Category Archives: Dubai

To work or not to work?

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I’ve been working a lot recently, in an office, with adults who listen and don’t break everything. They don’t shout, fight, or fall off chairs and injure themselves.

Nor do they need help in the toilet.

At the end of the day, my colleagues are still alive, without any assistance from me whatsoever.

I like it. I really like it.

Except I wish I didn’t enjoy it quite so much, because our lives would be so much easier if I didn’t work. If I hadn’t struggled so much with being a stay-at-home mum whose days felt like one long, open-ended project that I was as likely to finish as I was to climb Everest, backwards.

Perhaps if I’d been able to pat myself on the back occasionally for singing the baby to sleep, or dangling a rattle for him to swat, things would have been different.

But the truth is, whilst I love my children more than I ever thought possible, I found it difficult having them barnacled to my ankle/breast/hip 24/7 – and I really missed work.

Anyway, they started growing up, not needing me quite so much. And since it costs money just to stand still in Dubai, going back to work not only stopped me from going round the bend, it also made sense.

What goes up...must come down

What goes up…must come down

So now we juggle. We make complicated arrangements involving my husband, our nanny, and kind mothers who do me an enormous favour and bring my youngest son home from school if needed.

I bark orders as I grab the keys to leave. “Don’t forget, you need to go to school 15 minutes early as it’s ‘Look at your child’s learning journal’ day. And then drop LB and C [our nanny] at the park for the class playdate. Oh and there’s French homework.”

DH looks at me, wanting to throttle me.

(He’s here quite a bit in the day, due to an erratic flying schedule that often sends him away at weekends instead. I know we’re lucky in that respect as one of us is usually around.)

I rush home from work and stuff money into envelopes for school trips/teachers’ gifts. I attempt to come up with the latest demands from school for things I don’t just happen to have lying around (yesterday it was 31 of something…buttons, beans. I sent Lego).

I worry a lot about missing things.

The Festive Sing-a-long. The Winter Festival. “And, oh god, Decoration Day. It’s next week, in the middle of the day [about as convenient as a hole in the head]. I can’t go!” I think to myself.

But it’s the mummy guilt that really gets me.

“Mum, how many days are you working? Why are you working again?” my children ask.

And the line my youngest son came out with this morning: “What takes you so long at work, Mum?”

Those Cosmopolitan magazines that told every female who’d listen in the 70s that it was her right to have it all/have an orgasm/combine motherhood, homemaking and career changed everything, didn’t they?

Silent Sunday: Happy Birthday UAE

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“It’s a special day today,” piped BB at breakfast this morning. “It’s Dubai’s birthday!” To be precise, it was the UAE’s National Day today, marking forty-one years since the UK’s treaty expired and the separate sheikdoms decided to form an independent union.

Across the emirates, there’s been a celebratory mood for several days now, with lots going on. Then this morning I looked at my phone to find an inspirational text from Dubai’s ruler, Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum – it’s not every day that happens!

Having spent more time living in the UAE than anywhere else, my children were quite excited about ‘Dubai’s birthday’. BB made this at a Lego exhibition we went to today.

Having spent more time living in Dubai than anywhere else, my children were quite excited about ‘Dubai’s birthday’ (especially as it means two days off school!). BB made this at a Lego exhibition we went to today.

People decorate their cars and homes with the UAE flag – this was the flag at BB’s school. All the children wore national colours, or national dress, on Thursday to celebrate

People decorate their cars and homes with the UAE flag – this was the flag at BB’s school. All the children wore national colours, or national dress, on Thursday to celebrate

At LB’s school they’ve been learning about the UAE for a few weeks now. I love listening to the class counting in Arabic and naming the seven emirates. I also thought this camel he painted was rather cute!

At LB’s school they’ve been learning about the UAE for a few weeks now. I love listening to the class counting in Arabic and naming the seven emirates. I also thought this camel he painted was rather cute!

Kids, meet Baby Jesus

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While I personally think it’s still too early to put the Christmas tree up, my children disagree. I promised we’d do it today, and at 7 on the dot this morning, the pestering started.

“Mummy, c’mon. Get out of bed,” BB ordered, tugging at the duvet. “You said we’d put the tree up.”

No stopping them: My little helpers decorating the tree early this morning (yawn)

My little helpers throwing baubles at the tree

“Later, BB, later,” I uttered in reply, but to no avail. The kids’ excitement about hanging twinkly lights, baubles and tinsel on a fake tree had taken on the momentum of a runaway train that wasn’t about to be halted by a mummy hoping for a lie-in.

I gave in – and got up. We hauled the decorations from the outside storeroom to the house, dusted them off, and got started (minus the Christmas music – as I said, too blimin’ early).

You would think that living in a Muslim country might mean Christmas would start a little later. Not so. The shops are full of it, their floors adorned with trees and their windows decked out.

But the commercialism aside, it’s definitely harder to convey the true meaning of Christmas here. It’s all a bit of a hush-hush operation at BB’s international school, where they do put on a celebration, but disguised as a ‘winter festival’.

To be honest, my children don’t think beyond the presents – and I was reminded of my shortfall in this department today.

Each year, I bring out a nativity scene that I bought at a Christmas festival. As I was setting it up, LB came over and peered at the figurines: he touched the baby Jesus swaddled in the manger; looked quizzically at the reverent wise men bearing gifts, the proud, tired parents and the guardian angel. Then he reached out and grabbed the cow sitting lowing in the hay.

“Mummy, what is it?” he asked, with a not-so-reverent shine in his eyes. “Is it a farm?”

Mental note to self: make sure that this is the year my children learn the basic story of the nativity.

When visitors come to town

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For the past three weeks, we’ve had guests – first my mother-in-law and then my parents – and whilst I’d love to be able to tell you that we gave them a time-share in the grandchildren to remember, I’m not sure that we did.

Images of my mum floating round a lazy river, cocktail in hand at a pool bar or even relaxing on a lounger with a good book at the Polo Club didn’t materialise – because, to put it simply, life got in the way.

Nothing bad – just general busy-ness, scheduling clashes and a pesky flu bug – but enough to make me concerned that my parents’ visit could possibly be classed as unpaid labour, rather than a holiday.

xxxxxxx

Where would working families be without advanced babysitting from super-grandparents? It’s just too bad they’re thousands of miles away normally

In the line of ‘duty’ this time round:

– The boys got really sick, warranting two days off school for grandson2 and causing untold sleep disruption

– I missed much of the above because of work, leaving The Visitors in charge (as to who had the easier job here, I’m in no doubt – especially the night shifts which, quite frankly, leave me wanting to throw breakfast bowls at the wall)

– After a bad experience in a taxi, and only able to drive as far as Arabian Ranches, my parents are, understandably, loathed to venture out on their own (and I can’t say I blame them), meaning they’re confined to the house if on their own. The pool aside, the only place they can walk to from ours is the mini-mart supermarket and dry cleaners

– The Thanksgiving buffet my DH took them to ended in a monumental and very public puking session courtesy of ‘chunder wonder’ poorly grandson1

– During their stay, they were also bystanders to a flood at grandson1’s birthday party venue and a hospital appointment about his upcoming surgery

– They suffered made it through a children’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, attended by 24 six- and seven-year olds

– DH, our main driver and peace-keeper, succumbed to the bug, mutated it into ‘man-flu’ and developed sciatica too

On the upside, some highlights I hope The Visitors enjoyed:

– Trips to a desert wildlife centre in Sharjah, the pool, a beach resort and Al-Barsha park

– A dhow cruise out into the Gulf and through the heart of Dubai Marina, followed by Arabic food

– For my dad, two glorious days of golf at the DP World Tour Championship, our trump card and just down the road from us

– Business class travel, both ways

What do you think? Do you think they’ll come back? I think they will – for the golf, at least, with their flu jabs topped up.

“A Damas tree ate my house”

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I’ve posted before about turning the desert green and, despite not having green fingers myself, it’s been a real joy watching our garden grow over the past three years.

One of my favourite plants: our eye-popping bougainvillea

And grow it did, from humble sandpit beginnings into a fully-hedged, little oasis of green – helped by an automatic irrigation system that turns sprinklers on twice a day (“rain”, as the children hopefully call it) and drips water onto the thirsty flower beds.

As well as a real grassy lawn and some hardy plants, the other thing that completed our sand lot’s transformation into a lush garden was a wall of trees along the back boundary.

“We’ll plant ten trees,” the landscapers told us (omitting to tell us that they’d position the saplings less than ten inches apart).

“Very fast-growing trees. Very green,” he said, making bushy shapes with his hands.

The tree he was referring to is native to the Arabian Peninsula, has been planted (inexpensively) in communities all over Dubai, and does indeed shoot up to the sky rather like Jack’s beanstalk.

Called Damas trees, they can grow up to 15 metres high and in our garden certainly provided a lot of green foliage, as well as attracting birds and salamanders.

Hedge fund: Our unstoppable, leafy Damas trees, heading upwards at a rapid rate


We weren’t aware of the huge problems these trees can cause until they hit the media a little while ago – and killed my friend’s lawn (right behind us) due to totally blocking out the sun.

The Damas root system, it turns out, is so aggressive in seeking out water and nutrients that it can strangle underground pipes, crack walls, choke drains and stop other plants from growing.

You only have to do a quick search on Google to read headlines such as “A Damas tree ate my house” and to find out that a “Protect your home from Damas tree disaster campaign” was launched recently by a community management company.

Worried, I dug deeper online and on an expat forum read about a villa with 60 Damas trees that had “grown under the ground, around the pool, under our house foundations and are trying to come up in our central hallway,” cracking tiles.

Another post described how Damas roots had infiltrated their downstairs bathroom: “One day, I opened the cupboard under the sink to get some new toothbrushes out for the kids and found a lovely tree inside. The roots were also growing under the bath and had completely cracked the tub,” the post read.

Is it just me, or does this all sound like The Day of the Triffids to you?

I asked our gardeners, the very same people who landscaped our garden with the trees in the first place. “Yes, very bad,” they nodded – and it was agreed they’d topple half of them and prune the rest.

I’m pleased to say, the job is now done. Our Damas trees have been thwarted (for the time being), our neighbour’s lawn can see the light of day, and – after the gardeners went completely nuts with the saw – we’re left with…

Five lollipops!

Rasputin trees: You can’t simply lop the tree off above the ground as it just grows back, leading people to take extreme measures. One person I heard about chopped a Damas tree down, drilled a big hole in the middle of the trunk, poured petrol down and burnt the stump!

On a prettier note, you’d be amazed at the flora and fauna that grows in Dubai, creating explosions of colour in our desert garden

Hey kids, fancy some grass?

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Our neighbouring emirate of Sharjah is a gold mine of things to do with the kids. From the Eye of the Emirates big wheel (the UAE’s smaller-scale version of the London Eye) at Al Qasba to the Classic Car Museum by the airport, the city’s numerous attractions really are hidden gems – and so much quieter than in Dubai.

We found ourselves in Sharjah again the other day, watching desert animals galloping around at Arabia’s Wildlife Centre (located at Sharjah Desert Park, it’s well worth a visit). There’s also a children’s farm, where the kids can pet and feed the animals, and ride ponies and camels at the weekend. While there, I spotted this sign – I know what it’s trying to say, but it did make me smile…

As a postscript, I googled the wildlife centre just now and the website is priceless too! Why, where else can you see animals as dead as a Dodo…?

‘Arabia’s Wildlife Centre is the only ‘zoo’ in Arabia which exhibits all the animals naturally occurring in the Arabian Peninsula, both current and extinct.’

Or get so up-close-and-personal with the inhabitants:

‘The walk-through aviary allows you to get close to the birds and smaller animals and then you find yourself ‘in the cage’ admiring the larger mammals who roam freely in an open environment.’

Don’t be put off, though – as I said, it’s a great place and you’re sure to come out smiling.

Flooding in the desert – yes, really!

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Long-time readers of this blog will know that rain in Dubai can be as exciting as, say, a white Christmas in the west.

It’s always the talk of the town, and is usually prequeled with a will-it, won’t-it, slightly murky lead-up that puts the whole of the emirate on rain watch.

5 drops here, 10 drops there. Radio presenters add to the ripples of anticipation, as listeners text in with rain sightings.

Maybe once or twice a year, it does actually rain – and I nearly always savour the event, however quickly it’s over, from start to finish.

NOT this time.

It began with a hunch, a sort of uneasy feeling that all was not well with our usually sunny world. As a strange darkness crept round the curtains this morning, I morphed into Rain Scrooge.

Puffy rain clouds – meh! We all cast our eyes skywards to witness the perennial blue sky clouding over

“Oh no, not rain!’ I thought to myself. My Dad was going to the golf, and I had lots of driving to do (from point A, to point B, to point C, and then possibly to point D later on).

If you saw how people drive – no, make that aquaplane – when it rains here, you’d understand. And there was also the small matter of not knowing if the wipers on the car would work (they disintegrated on our other car through lack of use).

“Mummy, it’s raining – on Grandad’s golf day,” squealed LB, hurtling up the stairs like a baby elephant.

We peered out the window at the glistening ground and I reassured Dad it woudn’t last – there was no way the golf could be rained off in Dubai – but even though it wasn’t really much of a downpour, chaos was unleashed on the roads.

A puddle on Sheikh Zayed Road made it onto the traffic news, my journey to work took three times as long, and all over Dubai, there were repercussions because of the unique event that is rain in the desert.

Swimming lessons were cancelled due to debris in the pool (a few leaves, perhaps?); Wake-up and Shake-up, a weekly event parents attend at school (don’t ask!), was postponed due to the tennis court being wet.

But the most-trying news was to come. At work, my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognise. It’s BB’s birthday party tomorrow and on the other end was the manager of the venue.

“We’re flooded,” he told me. “This whole side of the Ibn Battuta mall is covered in water. We’re sorry, we can’t do the party.” (I don’t normally swear on the blog, but sometimes an expletive is necessary: @^%^@@@!)

Cue: a day spent finding another venue so as not to disappoint an excited small boy on his seventh birthday (thank you DH for pulling off that one), and contacting 25 mums to let them know.

I mean, seriously, what are the chances of a party venue being flooded in Dubai? It was only a piddling amount of rain.

Pah!

Postscript: BB’s birthday is now at Chuck E. Cheese’s – I can’t believe I’m hosting a party at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Ever since my friend’s boy attended a party there and got his head stuck between the toilet roll and the loo door, I’ve vowed never to enter Chuck E. Cheese’s lair with more than two kids. Wish me luck!

Starsky & Hutch security

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For the most part, the compound in which we live is a quiet place.

Apart from occasional activity at the nearby airbase (oh, and the ear-splitting sound of the Russian cargo planes that buzz us nearly every night), there’s definitely an air of calm about our community.

Located out of the city, in a vast expanse of never-ending desert, it feels very safe, family-friendly and removed from the hustle and bustle of Dubai.

The security guards who work here don’t exactly have a hard job. They man the entrance, waving in anyone who looks like an expat, and are seen walking round the compound looking for trouble – of which there’s usually none.

Their biggest excitement took place a couple of weeks ago, when the perpetrator of one of the few petty crimes to have been committed out here was busted. A housemaid, most likely from an impoverished background, allegedly stole a bicycle, somehow chopped it up into pieces and tried to get it out of the compound in a truck.

She was caught in the act and security swooped in Starsky and Hutch style. The police were called and sped into our community at break-neck speed, their lights flashing and a whirl of dust in their wake.

I honestly thought someone must have been shot in an expat gin-fueled domestic bust-up, the police officers moved so fast.

You see, a stolen bicycle is about as exciting as it gets if you’re a security guard working out here – which probably explains why they have to find things to do to keep themselves busy.

Like ambling around checking on parked cars.

My next-door neighbour left her vehicle parked in front of her villa, with the windows down, for an hour yesterday and discovered this note on the car.

In case you can’t read it, it (very politely) says, “Pls close your vehicle window glasses properly. Thank you”.

How I wish I had THAT MUCH time on my hands – but my favourite is number 3.

“……………….is leaking from your car and spoiling the appearance of the parking area.”

One can only imagine what they’ll come up with to fill in the blank.

Flying with kids: Risky business

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A highly coveted perk among airline families – the holy grail for many I know – is being able to travel in business class with small children. Yes, your whole tribe, seated at the front of the aircraft, or up top in the case of the superjumbo – with acres of leg-room, fine dining and the chance for some mummy respite in the A380’s on-board bar.

This story was told to me by a fellow pilot’s wife and I’m repeating it here because the incident not only makes me hoot with laughter, but (and I know she won’t mind me telling you this) it was probably THE most embarrassing mummy moment of her entire nine years of motherhood. I think we can all relate, wherever we sit on the aircraft…

And then the day was finally upon us, and we could book seats for both myself and my small children in the business class cabin of the airplane taking us home.

Now THIS is the way to travel

Business class travel is indeed very special. The cabin itself seems to sparkle and twinkle with just enough ‘specialness’ to make anyone smile. But it’s the space that’s the real bonus. Not just the extra-large seats, or the super-big TV screens, there just seems to be enough space around you and your family to be able to settle in comfortably.

And settle in we did; the pillows a little softer, the blankets a little fluffier. I soon had both of my children cocooned into balls of happiness; DS happy to explore the myriad of games and cartoons on offer, DD’s little hands searching out all the extra buttons and switches not previously discovered on any seat before.

‘What’s this Mummy?’ she asked as she picked up the console that tucks neatly into a pocket on the arm of her seat.

‘Well, you can call the attendant by pushing a button here,’ I explain, ‘But wait, if you press here your seat will give you a massage.’ Peels of delight ensue from DD, already a disciple of the body rub, as she tries out all the different ways she could make her seat tickle and shudder. Was this not heaven? If I have a predictable difficult period with my daughter on flights it’s right at the beginning, getting her to settle down. But, thanks to the wonders of the juddering seat, we’re looking like the perfect family unit and I’m sipping champagne …

During our summer stay, the kids were quick to tell everyone about their trip in business class. ‘Oh!….how lovely’ was the response as most pictured these tiny dots sipping wine and eating caviar – and I would watch as their eyebrows disappeared up into their hair lines.

The cheese platter – and the kids won’t send it flying

‘And what was the thing you liked best about travelling in business class?’ they’d ask.

‘The computer games,’ was DS’s stalwart response. The games are the same, incidentally, wherever you sit on the aircraft.

‘The massage button!’ squealed DD, ‘I had a massage all the way from Dubai to England!’ Now, this was altogether more like the example of over-indulgence that many were on the lookout for. So on several occasions during our stay, DD was encouraged to repeat the story of the seat that gave her a massage and how she was going to have one all the way back to Dubai too.

On our trip home, as we board through doors at the very front of the aircraft, I immediately see that we are travelling in an older plane than the one in which we arrived. Characteristically stoic, DS flops down in to his ample seating, grabs the control and settles down for the long flight. Not so DD.

‘Oh no, Mummy. This is not right!’ She picks at the cover placed over the arm of her seat until it comes away in her hand only to reveal the arm of the chair.

‘But where is the thing? Where is the massage button? I can’t see it!’ Her lip beginning to tremble just as the gangways either side of us fill up with slow moving – hmm, yes, now stationary – economy passengers queuing quietly to get to their seats. I sense the impending storm …

‘Why don’t we see what film we can find for you to watch, or maybe a game to play….?’ My powers of deflection moving up into overdrive instantaneously. ‘Hey, do you want to look at my magazine…..? Have that chocolate bar I bought in the coffee shop just now….. how about my entire handbag? Here, take it. Take a good look……!’ But it was all in vain…

‘But I want a massage!’ DD cries, literally cries. Huge tears rolling down her cheeks as her whole body begins to heave. All eyes are on us. ‘It’s alright darling,’ I croon, pulling her tiny frame on to my lap, ‘It’s not the end of the world. There really are worse things that can happen.’

‘But it is!” she cries, ‘It is the end of the world! I don’t want to be on this plane. I want to get off this plane right now and get on one where I sit in a seat that GIVES ME A MASSAGE!’

Powerless to stop her, I resorted to putting my hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle what she was actually saying.

Thank heavens for the crew member (who has probably seen it all). ‘Champagne madam?’ she smiles, ‘Or is that a very large white wine?’

Milk teeth are like buses

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I’ve finally been able to play tooth fairy! It’s felt quite a long time coming, because BB, who’s nearly seven, appeared to be holding onto his milk teeth for dear life – until one popped out last week.

It started wobbling a while ago. Then BB was able to swing it precariously with his tongue. He was both alarmed by its looseness, and excited by my reaction. “BB’s got a wobbly tooth!” I told anyone in our household who’d listen. “That means the tooth fairy will visit – if you’re good!” [a Santa twist, but Christmas is coming!]

After several weeks of hanging by a hinge, and BB refusing to bite into anything in case there was blood and gore, the tooth finally fell out – at school.

When he got home, he happily told us what had happened.

“Mummy, LOOK! My tooth fell out in the cafeteria. I’ve put it in my lunchbox.”

Childhood magic: The tooth fairy is a clever little pixie who knows which pillows to visit

We opened his lunchbox and took everything out carefully. We peered inside, then looked through the contents again. But, alas, no tooth.

“Are you sure BB? Maybe you swallowed it?”

“Someone must have stolen it,” he decided, rather forlornly. “Because they want the tooth fairy to come.”

That night, I suggested tentatively that we write a note to the tooth fairy to explain.

“Dear Tooth Fairy,” wrote BB, in his best left-handed scrawl [he tends to write backwards, but not this time]. “I lost my tooth. Please come anyway.”

The note was pinned on his bedroom door and BB drifted off to sleep safe in the knowledge that the tooth fairy wouldn’t give the money to whoever had stolen the tooth because the thief was sure to be a snorer who sleeps with his mouth open. The tooth fairy would see there wasn’t a gap – and anyway she just knows.

I slipped 10dhs under his pillow and crept away, knowing I probably wouldn’t see his reaction as it was my 5k race in the morning and I had to get up before sunrise.

But, my desire to actually see a tiny tooth nestled in tissue came true the next day, because – like buses – another rootless, pearly white dropped out that he managed not to lose. I have to admit I pored over it, turning it over like a precious stone and feeling quite emotional. It feels like yesterday, after all, that those teeth were just poking through, and now, here he is, getting all big and grown up on me.

So the tooth fairy has been twice, BB now loves to pull a gappy grin to show off the hole, and I’ve started a milk tooth collection in a silver keepsakes box.

The only upset person is BB’s little brother who now desperately wants to lose a tooth too. “When will my teeth wobble?” he’s been asking every night.

And, yes, I can’t help but wonder if the first tooth was in fact stolen – from under our noses, by LB.