Silent Sunday this week is another Christmas photo, which I thought was a suitable image as we slide into the new year …
The turkey left-overs
This week, I’ve been having my favourite lunch of the year: turkey soup and a turkey sandwich made with gravy.
It’s why, despite not enjoying cooking, I insisted on having Christmas dinner at home. The reason I spent four hours in the kitchen toiling over a hot stove, preparing sweet potatoes with marshmallows, creamed onions, stuffing, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, custard and brandy butter. (The bird was a take-out turkey, from a local Lebanese restaurant, which DH picked up rather like you’d collect a pizza.)
DH had wanted us to eat out at a Christmas brunch to save all the effort. “BB will just ask for bread and hummus,” he argued. “And LB will say he doesn’t like it.” All true, but I stood my ground, salivating at the thought of a whole week of my favourite, easy-peasy lunch.
The cat will help me finish the turkey at least
And, you know what, apart from a minor incident with some burning oil that caused the kitchen to fill with smoke and LB to run round the house shrieking excitedly, “The kitchen’s on fire, the kitchen’s on fire,” the Christmas dinner was a big success – if I may say so myself and even though I had to lie down afterwards it took me so long.
But back to the cold-turkey sandwich. It’s such a simple, no-hassle, tasty lunch. I was sure the rest of my family would agree.
They didn’t.
“Yuck,” harrumphed BB. “Not turkey a.g.a.i.n. Can I just have bread with nothing on?” Then when I practically shoved a bite in his mouth: “EUUUGHHHH! What’s that brown stuff?” he cried, eyeing the gravy suspiciously and dropping the sandwich like it was about to explode.
LB was less vocal in his complaints, and having eaten all the sweets off the gingerbread house wasn’t particularly hungry.
Until five minutes later…when he asked in a small, plaintiff voice, “Mummy, what’s for lunch?” (after serving a perfectly good meal, I literally bristle at that question).
If you’re sensing some frustration it’s because my children are going through a particularly fussy phase at the moment (I say phase, it’s lasted since BB was first weaned) and they’ve thrown a few too many meals back at me recently.
The turkey soup, needless to say, was a no-go, as the children took one look at all the veggies swimming around in it and gagged.
But I was confident DH wouldn’t think I was trying to poison him. He’d just got back from a long flight and what better way to show-off my wifely skills than by serving him some homemade soup with French bread.
“You’ve got to try my soup,” I enthused. ‘It’s delicious. I’ll bring you some.”
He took a few sips. I waited for a reaction. He ate a little more. I went back into the kitchen, still hoping he’d like it.
He sort-of-did – but only after he followed me into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard for the Hot Sauce, and poured a whole load in.
“Just needs spicing up a bit,” he said, before running for cover.
I may not be one of life’s cooks but, boy, was the brandy butter I sought solace in good.
The real Santa
“Santa came to my school, to music class,” announced LB proudly last night.
“No, he did not,” retorted BB, more knowledgable about such matters. “That wasn’t the real Santa. That was just a man dressed up as Santa.”
Christmas Eve: (having already had a visit from Santa on the 23rd) “Will he come twice, Mummy?”
The ‘how he gets in’ questions – our villas obviously have air-conditioning ducts rather than chimneys – had all been fielded successfully, I thought (he slides down the mobile phone mast just outside our compound and makes his way through secret, underground tunnels to each villa).
We’d also carefully got round the fact that Santa visited our house on the night of the 23rd, so we could have Christmas with DH before he left on a ‘sleigh ride’ to Tokyo.
But there was a chance BB was getting suspicious.
“Don’t you know?” he continued, causing me to nearly choke on my tea, thinking he might actually be about to tell LB the truth (maybe the secret tunnels were a bit far-fetched).
“The real Santa,” he said, summoning up every ounce of his three years’ seniority over his brother, “lives on YouTube.”
Phew – thank you www.portablenorthpole.com for keeping the magic alive.
Last-minute shopping (with kids)
It’s retail hara-kiri at the best of times. Let alone 48 hours before Christmas, in a city brimming with tourists and visitors.
But it was my last chance, and the present was important.
Each year, on top of a Christmas bonus, I like to treat our helper Catherine the Great to some girly presents. It’s the least I can do, given how hard she works, and I also love shopping for her. Being the sole female in our household other than the cat and me, it’s the only chance I get to buy guilt-free girl stuff, usually in pink.
This year, I’d left it a bit late, and while at the Madinat Jumeriah with the children, I realised I probably wasn’t going to get another chance to buy her gift.
Shopping sans children is better than sliced bread
The kids darted through the Arabian souk, past wind towers and lantern-lit hallways. We paused briefly at a few market stalls, my eyes scanning the rows of sparkly jewellery. My fingers roamed over the rings and I picked up a couple of silver bracelets, turning them over in my palm to see the jewels catch the light.
All in about two seconds flat …
Because the boys’ hands would reach up to grab the shiniest item within touching distance. They dropped things, sent rings rolling across the floor. They knocked pots over. They put their fingers in the jars of coloured sand and it was a small miracle the souvenir bottles of sand didn’t go flying. Then someone needed a poo.
We found ourselves in one of the boutique clothing stores and I resolved to make a split-second purchase before my stress levels got too high. But then they discovered a mannequin, dressed in a floaty white cotton top.
“She’s got boobs,” announced BB to everyone around. It got worse: he cupped them in his hands. Gave them a rub, and called his brother over. “Look, boobs!”
I shooed them away, but they spotted the male mannequins, in swimming trunks. The boys peeked down their shorts to see if there was anything there (I must admit, I did ask them later: it looked like a nose, said BB).
Then, as I raced to the till with a hurriedly chosen item, BB appeared with a bikini top clutched against his chest.
“Look Mummy, boob holders,” he said loudly, with a triumphant grin that suggested he’d just invented the wheel.
I’m never taking them shopping again, I swear.
Silent Sunday: Sandballs
I tend not to put personal photos on the blog, but as I’ve made some lovely bloggy friends on here, I’m breaking my rule. I also went to great lengths getting everyone to co-operate for this photo (let’s just say, it was nearly me throwing sand) and so I decided it was worth getting some extra mileage out of it. Have a wonderful festive season and thank you for reading Circles in the Sand!
What are you planning for our last night?
You’ve probably heard that the Earth is detonating tomorrow. According to the ancient Mayan prophecy, 21 December 2012 will be the end of the world as we know it, and if you look at the shooting meteorites forecast for Friday, this appears to be true.
While contemplating this fiery damnation, I asked DH: “What would you do if the world really was ending tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t be doing SIMs [airline speak for simulator training] the day before,” he grumbled, barely looking up from his Airbus test preparation.
I tried again with BB. “How about you? What would you do if this was our last day on Earth?”
He looked alarmed. I tried to explain that it (most likely) wasn’t true, but that if it was, we could spend our last day doing whatever he wanted to do. Perhaps playing Lego, or eating cake all day.
“I know,” he said. “I’d stop the Earth from going away.” [that’s my boy, young enough to still think he can save the world].
If he couldn’t do that (and I really didn’t mean to put a dampner on the idea), I suggested we get on Daddy’s airplane – there’s an on-board shower spa – and fly it to space.
“Don’t be silly Mummy!” exclaimed BB, raising his eyebrows at me. “We’d run out of gas long before we got to space. Far better to take a space rocket.”
You’ve got to hand it to seven-year-olds – absolutely anything is possible.
Circles in Space: This is us making our escape
– Sleep under the stars (en famille) on one of The World desert islands (the one with beach-club facilities, not deserted, obviously)
– Sand board down a massive sand dune, standing up
– Raid the Gold & Diamond Park, hot foot it across the marble floors of the Mall of the Emirates to Harvey Nicks and play dress-up with the loot
– Take a helicopter to the Burj Al Arab hotel, check in to a VVIP suite and order absolutely everything from the room-service menu
– Tell the very annoying person I see at work that he’s a muppet
– Give every roadhog I come across the birdie
– Go skinny-dipping at midnight in a pool filled with pink champagne
– Shimmy on the tables at the Cavalli Club
– Do the school run in my pyjamas
On the off-chance that it is 1250 degrees tomorrow (a dark comet is the most likely scenario), have a fabulous night!
A tune for Tuesday
After all the bad news, this is a very quick, cheery videopost, best viewed with a mince pie and glass of sherry.
I really enjoy the fact that in Dubai we’re surrounded by about 200 different nationalities – it makes for a rich blend of culture that broadens your horizons in so many ways.
Tonight, our doorbell rang, and standing outside were some carol singers from the Philippines. I invited them in straight away, and called up to the boys that they had a reprieve from bedtime (woo-hoo, they yelped, as they scampered down the stairs).
These carol singers – who our helper Catherine the Great knows from church – visit every year, and I just love how festive they make me feel. Last year, there were about eight of them and it was like having a whole choir drop round. This year, there were just three, with a guitar, but how wonderful to be serenaded like this at home!
This might not work if my blog is emailed to you, but if you’re online, it’s a 30-second snippet of Jingle Bells. Enjoy!
Rain day in Dubai
What I really want to write is a raging post on gun control in a country I love – but although my husband and kids are American, I’m not, and perhaps I just don’t understand.
Yesterday, after hugging my children, I yelled at the iPad, my blood boiling – incensed by some of the comments left by absolute morons (who can’t even spell) on British journalist Piers Morgan’s blog. I’ve no doubt my outburst was futile.
So, I’ll spare you the rant about what to me is intuitive – and by way of distraction from a tragic topic that’s left me shocked, horrified and saddened to the core, I’ll be very British, and talk about the weather instead.
Here in Dubai, we don’t get much adverse weather. Some people would say it goes from boiling hot to hot, but this isn’t actually true: at 9am this morning, the outside temperature reading on the car told me it was a chilly, jumper-worthy 16 degrees.
The cars were making waves just outside my work
But it wasn’t the ‘cold spell’ that was the talk of the town today: it was the rain. Lashings of it, pouring down from low-hanging granite clouds and forming small, muddy lakes on the city’s drenched roads.
Puddle-loving children always get excited due to the novelty factor (the lack of variety has led one school that actually has weather on the curriculum to lay on a field trip to Ski Dubai – the lucky kids).
And for the grown-ups – who hail from the UK at least – the dull, wet, languid weather transports us on a metaphorical journey across oceans, back to Blighty, easing a little of the homesickness that can set in as Christmas approaches.
But what starts out as a rare treat can quickly become a proverbial pain in the arse as you start worrying about flooding on water-logged highways, remember that the wipers on the SUV don’t work (they disintegrated, through lack of use), and realise you have no rain clothes. Not even a brolly.
“Look Mummy, those people have an umbrella,” squealed LB in delight, as I dragged him in the pelting rain across a soggy football field to his classroom this morning. “Why don’t we have one?”
The wettest ever Dubai school drop-off completed, I got back in the car to go to work, fully expecting the roads to be chaos and for it to take twice as long, when I realised something. The usual 10-15-minute bottleneck – leaving the community that hosts my youngest son’s school – was, to my surprise, only six or seven cars long.
Half of Dubai must be taking a rain day, I smiled to myself, imagining my fellow commuters curled up at home with hot cocoa and watching Jaws on telly. What a good and sensible idea.
The next time the heavens open over Dubai, I’m having a duvet day too
Silent Sunday: In Memoriam
Today’s post is silent, because there are no words
Heads that go bump
A nice quiet evening after a busy week of work sounded just the ticket. A movie for the kids, a shawarma sandwich to eat, and rattling through my favourite blogs.
But when is an evening ever ‘nice and quiet’ when small children are involved? There was a nanosecond in there, a split second of tranquility in which the boys looked serene, tucked up in the spare bed watching a DVD about pirates together, with the lights off.
It was such a cosy scene – their sweet faces lit up by the glow from the TV – that I decided to hop in (secretly hoping they’d let me lie quietly with my eyes shut, or at least not notice that I was looking at the iPad and not the movie).
But three in the bed is asking for trouble, isn’t it? They picked a pointless fight with each other. They both wanted to lie next to me. There were cross words exchanged. Someone got thirsty and needed a drink. They got in each other’s way. One rolled out.
“Mummy, I can’t see past your big fat boooobs,” grinned LB, poking me with his little fingers.
Ouch!
Then, a little later, while I was downstairs making some tea, there was the most enormous clunk, on our marble floor. Followed by silence, which I just knew was the calm before the storm.
I turned on my heel and shot up the staircase in a flash as the howling was unleashed.
“Get some ice,” DH called.
“What happened?” I almost yelled back, pulling a sobbing LB into my arms and peering at the egg-shaped bulge bursting out of his forehead.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I forgot about the ice altogether, so it was a good job BB had the wherewithal to run to the freezer to get the Mr Bump coldpress. Bless him.
But being the mother of boys, with seven years of head bumps, bruises, finger crunches, knocks and kicks under my belt, I’ve learnt that a brother’s sympathy is rather short-lived – their empathy (unless it’s the two of them pitted against the world) about the same as a sabre-tooth tiger looking for his supper.
“He was running and slipped Mummy. Right there,” BB told me, pointing at the spot.
Before turning his attention squarely back to the TV: “Look, Mummy…look at that pirate boat! And those pirates with swords…quick, look!”
Boys, eh – talk about having the uncanny ability to ensure a ‘quiet evening’ ends in injury.