Tag Archives: boys

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?

A very special flight

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I can’t let our homecoming pass without saying a few words about our flight back: DH was ‘driving’, and while I’ve been his passenger a few times now, it was the first time he’s flown our fledglings in a commercial airliner.

And, yes, it was a great flight, not least because the bribe potential in telling the children that if they didn’t behave, Daddy would ‘land this plane right now’ or put them ‘outside on the wing’ was HUGE. (Sipping celebratory Champagne and nibbling on Godiva chocolates helped too, of course.)

But, if the truth be told, the boys were as good as gold. At the gate, they squished their noses against the terminal window, trying to see through the darkened glass of the cockpit. They (and about 10 other little boys also lined up) were rewarded when DH stuck a sun-tanned arm out his window to wave.

You could tell each awe-struck boy thought the wave was directed at him and when I got talking to an Australia-bound Dad on the full flight later on, we agreed not to burst his son’s bubble. Pilots should wave more, they really should. It makes people so happy.

DH in his office

Airbus A380: DH in his office

On board, we waited patiently for DH to make an announcement (it sounded nothing like him!), and, while I’d instructed Son1 not to go telling everyone, his excitement bubbled over every now and then. “My Daddy’s flying this plane,” he told a flight attendant, *beaming with pride*.

We arrived in Dubai (nice landing, DH!) and were invited to come forward to see what to me looks like the Starship Enterprise. “Just don’t touch anything,” I urged them, as we climbed the stairs to the flight deck. “If you feel like you want to press something, JUST DON’T,” I pleaded, paranoid that they’d set off the emergency slides or a million-dollar fire-hydrant system.

I needn’t have worried; they were awed into silence by the countless screens and switches, and could barely breathe they were so impressed. (Too bad my work doesn’t have the same effect; I swear they think my sole purpose in life is to fetch them things from the supermarket.)

All too soon, it was time to deplane and make our way into Dubai’s cavernous, gleaming airport, where taking the new train triggered fresh excitement. It was well past midnight when the children and I joined the taxi queue. “We don’t want a pink taxi. We want a red one,” they chanted, in unison, demonstrating to me once again that, while my boys will never be interested in any of the girlie things that make me tick, I adore their transport-mad ways.

Silent Sunday: Gone fishing

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Brothers are the best, especially when it comes to activities like fishing. My DH’s brother lives in Dubai, too, and when we all get together, I love stepping back and watching them all ‘be boys’ together.

This was taken at a place we’ve named Cat Beach, because there’s a colony of cats living – quite happily – on the rocks, feeding on the fish thrown to them by visiting fishermen. Someone fell in two minutes after I took this - not who you think!

This was taken at a place we’ve named Cat Beach, because there’s a colony of cats living – quite happily – on the rocks, feeding on the fish thrown to them by visiting fishermen. Someone fell in two minutes after I took this – not who you think!

Heads that go bump

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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!

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.

When the cat’s away…

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It’s another dusty, windy Saturday afternoon and I’m drinking tea at a formica table while the boys burn off energy at an indoor play area.

There’s noise, bad music, lurid plastic, flashing lights, crying children and constant interruptions, but this is my downtime – two hours of respite from being the sole parent in charge today.

I’m sure all mums will know what I mean when I say single-handed parenting can sometimes be like doing a marathon in Manolo Blahniks, backwards and with no-one to tag.

OK, so on DH's list I left off the work bit, the jet lag and travel fatigue, but you get the picture. Jealous? NOoo

From the early morning wake-up calls to tantrums at bedtime, from oldest son’s non-stop, brain-bending questions to youngest son’s refusal to eat anything but chocolate, it always feels like a HUGE responsibility being the only adult on duty at the weekend.

[Said in a hushed voice]: They don’t leave me alone, not even to go to the toilet! And don’t get me started about the fighting.

So when I waved DH off this morning, to the bierhauses and beautiful architecture of Munich, it was with a hint of jealousy on my part, even though I’d actually hate to have to leave home the whole time (and, if the truth be told, I wouldn’t swap roles with him in a million years – nor did I actually see him off as he left even earlier than the kids got up).

But I missed his help when, in the car today while trying to concentrate on traffic, BB started shouting, “MUM, L.O.O.K!! LB’s got his willy out!” – upstaged only by an incident at the supermarket 10 minutes later which saw the Little Boy FLASHING shoppers while my back was turned getting cash from the ATM.

“Enjoy every moment,” well-meaning, nostalgic parents always advise. “It goes by so fast.” And I do try to savour it – just not *this* moment. Or the moment last Saturday when I discovered they’d etched a 1.5 metre-long scratch on the TV cabinet and filled the CD player up with soil.

Angels in standard-issue devil's horns: Nice try BB, but I don't think this will stop your brother from bugging you!

I’ve actually got off pretty lightly today – on previous occasions when DH has been gone, far worse has happened. I came home from work a few weeks ago to be told, by our nanny, that she’d lost BB that afternoon and found him up on the roof, hollering to our neighbours.

We do have lots of fun, too, when it’s just the kids and me, but it does seem that while the cat’s away, the mice will play up, especially on weekends.

When DH gets back from trips, he scoops up the boys, his eyes shining with joy. “They’re such angels,” he’ll say, turning to me.

I’ve learnt to smile sweetly and respond – in a measured way – “Yes dear. Little angels.”

“Both of them.” Before retreating for what I consider to be a well-earned break.

This has been doing the rounds on Facebook recently - love it!

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

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 nightly bedtime debacle

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There must be someone else who loves that feeling at the end of the day – when you cocoon yourself in the duvet, your toes slide down to the end of the bed and your whole body exhales with relief?

It’s such a lovely sensation, I don’t understand why my kids think I’m committing such a terrible, heinous crime when I put them to bed.

The boys share a room and if – after cajoling them through the whole bath, teeth, book routine – they would just let me turn the light out and go downstairs while they kept each other company (isn’t that why you have two children?), I’d be a nicer person.

But, no, instead they get hyped up, keep themselves awake and compete for my attention like their lives depend on it.

If I leave the room, LB – who’s still of a clingy age – tantrums until there’s so much adrenalin pumping round his little body he might as well be doing a bungee jump.

It’s easily the most frustrating part of my day, especially now I’m back at work for a while. Aside from a bleary-eyed rush in the morning, the bedtime debacle is the only interaction I get with them during the week – and on a bad night leaves me with a 20-minute long evening by the time the circus finally subsides.

It all goes a lot smoother when DH is home, so I’ve started doing something rather underhand when he’s away. If you compare it to drugging them with sleeping pills (which has crossed my mind) or leaving the house when they behave like this (also tempting), it’s really not that bad.

I say to the boys, “Daddy’s on the phone. He’s calling to see if you’re in bed,” then I pretend to talk on my mobile, shaking my head, umming and making conversation at appropriate intervals.

It works so well, I’ve rolled it out now to saying I have a hotline to DH (1-800-DADDY) wherever he is in the world.

It’s only backfired once, when BB wanted to talk to him and so – like a family friend who used to call Father Christmas in Lapland for us when I was little did – I pretended DH had been cut off.

I really don’t mean to make DH the bad cop when he’s not even here, but now when I bring the milk upstairs, I grab my phone – it’s either that or have SuperNanny on speed dial.

On having two mummy’s boys

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Nursery is a marvellous invention, especially as it’s so nearby so we don’t even have to get in the car – LB could practically walk there himself (except imagine what a terrible parent they’d think I was if LB dropped himself off in the morning!)

But it’s amazing how fast the session goes by. All over by 1pm, it means that by the time I’ve got my act together, bought some groceries and tried to squeeze a bit of work in, that’s it, LB’s ‘school day’ is done. And when he gets home, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

“Play wif Mumm-eeeee.”

And so we play – but inevitably, after a while, my list-of-a-hundred-things-I-need-to-do looms large in my mind. So I suggest that I just have to do something and I’ll be back in a minute.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he roars, his little fists pummelling me with all his might. “STAA-AY.”

“Play trains wif Mummy.”

So I stay longer, pushing a train around and making some accompanying noises. We play a tickling game and I try to remain patient.

I say try because it’s really difficult! In my mind, he could be playing happily while I tick one or two things off my list. But, no, there’s something that in my pre-parenting days I was clueless about: clinginess!

It means that, quite often, both boys sit on top of me on the sofa fighting over me, I walk round with a screaming child attached to my leg, and have to do everything one-handed because the other arm is being pulled in a different direction.

It’s a special behaviour reserved for mummies.

And I should have known I’d find it challenging: I had a clingy cat once (for 10 years!) and that was hard enough.

This afternoon we did manage to come to a few compromises. LB let me make a cup of tea without screaming, on the proviso he got his fourth ‘pink milk’ of the day, and played by himself for a while after I obeyed orders to “SIT on SOF-AH and watch.”

(I know I spend way too many evenings happily sitting on the sofa, but somehow being immobilised on the couch during the day is as frustrating as looking at our lovely garden and not being able to use it.)

When BB gets home from school around 3.20pm, the dynamics change as I’m suddenly outnumbered.

“How was school?” I enquire brightly, hopeful that one day he’ll actually tell me what he did.

“Super bad.”

The TV goes on while he decompresses and the three of us sort-of-get-along for the rest of the afternoon, while I field demands from left, right and centre.

Like, “Mumm-eeeee, I want a mouse!” from BB today.

Then both boys, practically bouncing off the sofa, chanting in unison, “We-want-a-mouse. We-want-a-mouse!”

I know the answer is to start the day expecting to get absolutely nothing accomplished, then when you do achieve zilch it doesn’t feel so bad – or you’re thrilled because you’ve ticked one thing off your list-of-a-hundred. And, perhaps, over the past year, I’ve got a little too used to office life again, which – and I know I keep saying this – is a lot simpler.

At bedtime, the clinginess resurfaces in both of them. We’re trying really hard to get the boys to go to sleep without one of us being in the room. A battle, for me at least (DH makes it look easy-peasy; when I try, you can hear the screams down the road).

Tonight, as I attempted to persuade them that I’d be back to check on them in five minutes, they cried on cue, then BB whimpered, “But, mummee, we really, really like you.”

Despite it being 9.30pm by this time, my heart melted and I had to forgive them for the previous eight-and-a-half hours of clinginess.

And the day will come when they’re not so needy of me and can play together nicely, while I get a few things done.

Won’t it?!!!!

My hat trick on the airplane

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You may have noticed that BB wore the same hat all summer long.

It’s a mini pilot’s hat that we bought while living in the States.

He’s never really shown much interest in it until now and had only worn it once before, when we went trick-or-treating in the US.

But this summer he became so attached to it, he’d hang it on his bed post and, every time he got up in the middle of the night, would actually remember to put it on.

His hair underneath has even moulded semi-permanently to the shape of the hat and now forms a quiff at the front that I think looks quite cool, though DH isn’t so sure.

Since he’s never become attached to an object before, I did wonder if it was because he was missing his Dad during our five-week sojourn. How sweet, I thought, imagining it was a link to DH, whose busy flying schedule meant he was working out of Dubai for most of the summer.

But then we found out the real reason.

“Will the hat be coming back to Dubai?” enquired my mother one evening.

“Yes,” he replied adamantly. “There are birds in Dubai too.”

“Birds?”

“Yes, I don’t want them to poo on my head,” he said, almost shuddering at the thought.

Turns out that, despite laughing at his brother at the time, he’d been quite disturbed when we found a bird dropping in LB’s hair earlier in the holiday.

I did tell him that it’s actually good luck if a bird dropping lands on you, but, no, the hat’s staying on apparently.

Until a little incident on the plane ride home almost landed me in deep trouble.

It was all going really well, thanks to a very noisy baby nearby who actually made my two look quiet. So there I was, basking – for the first time in five years – in the glory of being the mother of the less disruptive children, when BB handed me the hat for a minute to put his headset on – and I lost it.

Somehow, due to being sandwiched between two boys, three meal trays and all our in-flight paraphernalia, I’d totally lost track of it. We searched everywhere. BB crawled on the floor. I got down on my hands and knees too. But to no avail.

BB thought he might have left it in the toilet, so checked every single loo on board. I asked a flight attendant if it had been handed in, but she didn’t quite catch what I was saying and thought I was after the captain’s hat as a freebie.

Until, finally – after landing – a lady three rows behind suddenly produced it. How it got back there, I’ve no idea, but, luckily, it let me off the hook and BB’s avian coprophobia (fear of bird poop – I know this, because, ever the journalist, I looked it up) is being kept under his hat.