Tag Archives: bringing up 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?

On refereeing competitive siblings

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I touched on this the other day, but there’s something you can’t fail to notice about boys: their competitive streak.

Eager to one-up each other the WHOLE TIME, my sons compare everything, from who gets to sit next to whom the most, to the football teams their footie shirts belong to.

And sometimes this relentless rivalry gets quite exhausting, especially when it’s over something really silly you can’t believe they’re arguing about. Like toothbrushing. (“I’m going to win!” said in a light, humorous tone, but with a fine thread of steel running through the centre of it.) Or which one of them loves their grandparents the most.

Best friends (even if they don't always know it. Or show it)

Best friends (even if YouTube would suggest otherwise)

I’m sure this chronic competitiveness is getting more pronounced, too. It was easier when they were really small and had an active fantasy life. At age 3, if they wanted to be the fastest kid in the world, they just had to imagine they were. Now, at ages 8 and 6, they realise it’s not good enough just to think they’re the fastest – they have to prove it.

At other times, my sons are the best of friends and keep each other entertained for hours – and when it’s the two of them pitted against the world, they stand up for each other with a brotherly empathy that knows no bounds.

But, at home, it can feel like I’m continually being driven crazy by petty squabbles that border on grievous bodily harm.

“You.Are.The.Worst.Brother.In.The.World,” I heard Son1 telling Son2 the other night, after yet another argument over I can’t remember what. “Mum …blah, blah, blah, blah … he started it.” Can you tell I had my fingers in my ears?

“Look, it’s even on YouTube,” continued Son1, bringing me the iPad. He’s really into making movies at the moment and has worked out how to upload them. I glanced at the screen. And, to my alarm, there it was: his latest home movie – a biography of sorts, entitled The Worst Brother in the World.

(While I had some success in teaching Son1 that this isn’t a nice thing to tell the world, I’m still attempting to figure out how to delete this production!)

It’s a good job I know they love each other really. <3

What I’ll be wearing Wednesday

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When I got home from work tonight, I did the first thing I always do when transitioning from the peaceful buzz of the office to the happy, barely contained chaos of homelife: I went upstairs to get changed.

Usually this is a non-event. I take off whatever smartish outfit I happen to be wearing and throw on my Dubai staples: shorts and a lightweight top. Then I can relax, and lounge on the sofa for a bit, before the homework / reading / bedtime triathalon.

Not an accurate representation of the blogger (i.e., modelled by someone far skinnier than me). But here's the purple dress I had to promise Son2 I'll wear tomorrow

Not an accurate representation of the blogger (i.e., modelled by someone far skinnier than me). But here’s the purple, embroidered shift dress I had to promise Son2 I’ll wear tomorrow – with red lipstick

Tonight, if you’d been standing outside our villa, you’d have heard all hell break loose in our home.

“Mummy, why did you get changed?” demanded Son2, his voice rocketing up several octaves.

“I had to take off my work clothes, sweetie.”

“WHhhhyyyy?? Put your skirt back on!”

Two fat tears slid snail paths down his pink, powdery cheeks and I knew I had approximately 5 seconds to avert an oncoming tantrum.

“Mummy, PUT.A.DRESS.ON, PLEEASE.”

A thought then dropped into his head with a thud: “And red lipstick!”

It took me off guard – he’s 5 and I have no idea how he knows about this stuff. Seriously. I can only imagine the kind of girls he might bring home when he’s 18.

Breakfast with a son

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One son had a whole week off for half-term; the other only had a day. I felt bad for Son1, so on his day off, I decided to take him out for breakfast.

“Where shall we go?”

“Subway!”

“Well, that’s really a lunch place. Let’s go to Arabian Ranches, the new restaurant.”

“Awwww.” [Cheers up when he remembers what’s there.]

“Mummy, can I go and play?”

“Okay, but come back when the food arrives, yes?” [Scampers off to play in the little playarea by himself, while I sit by myself at the table.]

Breakfast arrives – boiled eggs for him, an omelette for me. The soldieurs on his plate aren’t exactly fighting for space, given the mouse-size portion (hardly enough to feed a boy who can almost wolf down a loaf of bread) – and the buns in the basket are too fancy for him.

“So how’s school?”

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

“Good.”

“I’m cold!”

“That’s why I told you to wear your sweater this morning!”

I run through some other conversation openers with him.

“I thought we might be able to talk at breakfast – you know, chat!”

“I didn’t.” [Looks at me as though I’d suggested dragging him through the bushes on the golf course backwards.]

“I’m REALLY cold Mum.”

“Okay, well finish bashing your egg shells into the egg cups and we’ll get back into the car. You’ll warm up on the way home.”

“I forgot the iPad.”

“No, you didn’t. Here it is.”

I hand it over while I finish drinking my tea.

“Five minutes, then we’ll leave.”

A chat – what was I thinking? Who’s coming with me next time?

The boy-mum initiation

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The other day a friend promised me that while bringing up boys might feel like more work up front than girls, it gets easier. It really does, she told me, as I exhaled a sigh of relief.

“When my teenager’s male friends visit, it’s great fun,” she said. “If the girls come over as well, there’s always two crying in the toilet.”

But, as all boy-mums know, there’s an initiation you have to go through, before you can honestly say you no longer feel winded by the non-stop action, the catapulting off couches, and the, ahem, appendage comparisons. Here, I give to you, my boy-mum indoctrination, in its four distinct phases:

Squirming, kicking, running - catch him if you can!

Squirming, kicking, running – catch him if you can!

Phase 1 [with a health warning]: While friends with crayon-loving girls are able to entertain their children with colouring and hair clips, you realise your boy has more energy than an atomic explosion. He scales the furniture, hurtles round the room like a mini tornado and has turbo-charged growth spurts. Continually ravenous, his ability to turn anything from a stick to a finger into a weapon is disconcerting. Between your morning latte and lights out, you save his life at least three times, and you’re so full of nervous energy yourself, your eyes are practically on stalks. There are days when you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.

Phase 2: You’ve emerged, with battle scars, from the horrors of toilet training, and learn that your boy would rather plunge the scissors into his thigh than wash his hands. He’s attracted to dirt, puddles, even dog poo, like bees are to honey. Your voice has taken on a shrill tone; it doesn’t even sound like you, but listen to it you must because your boy only hears what he wants to hear.

Phase 3: You’ve given up trying to keep him clean, you never wear your nicest clothes around him and you’ve learnt how to block out the decibels. He zips through activities in seconds, practically burning up the carpet, and takes risks at every opportunity. “What’s the worst that could happen?” you think. The answer is you don’t know, and would hate to find out. Despite the boisterous ways and toilet talk, you notice he’s developed a penchant for your heels.

Phase 4: You find out that your boy is an incredibly affectionate creature. You’re the apple of his eye, and you’re so loved up, it’s like being on a ‘boy-moon’. He slips his little hand in yours and says sweet things, before running off to kick a ball. You feel special, adored. The mother-son bond is unbreakable. You’re Kate Middie in McQueen. An empress – on speed. Because don’t think your life is about to get easier. It’s not that slowing down is bottom of your boy’s priority list. It’s not even on it.

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.