The job I won’t be applying for

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Amid mixed emotions, the school summer holiday is over!

I must admit, when it started, 10 weeks ago, this weekend seemed a distant, almost far-fetched prospect.

Thousands of miles later, we’ve made it through to September, with our sanity intact (laughs skittishly). We’ve been to theme parks, palaces, museums, railways, state parks, lakes, beaches – you name it. All heaving with families in the UK and surprisingly hot and sweaty in the US (who would have guessed there’d be Dubai-like weather in the mid-west of America?)

Me, soon – if I haven’t been completely forgotten, that is

There’s been a great deal of joy. A lot of laughter. Special times with loved ones and friends I don’t see enough of.

The happy stuff precious memories are made of.

But, inevitably, we’re also had our fair share of cranky kids, time-zone changes, food thrown back in our faces, sibling spats and over-tired tantrums [whispers: this mommy might actually go on strike if anyone suggests another ‘fun-filled’ outing to a family attraction].

So, while sad it’s all over, I can’t wait to get back into a routine – which also means putting out feelers to see if anyone who I freelance for actually remembers me after such a long break.

With the thought of an air-conditioned office with minimal noise and everyone’s bums firmly in their seats sounding quite appealing right now, I found myself browsing some media jobs online – and clicked on this ad that set out the following (ideal) requirements for the ‘superstar’ they hoped to employ:

● You write articles that make people laugh hysterically. Even you don’t believe how funny you are.

● People around can’t stop appreciating your creativity, wit, passion, imagination and how wonderfully you articulate your thoughts into words.

● Your pen is your magic wand, and you can take simple ideas or boring dry facts and effortlessly convert them into exciting, engaging and humorous articles with your magic powers.

● Your proactivity makes people around you seem very lazy.

● Your command over spoken and written English would give Shakespeare a complex.

● You know the effort it takes to be part of a winning team and if it wasn’t for this job you would be running for the American presidency.

That’s a tall order, for a superstar with bells on. Suddenly my life of mainly mummydom sounds so much more do-able.

And fun!

Organised Mum’s fait accompli

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My boys are attending different schools this academic year (long story), so this week, whilst prodding them with an iron poker to prevent them napping in the car, I’ve been running from pillar to post, spending a small fortune on two sets of (different) uniforms, shoes, lunch boxes and water cups.

I’ve tried really hard to get it right, to make sure each boy is kitted out properly, with well-fitting shorts and shirts, that are labelled, and with hats that I know will get lost (due to the sun, there’s a no-hat/no-play policy).

You think you’ll just get it done on time, then you bump into her: Organised Mum. Yummy mummy-of-three-hen-pecked-children extraordinaire.

Organised Mum browses the uniform store at leisure, while everyone else’s shopping trip screeches to a halt due to the out-of-stock hats

You meet her at the uniform shop – except she’s not there to buy uniforms. She bought those in June, long before the store ran out of book bags and PE shirts. She’s there to buy a new wall planner, because last year’s didn’t have enough space for all their extra curricula activities.

“Are you ready for school?” she trills, with the smug air of someone who could quite easily spend this week by the pool. “Olivia can’t wait for school to start, can you darling?”

You see, Organised Mum has every reason to gloat, because she spent her entire summer planning for this moment. The Organised family went to the Rockies to climb mountains in July, with two weeks in St Tropez on the way back. But she never took her eye off the start of the new term.

Her children were measured and fitted for shoes on a stop-over in London; haircuts were done at Vidal Sassoon in Mayfair; her maid sewed satin labels on while they were away; and she restocked their stationery supplies with some stylish new lines sold exclusively at a French boutique.

Organised Mum has all the time in the world this week, and it’s beyond her that other mothers might still be buying last-minute uniforms. She finds a wall planner she likes and asks at the till if she can pre-order a diary for 2013. As she discusses typefaces, the working mothers in the line behind her, with approximately 10 minutes to get all their back-to-school supplies and get back to their desks, start silently cursing.

She leaves her details and the queue exhales a sigh of relief as she moves aside, but she’s not finished yet. With Mr Organised, a big cheese in oil pipelines, away in Saudi, she fancies a little more adult interaction and asks what activities we’re signing up for this term.

“We’re doing some extra French tuition,” she says. “The girls practised so hard on holiday. Go on, Trixabelle, say something in French. She sounds so clever when she speaks French.

“And we’ll be at the swimming trials, of course. Harry was very inspired by the Olympics … You never know!” she tinkles proudly.

“Maybe see you at the pool later,” she calls, as she breezes out the door into the sunshine.

Maybe not, Organised Mum. Some of us still have shopping to do.

Musical beds, at 3am

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Last night, BB couldn’t sleep, again. And by couldn’t sleep, I mean he was wide awake, like an insomniac who hasn’t slept properly for years, or a coffee addict who’s been injecting caffeine intravenously.

His eyes would flutter shut for half-a-second, then spring open again. Every time I thought he’d drifted off, it was such a feather-light sleep that he’d awaken the moment I moved a finger. Eventually, his eyelids stopped looking heavy and remained wide open, as though propped apart by matchsticks.

I gave up and let him come downstairs. We’re fighting jet lag, after all, and the time shift means we’re trying to get the boys to sleep before their bodies think it’s bedtime (kind of like trying to turn the tide).

This was about 10pm.

“I’ll fall asleep in front of the TV mummy,” he promised, with a smile.

At 2am, we were still downstairs.

I know, I was gullible. I should have known the TV would just be bonus stimulation time for him, but I couldn’t let him start making a racket upstairs as LB and DH were already sleeping.

When you’re blimin’ knackered and the kids won’t sleep, this book cover does spring to mind

DH had gone to bed at about 7.30pm, as from 1.30am he was on stand-by. He doesn’t have to be awake to be on night-time stand-by – it just means he has to be rested enough to be able to fly, if needed – with the phone by the bed obviously.

I must admit, when he cheerily called it a day at 7.30pm, there was a bit of me that thought, “Hmpph, they won’t call him. He’ll get the best night’s sleep, ever.”

But, I was wrong. At 2am, he got sent to China.

As his suitcase clunked down the stairs, I looked at DH with surprise – and he, in return, looked at BB with surprise.

“He can’t sleep,” I sighed, our tired, ashen faces lit up by the glow coming from Disney Junior on the TV.

With three out of four of us up, we saw DH off, then I took BB upstairs and told him he could sleep in the big bed (mistake no. 2).

Five minutes later, there were three in the bed. LB was up too and they were fighting for pole position next to me.

“Go to sleep, both of you,” I growled. “It’s nearly 3. Mummy needs to sleep, now.”

Miraculously, they did fall asleep before too long – and I crept stealthily out of the room and straight into BB’s empty bed.

Oh the joys of musical beds at 3am! It’ll be melatonin jet-lag tablets all round tonight.

Jet lag: The scourge of summer travel

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I’ve never been one for keeping a really strict routine. When the children were babies, the Gina Ford-esque Open the curtains at 6.24am regime didn’t suit me. But, like all mums, I’m well aware that if certain things happen at the same time each day, then life is a lot more enjoyable.

Bedtime is a case in point.

At no time is a routine more appealing than when it’s all going pear-shaped: I’m talking about jet lag here – that dreaded circadian rhythm sleep disorder that can hold you in its steely, fatigue-inducing grip for days, especially after an eastbound flight.

With her jet-lagged children up for hours in the night, Mom felt like she’d been run over by the airport bus

It’s a disorientating condition that people in our community know well, especially the Americans and Canadians who travel half way round the world to get back, with small children, who then spend the next two weeks mixing up night and day.

We only had a three-hour time jump between London and Dubai, but to be honest, even this is enough to play havoc with your family’s sleep.

Making it worse this year was the fact that BB and LB hadn’t really adjusted to British time anyway. After returning from America, and with no school to get up for, they stayed on a mid-Atlantic time zone, treating us to 11pm bedtimes in England.

No surprises, then, that our first full night back in Dubai went like this:

11.30pm: BB and LB finally succumb to sleep

2.20am: I nod off at last

2.30am: Pitter, patter … BB comes running in. “Mum, I can’t sleep!”

5.30am: BB, who I [foolishly] allowed to climb into our bed, falls back to sleep after three hours of fidgeting

6.15am: LB wakes up – for the day

Tonight (yawn), my overtired boys were also resisting bedtime, in a can’t sleep/won’t sleep fashion.

“I’m NOT tired!”

Then, just before nine, BB lost it, despite being allowed to watch some extra telly. “I want Nanny,” he wailed, in between distraught, heart-breaking sobs.

“But you’ve got me,” I soothed, feeling a bit like the booby prize.

I took him and his brother upstairs and tried reading a book, but it didn’t really distract my by-now-exhausted BB.

More raspy, uneven sobs.

So, I pulled out all the stops: I started singing.

“Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” I crooned, trying to replicate a song my mum used to sing to me while drying my tears years ago.

BB went quiet, finally, and his breathing slowed as the song worked its magic. But then LB, who until now had been quite placid, started crying.

“Mum, don’t sing,” he spluttered, visibly shaken. “I really don’t like your singing. “It’s bad singing,” he snivelled, and sat up in bed, wide awake again.

There really is no pleasing everyone, is there?

Return of the Mac

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I flew back to Dubai with the boys on Thursday, on what we call ‘Daddy’s airplane’. Except DH wasn’t flying it, and nor was he on it.

BB and LB are good at air travel really, and I guess for a 3 and 6 year old, they could be classed as frequent travellers, but there are certain inevitabilities about flying with small children.

They needed the toilet just as the food arrived, and also the moment the seatbelt sign came on; they couldn’t get comfortable despite being pint-sized; they weren’t hungry when given their meals then clamoured for food later on when there was none. They wriggled, fidgeted, got bored and LB kept bumping the seat in front.

Brilliant, brilliant idea

As we boarded the full A380 at Heathrow, LB asked a flight attendant if we were going to space. “Too many people today,” he told her, as though he commuted the route daily. But not funnily for me, he didn’t sleep a wink, preferring to give me the Spanish Inquisition over whether there were owls chasing us (it was mostly dark) and would they get chopped up in the engine?

For my part, I ruefully turned down an upgrade (it was only for me, not the kids!), I entertained two energetic boys for seven long hours, rummaged around for missing items, let the 3yo sit on my lap for as long as was tolerable and made multiple trips to the loo.

But, you know what, it is getting easier. Each year is a little better than the last, and when I think back to last year’s long flight with a tantruming two-year-old, playing tray up/tray down, light on/light off and ding the flight attendant, I realise we’ve come a long way, even if it’s still really tiring.

Thanks to an iPad loaded with games, there were even some moments of quiet reflection, when I looked out the window at the ink black sky and the airplane’s shadowy wing. I found myself thinking about the gleaming metallic finish, the gentle, sloping contours, the speed it was capable of, and its ability to transport me from the sights and sounds of Seoul to the sunsets of Long Island.

So, was I appreciating DH’s airplane in all its gigantic glory?

Well, if I’m honest, I was thinking about my new beautiful, super-speedy MacBook Pro laptop, which I bought in England to bring back to Dubai. Love it!

IHOP opens in the Middle East

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There’s been some excited chatter on my Facebook timeline this week about the new IHOP at Mall of the Emirates (not a new product from Apple – it’s a restaurant and stands for International House of Pancakes).

Yes, for anyone who spent the summer in a cave, IHOP has actually opened in Dubai. There’s been some debate over whether the whole experience will be the same as in America (“Hello Maammsirrr”), but the verdict seems to be that it’s well worth a visit. Forty more are planned around the Middle East, apparently.

I have to confess I’m really looking forward to going: breakfast has always been my favourite meal of the day, and I’ve found it nigh on impossible to find a great ‘greasy spoon’ in Dubai.

What use do these miniature pots have, other than to create extra washing up?

For a start, pork is restricted, so without a pork licence, restaurants can only offer turkey or beef bacon. Same goes for sausages of course. Whilst I do enjoy a beef burger every now and then, when it comes to beef bacon, I’d rather stick the fork up my nose.

A nearby restaurant we sometimes go to for a ‘silver spoon’ breakfast is permitted to offer pork bacon and sausages (on the side), but for some reason, they ration out the beans and mushrooms in little pots – just like the kind your children would use for a doll’s tea party – then charge more than £10.

Having put up with this for the past four years, I was, quite literally, rubbing my hands with glee on our first morning in America this summer as we set out to The Original Pancake House, another popular breakfast restaurant.

Smiles all round: An IHOP kids’ pancake

My taste buds were dancing on the table with anticipation as the waitress took our order with panache, understood every word of it and returned with bottomless glasses of unsweetened iced tea.

She then brought rashers of crispy bacon, fluffy saucer-sized pancakes, sunny-side-up eggs, the biggest omelette I’ve ever seen (five eggs at least), corn beef hash and buttered toast with delicious jam bursting with flavour.

There’s really no doubt about it – Americans are Olympic-level breakfasters and if Dubai’s new IHOP can recreate the American breakfast experience, my taste buds will be hopping up and down all the way there.

Postscript: Dubai’s IHOP features many of the same items as the US restaurants, but no pork (Halal-certified turkey hams, veal sausages and beef bacon instead)

Edit: The Cheesecake Factory has opened too, with two-hour waits over Eid!

Greedy grannies gone wild

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Whenever I’m back in the UK, it’s always noticeable that people don’t smile – or even make eye contact – when they pass each other in the street.

Sometimes I test this out: I attempt to meet the eyes of a mother passing by with her children and give them a friendly smile. More often than not, the mum keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead (though to be fair, she’s probably too busy making sure her kids don’t tumble off the narrow pavement into the road – or thinks I’m a lunatic).

But today was different. My mum and I popped into Starbucks and as we walked in, an elderly lady who was leaving gave us the biggest Cheshire cat grin I’ve ever seen. Totally unprompted.

Broad smile: I’m quids in! (There are virtually no silver expats in Dubai, so I enjoy seeing British Grannies)

How nice, I thought. What a sweet lady and how friendly.

Then some young girls, aged no more than 12 or 13, arrived and asked if a £20 note had been handed in.

“Yes, but we gave it to the old lady,” replied the woman behind the counter. “She said it was hers and I believed her!”

Well, you would, wouldn’t you? The pensioner looked just like someone’s doting grandmother, with a creaky hip, sensible shoes and blue-rinse blow dry.

My mum and I sat down to drink our tea, laughing quietly that the opportunistic Granny with the triumphant grin must have seen her chance and grabbed it with both hands. She’d probably hopped straight on a bus flashing her bus pass by now, we thought.

But, to our surprise, she returned, having been rounded up by the young girls in their teeny-tiny shorts and their pubescent spotty boyfriends.

“How dare you?” she roared at the youngsters as she was accused of stealing their note [which they shakily said they’d left on a seat – the boyfriends, at this point, backing off in the direction of the muffins].

She had a story ready but, unfortunately, it had more holes in it than a sieve and the money was handed over to the girls, before everyone went on their way.

I felt rather sorry for her, with hard times n’ all in the UK recently, and there was a high chance she was just really confused, so I gave her a smile when we passed again later – but this time I just got the standard ear-to-ear blank look in return.

Better luck next time, love!

Vintage rubbers

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Back in the early 80s, I was a collector – of scented rubbers.

No sniggering over there in the US! By rubbers, I mean erasers (the British word is rubber, because they rub things out).

I can’t remember how it started – probably with an innocent rainbow pencil-topper, or a strawberry-scented lipstick rubber, but from about 1980-1986 my collection bred like rabbits.

When I’m staying at my parents’, it always astounds me that my Mum has kept so many of our childhood things – and each year we stay, she brings out the most amazing vintage toys for the boys to play with.

Last year, I marvelled at my china tea set and 100-year-old antique rocking horse, while BB and LB spent many happy hours parking dozens of lead-painted matchbox cars in my old dolls’ house. This year, it was my rubber collection’s turn to see the light of day again.

I pored over my rubbers, turning them over like precious stones and smelling each one. Some had kept their scent, even after 30 years! Goodness knows what chemicals they were made with – probably something quite addictive to a 9-year-old girl.

“Which one do you like best,” I asked BB, showing him the miniature Ariel box with a white t-shirt inside, the milk carton, the Coca Cola-scented can of coke, the cassette, LP and the camera with a roll of film.

“The cheese burger,” he replied – and immediately did a taste test.

Childhood pals: Just a fraction of my collection – I was very careful never to use them. The more delicious grape or watermelon-scented rubbers really are quite tempting

Silent Sunday: Picture-perfect England

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Would you believe me if I told you that this is my brother’s office? “It’s very nice,” my mum mentioned, as we crawled along the motorway on a very hot English summer’s day. But, I have to say, I was quite taken aback with just how picture perfect the premises and 180-hectare nature reserve are (he works for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds at their headquarters in Bedfordshire).

I got slightly carried away imagining the staff having business picnics complete with home-made lemonade, colourful dragonflies darting around their clipboards and woodland birds pecking on trees. With less than a week to go before we’re back in the desert, I think I’ve got my rose-tinted specs on already.

Where I went Wednesday

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Having realised that the long summer school holiday won’t go on forever (after all), I decided it was time to take the children up to London, and give our hosts, their grandparents, a well-deserved day off.

An added incentive was that my BF agreed to come with us to Covent Garden’s London Transport Museum – and there was also the inkling that we might be able to sneak lunch in at my favourite sandwich shop, Pret a Manger.

But apart from that, it was all for the good of the kids – honest.

The funny thing about taking BB and LB on day trips is that, for them, it’s the journey that’s the exciting bit. Not the destination, and certainly not lunch. It’s all about the getting there – on South West Trains, and the Northern Line.

They didn’t mind one bit that the train to Waterloo was really crowded and so we had to stand right by the toilet – they got to watch people going in and out the loo and could even time them.

How to make a train-mad 6YO boy’s day: Operate a tube train

Given that in the UAE, apart from the new, driverless metro, there are no railways – and BB is obsessed with trains – it makes sense that the Woking-Waterloo service is a thing of amazement for him. On passing through Clapham Junction, his eyes nearly popped out his head and as we went down the escalator to the underground, I promised him we’d travel on the deepest line.

Not such a thrilling ride if it’s your daily commute, but we got some smiles five minutes later, with both kids pressing their noses against the window, peering out at the tunnel, absolutely loving trundling through the darkness.

The trouble with their enjoyment of train journeys is that when we reach our destination, they usually just want to turn around and go home again. But, today, I’d thought of that: The Transport Museum – ta-daaa! They could even drive a tube train! A brilliant, foolproof plan, surely.

And it was a success, until it came time for lunch, and we made them walk to Leicester Square (all of five minutes), triggering a tirade from my hungry oldest son. “But I can’t walk, my legs have died. This is my baddest day ever.”

Kids, eh – I could have sworn that a few minutes earlier he was energetically running around and playing inside a bus exhibit as happy as larry.

London bus drivers seem to be getting younger…

And the magicians are getting cleverer – took us ages to figure this out!