Tag Archives: Dubai school run

Throwback Tuesday: Underhand school run tips

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Mothers across Dubai are either breathing a huge sigh of relief or sobbing into their hankies this week as they drop their children at school for the start of the new term.

But rather than simply depositing your offspring into the classroom roughly on time, it seems there are plenty of tactics you can use (some of them underhand) if you want to achieve a flawless drop off. Much is doubtless universal, but there are certainly some skills that are specific to Dubai schools.
cartoon-shopaholic
Tips and tricks:

– Pay special attention to your chosen outfit. Currently trending is gym wear, preferably black. Whether or not you actually go straight to the gym from the drop off is entirely irrelevant.

– Make sure you and your children are perfectly laundered. Even the slightest trace of toothpaste, breakfast cereal, chocolate, snot, vom or poo will make itself glaringly apparent at the worst moment.

Creating the illusion of a six-hour workout is a useful skill

Creating the illusion of a six-hour workout is a useful skill

– Although a huge pair of sunglasses will hide a plethora of cosmetic tardiness, make sure your nails are perfect and your hair is pristine.

– Prepare to race other parents from the red light, bully your way round the roundabout and take every opportunity to jump the queue.

– Even if you only drop off one child, make sure you drive your seven-seater SUV right up to the school gates.

– Ignore the car parking attendants and remember to cut up your best friend to get that prime parking spot.

– When alighting from your car, greet your friend with a cheery smile and a wave.

– Do not rush or run. Do not push or drag your child. Irrespective of what is actually happening, glide serenely through the school with a relaxed and happy expression.

– Greet each member of staff and wish them good morning. Train your children to do the same.

– When engaging in small talk with other parents keep to the following subjects: how charming the children are, how much the children are growing, how lovely everyone looks, the weather.

– Never admit to another mother any homework not done, lost library books, tantrums endured either at home or in the car, diarrhoea or head lice.

– Of course, all of the above also applies during pick up – although you must ensure that whatever you wear is entirely different from the outfit you were sporting only a few hours earlier.

– The only possible exception to this rule is you may return in the same gym wear, creating the aura of a potential six-hour work out. Sweat patches, however, are not acceptable.

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Silent Sunday: Fun and games at the roundabout

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They’ve been digging up this traffic circle outside school for some time now. I drove by the other day and saw this sign. I can hardly wait to see what the ‘new and exciting roundabout’ will look like! But then, as my friend L pointed out, it will be exciting. See on the sign, we’re all going to be driving around the roundabout in the other direction. Now that’s sure to make the school run more interesting.

roundabout sign at Arabian Ranches

 

Who left the oven on?

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Screen Shot 2016-05-18 at 22.27.53At school drop-off this morning, the usual line-up of big cars jostled for position up and down the length of the road. This nearly always involves double-parking then running into school at lightning speed to deposit Son2, before hot-footing it back to move my vehicle.

I’m Speedy Gonzales. The last thing you want at that ungodly-hour of the morning is to get back to your car and find you’ve blocked someone in who has a dental (or hair) appointment to get to. I’ve messed up before – a mum was waiting for me, her penciled-on eyebrows hovering somewhere near her hairline. We had ‘words’. Never again.

This morning, I glanced at the woman parked in front of me as she grappled with a shiny, metallic-silver sunshade. She attached it to her car’s windshield as though she was blindfolding the window. It’s common practice here if you’re leaving your car outdoors all day. Apparently the deflective heat shield stops the dashboard losing its colour in the UV light. Whether it also means you can hold the steering wheel without being burnt when you return to your car, I’m not sure.

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Breathing through hot, sticky treacle takes a little know-how 

We’ve reached that time of year, you see. When you step out of your car into the heat of the morning and it’s only 7.45am. You lock the doors with a click and breathe in air that’s already heavy – thick with a cloying sultriness that turns your car into an oven while stationary.

 

At work, I’ve noticed the journalists don’t particularly want to go out to meetings anymore. I don’t have too far to walk from the car to my office building, but by the time I enter the wide, glass doors, there are already beads of perspiration forming in the fine lines on my forehead and between my shoulder blades. The office, in contrast, is blissfully cool and I take a moment to enjoy the feel of the air-conditioning hitting my skin.

I feel very lucky, actually, to be in work when the temperature rises. As well as AC, there’s a circular Dyson fan mounted on a pedestal, which somehow cleverly wafts a breeze over without any moving blades. You can even put your head in it. In fact, I hear more complaints at work about being cold. When my friend texted today to say she was ‘dying sweating by the swimming pool while her boys had their swim lessons’, I thanked my lucky stars.

But still – we had a good, long stretch of perfect, cooler weather (5 months), and all the cloud seeding the UAE has being doing to make it rain has been much appreciated.

Dubai summer – I’m ready for you. Until I’m back on afternoon school-run duties during the hottest, sweatiest part of the day.

Back to school in eight steps

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It’s a week of mixed feelings here as the old routine kicks in again. Last week, my mornings were quite tolerable (and I say this as a non-morning person). Up at 7.30am, out the door by 8.15am, and, wallop, I was at my desk by 9am. No cajoling children into school uniforms, no bullying them out the door and no 30-minute detours to deposit them at school.

At exactly 6.30am today, this all changed – thanks to the early-bird school starts in Dubai, which, quite frankly, make my workdays with no school drop-offs seem like a leisurely lie-in in comparison.

Aside from the early-morning mania, there are – as every school mum knows – numerous other factors that can make the back to school routine something of a challenge after two months of free-fall.  My eight-step refresher regimen runs as follows:

Step1: Return from overseas and get everyone over a flu-like case of jet lag. Once back on a semi-normal schedule, do this all over again when the alarm clock starts going off at what feels like the middle of the night.

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Step2: Visit the uniform shop at the same time as 200 other parents, all accompanied by whinging school-sized offspring needing kitting out with uniforms, PE clothes, hats, shoes, lunch boxes and water cups. Try to avoid Organised Mum – yummy-mummy-of-three-hen-pecked-children extraordinaire, in the store to buy a wall planner with extra space for their endless after-school activities. (She bought new uniforms in June, long before the store ran out of book bags and PE shirts, and can also be found at the spa having regular back rubs to counteract the stress of educating her gifted girls.)

Step3: Spend an evening labeling your ‘shopping’, using iron-on labels or, preferably, a sharpie marker. You can practise for this by writing your child’s name neatly on a postage stamp in permanent ink.

Step4: On the first morning, pay special attention to your chosen outfit. Currently trending is gym wear, preferably black, with a ponytail that swings. (Think pert bottoms strutting into school in tight spandex). Whether or not you actually go straight to the gym from the drop off is entirely irrelevant. Hint: You may return for the pick-up in the same gym wear, creating the aura of a potential six-hour work out. A huge pair of sunglasses will hide a plethora of cosmetic tardiness, but make sure your nails and hair look groomed.

Step5: Channel your inner drill sergeant to get the children out the door. Drive 20km on Emirates Road  – try to avoid trucks and tyres on the road. As you get closer, be prepared to race other parents from the red light. Even if you only drop off one child, aim to manoeuvre your 7-seater SUV to within a hair’s breadth of the school gates, avoid eye contact, and lean across the steering wheel to call out urgent information about Henrietta’s tap dance class and Harry’s speech therapy.

Step6: If you’ve cut up a friend to secure a prime parking spot, give her a cheery wave as you alight from your car. Do not rush or run. Do not push or drag your child. Irrespective of the chaos of the first-day back, keep a relaxed, happy expression on your face as you wade through a 1400-strong crowd of children and parents, all jostling to find the right line and blinking in the bright sunshine. Greet each member of staff and wish them good morning. Train your children to do the same.

Step7: When engaging in small talk with other parents keep to the following subjects: how charming the children are, how much the children are growing, how lovely everyone looks, the weather. Never admit to another mother any homework not done, lost library books, tantrums endured either at home or in the car, diarrhoea or head lice. And have a story ready about the luxury, handmade yurt your family stayed in on holiday. (Yachts are so yesterday.)

Step8: Repeat, another 180 times, until the summer vacation rolls around again.

School run survival tips

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The daily transfer of your offspring to school is not without its challenges, as every mum knows. Forewarned is forearmed, so if the long summer break has left you feeing a little rusty, here are my back-to-school tips and tricks:

– It might feel like the middle of the night, but get up with plenty of time to spare – this is your chance to get your own back on your sleeping children for all those early starts.

– Shovel on more make-up than you’ve worn all holiday, comb hair and pay special attention to your chosen outfit.

– Ensure school-sized sprogs are fed and have cleaned their teeth, without staining their uniform. Remember, the slightest trace of breakfast cereal or toothpaste will take on a luminous glow at the worst possible moment.

– Channel your inner drill sergeant to get the children out the door.

– Drive your seven-seater to within a hair’s breadth of the school gates, ramming other cars if necessary and double-parking if there’s no room. Just put your hazards on if you’re unsure and look busy, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

– Shepherd the children through the gates – remember, serenely does it. No shouting, or pushing. (You should probably practise gliding the night before.)

cartoon-shopaholic

– Don’t look too happy, or sad. Oversized sunglasses will hide any tears and inky mascara smudges, but a whoop of relief can’t be disguised.

– Have a story ready about the luxury, handmade yurt your family stayed in on holiday. (Yachts are so yesterday.)

– Try not to linger too long– you’re blocking several people in outside the gate, don’t forget, even your best friend.

– Watch the handbags-at-dawn fashionista mums go head-to-head on the school runway and vow to get up even earlier the next morning to wash hair.

– Put them to bed in their school uniforms that night.

Happy school runs everyone!

“C’mon! MOVE!”

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A little problem developed this week – just of the frustrating variety, so nothing serious, but I think we’ve ALL been there.

It started on Mother’s Day. Sunday is a school/work day for us and it began like any other, with the addition of my parents staying.

I’d parked the car to drop LB at school, and that’s when it hit me between the eyes: A Mother’s Day special.

head-strong someecards“I’m not getting out,” LB huffed.

“Oh yes you are,” I replied.

“Oh no I’m not!” “Yes you are”; “No”; “YES” [possibly said with a hiss]. Back and forth we went, like a game of ping-pong.

I won this battle, but it was just the prelude. He refused to walk through the mosque (strange phobia about only taking this short-cut if no-one else is there), then stopped at the edge of the sizeable, grassy field we have to cross to reach the right side of the school.

He crossed his little arms, and planted his feet firmly in the grass: “Too far. NOT walking.”

And, believe me, I tried everything. I talked nicely. I got cross. I gave him an evil look (apologies: way too early, knackered, lost the will to parent). I walked all the way across the field myself, thinking he’d follow. He didn’t.

After being locked in Round 2 for five minutes or so, and getting late by now, another mum, who happened to also be a teacher, came to the rescue and distracted the inner monster LB enough to allow me to drag – yes, drag – him to his classroom.

The next day was of course groundhog day (as was the next day). But, happily, this morning, I found the solution! And it was nothing more than parking next to the big yellow school buses, which not only meant a slightly shorter walk but also made it fun – for the four-year-old, at least.

Who knew? That, as a parent, you’d have to conjure up fun and games at 7.45 in the morning. Talk about absolutely.blimin.clueless!

The route he has to walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can't be more than 250m

The route we walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can’t be more than 250m

Accidental insults at the beauty salon

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Everyone knows there are high standards in Dubai when it comes to appearance – and the school run is no exception. Someone was just telling me the other day how her husband’s friend, visiting from the UK, accompanied her on the school pick-up with his eyes on stalks.

It helps that we live in a hot climate, of course; many women are tanned and if not, they at least look sun kissed. Over-sized sunglasses hide a multitude of cosmetic sins, nails are painted bright colours and sparkly flip flops add a flash of bling.

The fact Dubai is populated by so many nationalities means there are always exotic-looking mums from places like Lebanon, Cyprus or Jordan on the school run – their swishy hair, pretty, size-6 sundresses and lack of sweat pores creating an unmissable dash of school-gate glamour.

Nails today, Botox tomorrow

It goes without saying that Dubai is full of beauty salons, whose job it is to keep these women looking fresh and youthful. Inside the salons’ hallowed walls, you’ll find ladies being preened, threaded and waxed to perfection. Normal folk, like me, also frequent these havens for much-needed maintenance.

But, looking your best doesn’t always come easy. Aside from the expense and time needed, there are cultural differences that every woman in Dubai has a story about. By this, I mean the way beauty therapists accidentally insult their clients, rather than making them feel uplifted with good-old-fashioned flattery.

You might, for example, be offered a new wrinkle cream, or told they can’t do the massage because you’re pregnant (when you’re not). You might be having your eyebrows done and asked if you’d like your upper-lip moustache waxed too. Or offered some special whitening cream to make your skin look less black. There are loads more examples on Catboy’s Facebook page and they’re all hilarious.

Not being immune to the cosmetic pressures that exist in Dubai, and being married to a pilot who regularly visits exotic locations with 27 flight attendants (I’ll say that again, 27! And all in their 20s), I pop to the salon when time permits [whispers: I’ve heard if you don’t, it’s a little like your husband bringing a ham sandwich in a brown paper bag to brunch].

Bet HER cosmetic surgeon is a Facebook friend

Last week, I was there for some laser hair removal [lowers voice again: on my chin]. I’ve been having IPL (intense pulsed light) on some stubborn areas for years due to polycystic ovaries, it never works permanently and I must have spent a fortune on it. Usually I have the same person, who just gets on with it, but this time a new technician walked in. A talkative lady, who felt like a bit of chit-chat.

After some small talk, she popped the dark glasses on me, peered closely and, with a hint of concern in her voice, asked: “When did you last come?”

“Um, yes, it was a while ago. I was gone for the summer,” I replied, by way of explanation.

“Yes, too much,” she tutted. “Too much!” [c’mon, it’s not THAT bad!]

Then came the sound of her padding across the room to fiddle with the machine – presumably to switch it to a higher setting.

“Oh. You have hair here too. You want removed?”

“No, thank you. That’s fine.”

“Maybe next time,” she suggested, helpfully. “Where are you from?”

“The UK,” I mumbled, wondering what she could possibly ask next – whether everyone in the UK was hairy, perhaps?

Quite honestly, if I could have walked out the salon with that brown paper bag over my head, I think I would have done.

Could have been worse, I suppose. She could have recommended I take Pregnacare vitamins.

This post was written in support of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I’ve got my pink on and urge readers to check your bumps for lumps. Early detection saves lives

Three-word Thursday

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Sporadic work on a news magazine is always a nice change. It’s probably about the only time I stop worrying about what the children are (or aren’t) eating, what they’re getting up to, or into, and instead start worrying about Iran’s nuclear capability.

There HAS been a lot of activity at the airbase right by us, lately.

This aside, landing slap bang in the middle of a news office again has rendered me speechless this evening, so today’s post is inspired by something I heard on the radio on the way to work.

A school car park calamity! Also on Catboy’s Facebook page, it would appear this BMW-driving Dubai mum needed a break from the school run too (and look at the shadows of the other mums taking photos!)

Every Thursday, Dubai 92’s Catboy & Geordiebird invite listeners to leave three words on their Facebook page saying anything they like about their day. People put things like ‘Nursery today, yay!’, ‘Oh no dentist’, ‘Homemade fluffy PANCAKES’, ‘I’m in labour’ – you get the gist.

So, to join in the fun, here are my three-word Thursdays:

Nothing to wear

Traffic’s terrible again

Dubai is back

Late for school

Dodgy drop off [forgot LB’s pet fluffy duck]

Seriously? Slow down, lady! EDITED TO ADD: Though I think a consensus has been reached: She must have put the car in drive, not reverse

I’m at work

Two-day week!

No afternoon pickup!

Pea-soup brain

Adult world shock

Gossip round kettle

NEED office wardrobe

Missed the children

Iran’s VERY close

Oh no, traffic

Weekend’s here, yay!

Pizza or Lebanese?

Will kids lie-in?

Christmas is coming!

Rant alert: A mother’s comeuppance

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Last year, our morning routine was too good to be true: BB was picked up by bus and whisked off to school in a blink, while LB went to a nursery inside our compound.

Workwise, I could do a whole day in the office as a freelance, or bits and pieces at home – the sum of which were a drop in the ocean really in terms of the household budget, but at least made me feel like I was contributing in some small way.

But kids, they tend to start growing up, don’t they? And so it’s still something of a shock to me that this year I have two boys in two different schools (the hope is that in about 3 years’ time, the waiting list fairy will smile on us and BB will join his brother).

Why such an early school start? I’ve heard that in Australia, children with a 9.15am start go surfing first

“You have to leave by 7.20am to get to LB’s school,” my good friend warned, with a knowing, slightly worried look clouding her eyes (she knows I’m not great in the mornings).

And today, I found out why. Despite this school being nearby, to get there for the 7.50am start, you need to set out at least half an hour before to avoid the argy-bargying that goes on round the roundabaout, the tussle for parking spots and the queue snaking its way from the highway.

The drop-off completed on the late side, I headed back to our compound, thinking positive thoughts about going to the gym and getting groceries – all before 8.45am.

Thwarted. A power cut meant another hot and sticky, Bikram-style workout and at the store, it was as if Halloween had come early, with an assistant taking shoppers round with a torch, shining the beam down the dark aisles like a policeman scanning a dingy alleyway for baddies.

But my biggest bugbear this morning: LB is only at school for what feels like 20 minutes. His pick-up is earlier than nursery, just about giving mums enough time to do the shopping, come home, put the kettle on and go to the loo before heading back to the school to collect a child who will need entertaining all afternoon.

How being back on the school run, with less child-free time than before, feeling like a shadowy figure at the other school (BB’s back on the bus, bless him) and foraging around the grocery store with a flashlight is progress, I’m not sure.

I’m not going to get any work done this year, am I?

Rant over. Tomorrow I’ll beat the time thief. I’ll be out the door at 7.20am. Sharp.