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 digital revolution

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It came to my attention today that I haven’t used a photocopier in about eight years – and in that time, the ubiquitous machines found in offices the world over have become a lot cleverer than they used to be.

I’ve made a zillion copies of our passports and visas on the scanner at home; I’ve photographed important documents with my phone; but because everything I do at work is on my trusty Mac, I’ve never had to photocopy anything. I wasn’t even sure where the office copier was.

Today, I found myself wondering past water coolers and filing cabinets looking for the large white Xerox machine I was pretty sure still existed. I came across it outside the meeting room, and lifted the lid, intending to quickly copy something for my son’s homework.

That’s when I saw the touchscreen, offering me about 30 different options with icons I didn’t understand. It seemed to want to email my page, or at least copy it onto a server thousands of miles away. But, really, all I wanted was a paper copy.

I jabbed at the green button. The machine juddered to life, and made a copying-like noise. But it spat nothing out.

I pressed the button again. More whirring, but still nothing.

I peered at the touchscreen and changed a few settings. Colour: Yes. A4 paper: Yes. Scale: 100%. 4D (just joking!). Where on earth was it emailing my son’s homework to? Could I possibly be circulating it to the entire company? How hard could this be?

Hooray, I didn't email my son's homework to the whole company!

Hooray, I didn’t email my son’s homework to the whole company!

More difficult than I’d thought, it seemed. And perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised: after all, it was announced recently that Dubai wants to become one of the most connected Smart Cities in the world by 2020. It’s even been revealed that drones (remote-controlled quadcopters) are to be used to deliver official paperwork.

After trying to locate from which end of this paperless copier / fax / scanner / drone command centre / tea maker (whatever it was) the whirring noise was coming from, I furtively looked around to see if there was anyone (kind) I could ask. I was in the sales department, though, surrounded by people who’d sell their grandmother to book an ad. Then, of course, a small queue formed behind me.

The pressure to duplicate my page in front of everyone was too much, and I admitted to the lady next in line that I was clueless.

Within seconds, she’d elicited the same noise, and directed me to a tray dovetailed neatly into the front of the machine.

Where there were about 30 copies of my son’s homework – more than enough for the whole class. I swear older, clunkier photocopiers used to churn out copies to a side tray, didn’t they? Far too smart for me, these new digital copiers.

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.

Size isn’t everything

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This week, the tremors from an earthquake in Iran reverberated around the UAE, although in my office on the 24th floor of a tower in Media City, only one person actually felt it. (You’re more likely to experience these quakes at the top of tall buildings than at ground level).

I’ve blogged about tall buildings before, because I spend hours of my life waiting for the elevator at work, then riding it cheek-by-jowl with strangers in suits – the only distraction as we all huddle together being the ‘Elevision’ TV monitors.

The Middle East has 10 of the top 30 skyscrapers in the world, and Dubai plays host to the tallest building on Earth – the Burj Khalifa, which, at a height of almost one kilometre (0.6miles), stretches up so neck-craningly high that it’s been suggested Muslims living above the 80th floor should fast for longer during Ramadan because they can still see the sun after it’s set on the ground.

Kingdom Tower

Kingdom Tower: The Burj Khalifa’s competitor

The race is on in the region, however, to pump concrete even higher into the sky. Ground has just been broken on a construction site in Saudi Arabia that, in December 2018, will see the completion of a skyscraper planned to eclipse the Burj Khalifa by at least 173 metres. Kingdom Tower will have 200 floors in total, 160 of which will be habitable, and will form the nucleus of Kingdom City – a new commercial centre to the north of Jeddah.

But while the Kingdom Tower will win in terms of sheer size, the Saudi construction project has a long way to go before it surpasses Dubai’s record-setting superstructure.

Not only is the Burj Khalifa the centrepiece of some pretty impressive firework displays that cascade up and down the tapering, silvery tower, but it also houses the first hotel designed by Giorgio Armani. Most recently, the skyscraper formed the platform for the highest base jump ever when two crazy French daredevils leapt off the building’s 828-metre peak this April.

Beat that, Kingdom Tower!

Infographic provided by YaDig

Infographic provided by YaDig

The BMW-sponsored ball

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It was a long weekend here in Dubai, thanks to an Islamic holiday being declared – and, for me, it was good timing, as I put my glad rags on to attend a ball on Friday night.

It took much of Friday to make myself look posh enough, and Saturday was spent recovering, so the extra day was a welcome bonus with bells on.

I don’t usually spend a great deal of time in the salon, but I did decide to treat myself by outsourcing my nails and hairdo. It took a couple of phone calls to secure a same-day blow-dry appointment at a local salon that’s recently been revamped (and now has these plush, comfy chairs at the sinks that are more like beds, so you get to lie down while having your hair washed. Bliss.)

“Madame, if you could just wake up, and step this way,” the stylist tells me, motioning to an empty seat in front of (horror) a full-length mirror. I tried to figure out what was missing, and worked out it was the shelf that usually hides your lower body. Dressed in beige shorts, this meant staring at my thighs, knees and lower limbs for the next 45 minutes. (I defy you to not book a leg wax after this).

A great style for a ball. Not a boat.

A great style for a ball. Not a boat.

My lovely stylist had only been in Dubai for 10 days, so we chatted about why she’d moved here from a Swiss village, then I told her I was going to a ball that night – lest she think I was too lazy to do my own hair every weekend.

“Ah,” she said. “A ball.” At least I assumed she said ball. She’d actually mistaken the word, and thought I was going on a boat. So we talked at cross-purposes for some time, before the penny finally dropped and we decided that, since my hair wasn’t about to be buffeted by a stiff sea breeze, an elegant updo held together by about 100 grips and half a can of hair spray would work.

At the ball – each hair still ensnared in place! – my DH and I caught up with some dear friends I don’t see enough of; we feasted on a lavish buffet; sampled the chocolate fountain; and danced to a four-piece party band called The Maplejacks. I’ve never seen so many pilots – in James Bond black-tie – throwing shapes on the dance floor.

It was sponsored by BMW, who provided some great prizes with a sales pitch attached. Several lucky ball-goers won a BMW for the weekend – a test drive that sounded like a lot of fun. But did our table win this?

Hell, no. We won family tickets to Wild Wadi water park.

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?”

When first class doesn’t cut it

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I’m going to say straight up that my boys fly economy class. This might change one day, if my DH becomes a captain, but for now, when we all fly together, we’re stuffed into the back, usually by the toilets.

There are plenty of expat children ‘with benefits’ here who do fly business class, however. When I first heard that the offspring of pilots at my younger son’s school actually ask each other which class they’re flying, I was pretty shocked, but now it doesn’t surprise me.

I’ve seen enough photos on Facebook of little pipsqueaks sitting in extra-large chairs in front of super-big TV screens to know that the business class cabin, with its soft pillows, fluffy blankets and myriad of buttons, is an environment these children are well acquainted with.

Luxury travel has just been taken to a whole new stratospheric level in the Middle East, though. You might know already that, on my DH’s aircraft, a spa-like shower was launched six years ago in first class.

Since then, the world’s top-notch carriers have moved on from cooking gourmet food at 38,000 feet and increasing the thread counts of their bed linens, to making the entire journey less tiresome. From collecting passengers to driving them from one flight to another, chauffeur services mean some lucky travellers don’t have to schlepp through massive airport hubs, or even give getting to the airport on time a second thought.

xxxxxx

Dream on, Circles!

The next step up, for Abu Dhabi’s Etihad Airways, is to offer a boutique hotel – on board. Yes, branded as The Residence and located on the upper deck of the Airbus A380, the luxury living space includes a sitting room, separate double bedroom and ensuite shower, designed to accommodate two (very rich) people.

Breakfast in bed will surely be an added perk, as the suite comes with the services of a personal butler, trained at the Savoy Academy – oh, and a chef, too, for those times when the fine foods already stowed in the galley just don’t cut it.

The cost, in case you’re curious, for such outlandish luxury is a sky-high $20,000 ONE-WAY to London – clearly targeted at a select few who could afford a private jet anyway. (Why, oh why, I find myself wondering, did they not use the space to provide a crèche to give some relief to us sleep-deprived, wild-eyed mothers travelling with small children.)

One rung down on the luxury ladder are the First Apartments, which are private suites with a separate reclining lounge seat and full-length bed, along with a chilled mini-bar, vanity unit and wardrobe. There’s going to be nine of these, and two 125-square-foot ‘Residences’, on board.

And no upgrades to “residence class”!

It’s like Etihad has fired the latest salvo in the battle to attract premium air travellers in the Gulf. By making first class a small apartment rather than a chair, in-flight glamour suddenly gets a new meaning.

Your move, Emirates.

Silent Sunday: The Oh My Goodness sign

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You might remember that I love spotting funny signs in Dubai. Here’s one that made us laugh in Media City. Something tells me surprise visitors aren’t welcome in this car park!

Thank you to my friend Jenny Hewett for snapping the pic. Well spotted.

Thank you to my friend Jenny Hewett for snapping this pic. Well spotted.

 

 

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.

When the drugs don’t work

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“But I’m the patient!” The words roll of his tongue, and we can hardly argue with him. Not after everything that happened after the surgery.

This is the last medical post, I promise, but I’m writing it because it might help other parents in similar circumstances. And because, I guess, I’m still processing it all myself, and filing the memories in a safe place in my heart.

Everyone told us he’d bounce back from surgery fast. “He’ll be on his feet in no time,” people said. “Kids are so resilient.” I believed them because I wanted it to be true; I’d nod, agree and remind myself what the doctors had said about doing this surgery (on his bladder) while he’s still young.

I imagined him eating jelly in bed, and being discharged a few days later.

The first hint that these things don’t always go to plan was when the surgery to remove a diverticulum took longer than expected. At the allotted time, DH and I nervously positioned ourselves outside the OR, where we’d been told to wait. I anxiously peered through the oblong window, willing the surgeons to appear.

They didn’t.

We went back to the room to wait, for another hour – until finally, the tension was over. Five hours after Son1 was wheeled away, we got him back, half asleep and wired up to medical equipment.

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

When the surgeon told us all had gone well, I could have hugged him. He then went on to explain that it had been more technically complex than anticipated; he used words like ‘stent’ and ‘reattaching a ureter’, and, again, I nodded, in full faith that they knew what they were doing.

Which they did. Our doctor is great (he’s promised to take Son1 out for a burger), but what they didn’t know was that Son1 would suffer from the most excruciating bladder spasms – a distressing side effect of catheter useage that can cause severe cramping.

I can only compare these spasms to labour pain. They’d come on suddenly (3 or 4 times a day), and Son1 would scream for an hour or more in absolute agony as his bladder involuntarily contracted. He’d sweat profusely, his hair matting to his head, and at one point – after becoming horribly sensitised to any kind of pain – I was terrified he was going to black out.

The painkillers they administered didn’t touch the pain. Morphine would eventually send him into a drowsy stupor, but the other medicines did little to relieve the spasms. The only thing that worked was flushing the catheter, a procedure only the doctor could do at first. And, believe me, I fought tooth and nail to get the doctor into the room. (I quickly figured out that with all the nurse shift changes, we knew more than they did about how to manage the pain.)

But the truth is, we weren’t able to manage his severe spasms. While he did have long periods of being perfectly fine, when the spasms hit, he was demented with pain, and after seven rough nights, during which DH and I took turns to attempt to sleep on a narrow sofa in the hospital room, we were going out of our minds too.

To cut a long story short, the catheter was removed a little earlier than it should have been, and once we’d got over the hurdle of retraining his bladder to pee (major potty training flashbacks for me), and teaching him that peeing would hurt for a while, the spasms stopped, and he hasn’t had one since. Thank.God.

The thing I want to remember, however, is how brave Son1 was. Yes, he screamed the hospital down (I saw a lady with another child deliberately avoiding walking past the door), and was frequently inconsolable. I’d stroke his hair, wishing I could take the pain away, and cried myself several times as my heart broke in two. But I saw a strength in him that took my breath away.

He walked on day 1; accepted and understood what was going on without question; and really tried to follow the nurses’ instruction to breathe through the pain, until it became overwhelming. I was so proud of him, and for many of those endless hours spent sitting with him, we enjoyed a closeness borne out of his new-found maturity (as well as lots of jelly).

On day 8, they let us go home. I can’t tell you how good that felt, and now he’s bouncing back, like everyone said he would, and I’m beginning to breathe easy that the ordeal is over.

EDITED TO ADD: Six weeks post-op, and it’s like it never happened! As soon as we got home, he recovered fast. It’s amazing how kids bounce back, and move on. As for us parents, it takes us a little longer!