Tag Archives: being married to a pilot

On trying to raise global children

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Warning: You won't BELIEVE what lies beneath (readers with a faint-hearted disposition, look away now!)

Warning: You won’t BELIEVE what lies beneath (readers with a faint-hearted disposition, look away now!)

Raptor (formerly known as Son1) pulled his first all-nighter on us last night. I’d felt sure he’d fall fast asleep as soon as we took off from Vienna. The signs were all there as we waited at the gate after our Eid getaway – glassy eyes, voice raised in an over-tired fight with Son2, a whiny tone, his face waxy-white as though it had been lightly dusted with flour. I glanced at my watch: it was past midnight Dubai time.

As soon as we were airbourne, I put my seat back. I’d only been staring at the luggage bins for half a minute when I succumbed to sleep.

The next thing I was aware of was the plane juddering.

Ding.

Over the sound of seatbelts being buckled up came the captain’s voice. “Good news,” he said, “we’ve just started our descent into Dubai. We should have you on the ground in about 25 minutes.”

DH leaned over from the row behind. “Good luck waking him up,” he said, nodding to Raptor, “he’s only just dropped off.”

Astonished, I prodded and poked him, then finally managed to jostle him awake – he had indeed spent the whole five hours watching movies in the dark. Happy that such a night of uninterrupted viewing actually existed.

Arriving back into the brilliant early-morning light must then have told his brain to stay awake. At home, sun streamed through the patio door. The effect was warm, a homely glow falling over the furniture. Raptor blinked and reached for some electronic stimulation. I’ll admit I was already half way up the stairs to catch a nap.

Later, we sat around chatting about the trip. “What was your best bit?” DH asked me.

Hello Mozart!

Hello Mozart!

I thought for a few moments. I loved Vienna. From the imperial grandeur of this once powerful centre of the Hapsburg monarchy to the opulence of the Schönbrunn Palace, the Austrian capital is an unforgettable city, steeped in history and the birthplace of too many great musicians to shake a baton at. “All of it,” I said. “I loved it all.”

“And what was your best bit?” DH asked Raptor.

I felt sure he’d say the bones. We’d pushed the boat out, you see, to make sure – as you do – that the kids had a memorable time.

I thought we’d surely trumped ourselves on the tour of the cathedral’s catacombs. Shocking doesn’t even begin to describe it. First, you visit the old catacombs where the internal organs of members of the royal family are stored in urns. Then, in the ‘new’ catacombs you see the skeletons of thousands of plague victims. Most chilling were the brick caverns stacked high with neatly arranged bones – a 17th century space-saving concept, illuminated, for the benefit of modern visitors, by dim, yellowish electric lights. It was a dark highlight, if ever I’ve seen one. My sons had been stunned into silence.

I waited. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps his most memorable moment had been when we’d raced down a platform to catch a glimpse of his favourite European train. Or ridden a tram to tick that box. Surely all this had been more interesting than the movies on the plane? Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?

“Erm,” he said, crinkling his forehead. A deep perplexed line appeared between his eyes as though someone had drawn it there with a pencil. “Can you just remind me what we did again?”

Gah! I guess you just have to assume that when you travel with kids, it all sinks in on some level … right?

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.

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.

Silent Sunday: Office in the sky

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I’ve posted one or two photos on the blog of the view from my office tower, but I am rather outdone by my DH, who hurtles past some of the world’s most spectacular landscapes. “So what did you see out the window today, hon?” “Oh, you know, just the Himalayas.”

Even at 39,000 feet above sea level, the Himalayas look mighty close! K2 is down there somewhere.

Even at an altitude of 39,000 feet above sea level, the Himalayas look mighty close to me! K2 is down there somewhere.

Hello Holland

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I know you might think, ‘Didn’t she just get back from somewhere?’ when reading this post, and you’d be right. But sometimes you have to do crazy things to, well, make life that bit more interesting. Like fly for 13 hours to basically have dinner with your husband.

I think most pilot’s wives would agree that being married to a man who continually packs his suitcase and jets off to the other side of the world with a kiss and a wave isn’t always easy. There’s the absences, the jetlag, the readjustment period when he gets back and the jealousy (yes, that’s me. It can be challenging being gracious when he’s headed to Hong Kong and the furthest I’ll get is the supermarket with two fractious kids in tow).

But his job does come with an enormous perk that I try to make use of, because I absolutely love travelling (well maybe not the actual travel-with-kids bit, but the getting there and seeing new places). The perk – and don’t go off me – is the ability, if the stars align, to go to work with him.

This week, several things including babysitters in town, time off from my office-job and space on the airplane (both ways!), amazingly, came together and so Monday morning saw me rising early to catch his flight to Amsterdam sans kiddos.

“Now don’t go crazy on the packing,” he told me, the night before. “It’s only 24 hours, remember.”

And packing (without having to think about the children) was indeed a breeze, as was skipping off to the airport without my usual checklist of things the kids will need to keep them entertained, fed and subdued on a long flight.

After seven blissful hours on board, we arrived in Amsterdam and immediately set out on a whistlestop tour, taking in the canals, bikes and houseboats. “Let’s go,” I urged, determined to see as much as possible. “I think we’ve got three hours of daylight left!” The next morning, we had another couple of hours before it was game-over and time to get back on the plane.

I love flying with my DH at the controls. We met when we were 15 – we lived through the Top Gun years together, when aviation was a twinkle in his eye; we listened to Pink Floyd’s Learning to Fly endlessly. Our married life started with him working as a flight instructor, teaching kamikaze pilots how to restart a stalled engine – in the air. Then, after a year of gruelling interviews during the post-9.11 airline slump and finally getting the break he deserved, came the miniscule salary paid to first officers on regional jets in the US.

It’s been one helluva (in a good way) journey, and to say I’m proud of him for making it to the helm of the A380 superjumbo is an understatement.

“Did you enjoy Amsterdam?” he asked after our trip, as I wearily got out of bed to return to work after arriving back past midnight.

“What did you think of my landing?”

I loved it DH – and I loved our long-distance Valentine’s treat.

Amsterdam: Bikes, canals, croissants and Van Gogh, in 24 hours

Amsterdam: Bikes, canals, croissants and Van Gogh, in 24 hours

Post-holiday blues

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You’d think a six-day mini-holiday to the UK shouldn’t take six days to recover from, but somehow this whole week has been all about getting back into the swing of things.

The time difference and arriving back in Dubai on the milk flight at 5am meant the boys then slept until past midday, setting me up for a particularly trying problem in small children: INSOMNIA. The Scrooge of Christmas travel.

Because it’s not like you can just tell them to count sheep, is it?

No, no, that would be far too easy. Instead, for several nights, between the hours of 9 pm and 1 am, the boys pummelled me with all kinds of strange symptoms, from “I’m scared, stay Mummy, please!” to “I’m going to vomit!” (Son 1), singing for two hours straight (Son 2), hunger pangs and even sleep walking (Son 1).

Trying to count sheep with Son 2 just turned into bonus stimulation time

Trying to count sheep with Son 2 just turned into bonus stimulation time

Son 1 would have re-set much quicker if it wasn’t for the fact that Son 2 was adamant his insomnia should be shared.

“Are you AWAKE?” he’d bellow at his brother, nearly raising the roof of his bunk-bed (and I couldn’t separate them because they’re really dependent on each other and hate to sleep alone).

“WAKE UP!”

Then Son 2 got his hands on the duck clock in their room and set the alarm off: “QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK QUACK!”

I’m surprised you didn’t hear the racket going on in their bedroom.

DH was safely ensconsed on the other side of the world (in Australia and New Zealand) for the first two days of their nocturnal shenanigans. Happily, he returned on the third day, only to fall fast asleep at 8.30 pm with jet lag of the polar-opposite kind.

Oh the glamour of our jet-setting ways!

Hats off to DH

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A question I get asked a lot is: “So, does your husband always fly the same route?” I guess I can understand why people might think this – bus drivers, ferry operators, London underground drivers, long-distance truck drivers, mums on the school run, we all do the same route. So why not an airline pilot?

I smile and answer politely, “No, he flies to different places all the time.” He could be in New York one week, then Seoul the next, followed by London or Munich the week after. There’s a bidding system, which is too complicated to explain here, but that’s how it works. And it varies from month-to-month, too, with training, ground schools and six-monthly medicals as well.

Often, his trips take him to more than one country, so they’ll go to Sydney, then on to Auckland, or they’ll fly to Bangkok and from there onto Hong Kong. A bit like picking the children up from school, then continuing on to an after-school activity, I suppose. Or not.

Anyway, last week he was at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, preparing to fly on to Hong Kong. Picture the scene, if you will: a busy Thai airport, with nearly 16 million arrivals a year, serving a huge, cosmopolitan capital brimming with gold-spired temples, colourful markets and sà·nùk (fun).

xxxxxxx

The crowd pleaser

The flight crew is sitting in a corner before boarding, when a Chinese lady sits herself down right next to DH and asks if it would be okay for her friend to take a photo of them. Sure, says DH, and makes her day by letting her wear his hat for the picture.

The area they’re sitting in isn’t particularly busy, so you can imagine my DH’s surprise when he looks up and sees what’s happened.

Did you guess? Yes, out of nowhere, a line has formed. A 15-deep queue of excited passengers, many of whom are probably travelling on the A380 for the first time, all wanting a photo – with THE HAT.

My DH, who’s very good-natured, obliged. Bless him! And I did have to laugh because it’s not the first time he’s caused a line: a long time ago, when we were 16, he was waiting for me at a train station, in school uniform. I arrived to find DH standing by the exit, collecting tickets. The reason? A passenger had thought he was the inspector and handed her ticket over, causing everyone getting off the train to follow suit.

Proud of you DH, for fulfilling your flying dreams – and for the fact people will actually queue for you!

You might also like: My hat trick on the airplane

Dubai’s most prestigious private club

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In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m sometimes a bit jealous of my DH’s lifestyle. All those trips to exotic locations, restaurant meals that don’t deteriorate into feeding time at the zoo, sightseeing outings and hotel rooms.

He’s even picked up for work in a private car – the airline has a fleet of ‘silver dream cars’ that spirit our husbands away from it all, at any time of day or night, and deliver them home a few days later.

You get the gist. I could point out the hard parts of his job too. But I won’t. Suffice to say, if the Travel Channel is on, I’m never too surprised to hear him say, “Oh look, I was just there the other day,” or “I walked past that yesterday.”

“Really?” I’ll reply, raising my housewifely eyebrows and trying not to turn lime green with envy.

Membership of the Capital Club, which is frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty, is strictly by invitation only

Frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty – and a mum trying desperately hard to not talk too much about the children

Anyway, the other week the tables turned! I’ve been doing some work for a new client – a PR company run by an Iraqi entrepreneur, and he asked me to accompany him to a press luncheon at the Capital Club, Dubai’s premier private business club, catering to the top echelons of enterprise, finance and government.

A whole different UNIVERSE from Chuck E. Cheese’s.

A driver took us there in a corporate car; the silver-service lunch comprised three mouth-watering courses of French cuisine; I met some really nice, experienced journalists, and got to nosey round four floors of elegant lounges, ambient dining options and wood-panelled meeting rooms.

I could have settled in quite happily at the club’s outdoor shisha terrace and tent (or even in the cigar room), but it was when we were shown the boutique hotel facility that my mind really started racing. DH was safely ensconced at home with the children, and there I was, staring at a beautifully appointed, 700-square-foot bedroom, with what looked like 1,500-thread-count Egyptian comfort sheets on the bed and butler service, 24/7.

I wonder if they’d notice if I stayed, I thought. Just overnight. After all, I’m sure my invite to become a member is on the way. Must just be lost in the post.

Travel widow: The five-day trip

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Guess who?

Guess who?

I’m often asked: “Is your husband away a lot?” The truth is, he’s home a lot more than most husbands who work 9-6 plus over-time and weekends. But, of course, the nature of his job means that every time he does leave, it’s for an overseas trip of varying lengths.

His favourite jollies jaunts are to Europe – about seven hours there and back, two days away in total and a European city, such as Munich or Paris, at his disposal (what’s not to like?). I think he rather enjoys Bangkok too (not too much I hope) and, naturally, he loves returning to his home country, the States.

This week, he’s on a five-day trip to Australia and New Zealand. I’ve been with him on this one, and so I know the 14-hour journey to Sydney, the onward flight to Auckland and the jet lag are tough. But, the hardest thing, in my opinion, is the distance: it honestly feels like he’s dropped off the end of the world.

Before he left, he said to me: “Y’know, when I’m away, especially when I’m gone so far, the children just get better and better in my mind.”

“YOU WHAT?” I retorted, not sure if I’d heard him properly. I looked at him quizzically, through disbelieving eyes – but he meant it. He misses them so much that, to him, they become little angels, and not the whirling dervishes that seem to visit every time he’s gone.

So, I can’t resist, this is a day-by-day summary of not just our children’s angelic ways, but the household frustrations that he’s missing this week.

Day 1:
All is calm. This isn’t so bad, I think. The boys and I really bond when DH is away and we eat boiled eggs for dinner.

Day 2:
BB develops an ear infection, complicated by whining and exacerbated ten-fold by his noisy brother, who starts shouting erratically as though he’s got Tourette’s. We see the doctor and start antibiotics.

Day 3:
BB’s well enough for school and is all ready at 7.15am, but the bus doesn’t turn up. I phone the mum in charge and find out there’s no school. Teacher training. Sigh. (I swear, they have so many days off here that mums might as well tell themselves there’s no school, and then be pleasantly surprised when there is.)

Day 4:
The gas runs out in the middle of cooking dinner – time to call a gas delivery company (such as ‘Al Boom’ – yes, that’s its name, really!). TV stops working.

Day 5:
The boys are fighting like gerbils. They’re desperately trying to get their hands on our electronic devices. I eventually hide the iPad, and they go for my iPhone, and when I take that away too, LB grabs my Kindle like an addict and starts tapping it furiously in the hope it might have Minecraft on it (this can only end in tears). At bedtime, he tells me petulantly, “I’m not closing my eyes, I’m NOT!”

Happy days! Hurry home DH (and by way of a full disclosure, I actually wouldn’t swap roles in a million years.)

PS: If your husband is on the road a lot, do check out this article, in which Gulf ‘Travel Widows’ (including me!) reveal how they cope with the lifestyle.