moored here in Dubai, and I’m hoping they’ve filled the swimming pool with pink champagne.

Just kidding.

We don’t have a babysitter so we’ll be taking the kids up the road to a party in our compound – within stumbling distance home, so the perfect night out, if you ask me.

Thank you again for taking the time to read about us here in Dubai. Wishing you a very happy new year!

Will you marry me?

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Marriage is on the six-year-old’s mind at the moment. To start with, he’s wondering if the school bus driver and bus nanny are married.

He imagines their marital home is right next to the school (similar to his notion that all the teachers live at school, upstairs) and thinks the bus driver takes Shabhina on ‘date nights’ by bus.

The memories: Before two kids, two cats and two international moves


At bedtime tonight, this led to enquiries about why people get married.

“Why did you marry Daddy?” he asked.

“Because I love him,” I replied, catapulted back to our wedding day eight years ago and wondering if this conversation could possibly sow the seeds for a lasting marriage when BB grows up.

“But why did Daddy marry you?”

“Well,” I responded, slightly taken aback by his enquiring tone and setting the book we were reading down, ” he loves me too.”

“Mummee, D’you know who I’m going to marry?” he asked, coming closer to whisper a secret in my ear and looking pretty pleased with his catch.

“I”m going to marry the toilet!” – followed by howls of triumphant laughter.

Small boys and their toilet talk, honestly. I had NO idea!

The run on sellotape

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Christmas when you’re living overseas can be a funny thing.

On the upside, here in Dubai you’ve got champagne brunches, take-out turkeys from five-star hotels, child-friendly beach clubs with the sunshine to enjoy them and the fact everywhere’s open on Christmas Day.

My in-laws, who are staying with us and looking to buy property, were able to view apartments with a real-estate agent after we’d opened presents – and could even have gone on to Ikea.

Christmas morning at Circles: But there was no pulling the wool over BB's eyes: "That's not Santa, that's Uncle James!'


On the downside, you’re far from family back home, there are no seasonal specials of Doctor Who or Family Fortunes on the TV, some people think it doesn’t feel festive unless it’s cold and miserable outside and, being a Muslim country, there’s not a baby Jesus in sight, plus you might not officially have the day off work.

And this year – just like the previous two years – there was another curveball for unsuspecting Christmas shoppers, summed up by a friend of mine on Facebook as follows:

“No time to finish shopping, no days off to speak of, no Bacardi (don’t worry, I’ve got vodka) and no husband …. But it was the ‘no sellotape’ that pushed me over the edge.”

Yes, the local supermarket had, once again, failed to order extra supplies, which probably meant there was no sellotape left anywhere in Dubai – leaving, I can only imagine, thousands of expats with presents to wrap frantically wondering if they’d have to use Pritt stick instead.

I called my friend straight away, because as I mentioned before, I have a son who uses rolls of the stuff to tape his toys to the floor so they don’t get cleared away, and so I buy industrial quantities and stash it away.

Next year, I bet loads more expats with stockings to stuff will do the same – as I said, it can be a funny ole time Christmas in Dubai, and apologies for blogging about sellotape, again!

Naughty or nice?

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You know what it’s like, when the kids are off school and they’re operating on a schedule that looks like this…


So it’s a small miracle that we’re just about ready for Christmas, despite DH being somewhat preoccupied.

DH is usually around loads (you wouldn’t believe how many days off he has the rest of the year), but right now he’s training on the superjumbo – the A380, to use the proper lingo – or the double-decker (with showers) that looks like it should never get off the ground. Exciting, yes, but it means intensive training at ‘airplane school’ all over Christmas. “Timing” doesn’t come close.

Anyway, over the past few days, I’ve discovered that a bit of festive bribery is a wonderful way to nip bad behaviour in the bud.

It’s like having special powers – it’s cut down on time-outs, shouting and outrageous demands – what’s more, I’m hearing parents everywhere uttering the same two words.

Two little words that speak volumes and will be given up tonight in return for a glass of sherry, a mince pie and a carrot:

They are, of course: “Santa’s watching!”

And you can just see their cute little faces drop, their brain synapses firing away as they process this information and its unthinkable consequences. “That means no presents, no presents! Santa will give my brother presents, and not me!”

It’s working a treat! But, with sibling rivalry alive and well in the Circles household, the funny thing is the boys are trying their hardest to grass each other up.

“Mummeeee, he’s being B.A.D,” is practically ringing in my ears and has led the LittleBoy to actually change his name.

“Who are you?,” asked someone of LB yesterday. “The good one,” he replied, quicker than you can say Santa Claus is coming to town.