Category Archives: Parenting

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?!!!!

Celebrations: It’s a boy!

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My dear friend has had a beautiful baby boy – the cutest bundle of sleep-stealing, life-changing loveliness.

And it was all so exciting, because the wonders of modern technology meant she was on Facebook throughout much of her labour – right up until her last petrified post stating that if the baby didn’t turn in the next 15 minutes, she would have to have a c-section.

I tried to reassure her, and as her friends and family around the world did the same, I could barely tear myself away from the computer to go to bed. In fact, I actually got up in the night to check on her progress.

Happily, all went well – though she was naturally none too impressed that here in Dubai you’re given aspirin as pain relief afterwards, rather than the fabulous narcotics you get after a c-section in the States.

Of course the arrival of such a gorgeous baby boy takes me right back to the birth of my two, and so it was with utter amazement that today we celebrated the third birthday of my littlest boy.

Time flies, it really does – and as the years roll by, I think my memory might be taking flight too. Because, despite having learnt this lesson before, I thought it would be a good idea to hold a little birthday tea party for LB.

There’s clearly something about child rearing that makes you wake up in a tidy (and in the morning child-free) home and think, “Aw, LB’s turning three – wouldn’t it be lovely to have all his little friends over, sugar ‘em up and let them run wild?”

I’d planned to keep it on the small side, ie, just LB and his brother, but at about 10am I started inviting people, which, when you live in company accommodation, tends to snowball – plus BB took it upon himself to invite a couple of friends from his school bus.

I should also know by now that birthdays that start at 5.30am always end in tears – not from LB but from his more highly strung brother, who ate his body weight in chocolate, acted totally demented and will surely have a hangover tomorrow.

There was some confusion over whose birthday it was. More experienced in such matters, BB thought it was his and opened all the presents. (“I was just showing him how to open them, Mumm-eee”) – and so not surprisingly LB thought the pass-the-parcel I’d spent ages wrapping up was rightfully his.

Once wrestled off him, I tried to find a suitable children’s song on the iPod to accompany our game, but the kids (3,4 and 5 year olds) had a special request: Lady Gaga!!!

The balloons were a hit, though popped like a car backfiring one by one, then the older kids started chasing each other round the house and there was a scary moment when I thought I might have to take one girl home and tell her mother she’d knocked her front teeth out (thankfully, she was fine!).

The kids seemed to have a blast, though, and the adults in attendance were chatting happily, so perhaps it was just me who was stressed to high heaven and wishing I could lie down in a locked, darkened room.

But now that it’s wine o’clock and the house is quiet again, it all seems like good fun – see, that special form of child-induced amnesia is already setting in!

PICTURE CREDIT: www.school-clip-art.com; GraphicsHunt

I don’t know how she does it!

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“I know I’ll get lost,” I told DH this morning, somewhat nervously. The truth was I was feeling reluctant about attending my first activity of the day – partly because it involved walking into a roomful of strangers, but I also wasn’t feeling particularly sociable at 8.45 in the morning.

I mean, who meets before 9am, other than high-powered working people? And Mums. Of course.

You know it’s coming at the start of every school year – and you know you should go to the meet-the-mums coffee morning. And it’s never as easy as just nattering with all the Mum friends you made last year, because the classes are mixed up each year – plus there are always several new arrivals to Dubai.

“You’ll find it,” responded DH, sleepily from bed. “Just use the compass on the car.” (like I even know where that is)

The movie of the book: I’m imagining Sex and the City’s Carrie with kids and letting herself go a bit. Hope I won’t be disappointed!

Needless to say, I had to be guided in by Host Mum, whose beautiful, enormous zillion-dirham villa was the venue for our first get-together of the term. Once inside, she led me to a table laden with baked treats and pastries – prepared, I suspect, at the same time as jigging her toddler, child #3, on her hip and flawlessly applying mascara.

I made a bee-line for Swiss Mum, who I knew from last year and always looks effortlessly chic in designer clothes. “I got here at 8am,” she confided, her bobbed hair framing her sun-kissed face perfectly. “Thought it was straight after school drop off.”

“Really?” I replied, thinking how come she didn’t get hopelessly lost in the rabbit warren like me?

Having missed the initial chit-chat, we were invited to sit in a circle by Class Mum, who last year voluntarily held drama classes for the kids and this year is the co-ordinator mum for, not just one, but three different classes.

And, as we took turns telling everyone a little bit about ourselves including what we ‘used to be’, I learnt that among our group – most of whom had moved here fairly recently from places such as Germany, Australia, Jordan and South Africa – there was a lawyer, a banker, a child-protection officer and a social worker.

But none of them working, because everyone had given up their careers to become a “trailing spouse” (ie, husband gets well-paid job in Dubai, wife and family pack their bags to follow).

Instead, they were setting up home in Dubai, caring for children full-time and protecting their kids like tigresses.

With the expat schools in the UAE all fee-paying, expectations are high so the conversation soon turned to the finer details of our children’s lives at the international school BB attends.

All very interesting, especially as when BB gets home he always tells me he did ‘nothing’ – and rather humbling, because, having got him on the school bus this year and gone straight back to work, I haven’t actually been into school yet this term. Never mind where the kids get changed for swimming, I’m not exactly sure where the new classroom is – and the teacher is still emailing my husband rather than me.

I nodded in agreement when the mums all promised to not try to outdo each other when it comes to our children’s birthday parties (while thanking my lucky stars that BB’s birthday is first so the stakes won’t be too high!) and tried to enter a debate about what kind of cupcakes it was OK to send in for the bake sales (note to self: will open my cupcakes-that-have-never-been-made folder this year).

And, as we discussed having a BBQ to get the Dads together, the Christmas party, fundraisers and playdates for younger siblings, I found myself thinking, “I really don’t know how these women do it!” Life is so much easier in the office, I swear.

PHOTO CREDITS: socialitelife.com; www.squidoo.com

Thank God it’s NOT Friday!

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Do you ever wake up on the first day of the weekend (Friday here in the UAE) and think, “How on earth am I going to keep the kids entertained for the next 14 hours?”

Pre-child pastimes such as lie-ins, long lunches and lazy afternoons a thing of the past, of course.

It’s honestly not that I’m a disinterested Mum – it’s because, when DH is gone at the weekend, the prospect of such a long stretch of unstructured time without breaks feels a little daunting – especially as our options are still limited due to the climate.

As my Scottish neighbour (who bravely stayed here all summer) put it the other day, “You can’t even go into the garden and dig a hole to pass the time.”

So when my human alarm clocks come bounding in on Friday mornings at 6.30am and prize my eyes open, I ask myself a few questions: Do I have a plan? Can I avoid taking the kids to the supermarket? And, if I lie really still and don’t talk, will they let me sleep some more?

The answer to all three this morning was no.

I’m happy to be a homebody (being cancerian, I guess) but this clearly isn’t compatible with two active boys who start climbing the walls by midday.

Long before that, I’m treated to a chorus that to mums everywhere is worse than the most irritating mobile ringtone.

“Mum-eeeee, MUM-EEEE, I’m bored,” whined BB shortly after I’d poured breakfast cereal into their bowls and all over the floor while still half asleep at 7.30am. “I said, I’m BORED.”

“Where are we going today?” (he knows full well I’ll have to think of something)

Mini Monsters on Sheik Zayed Road: And, yep, that is my oldest son about to point the shooter straight at me.

We could have gone swimming, of course, but today the energy needed for that on my part (BB swims like a fish, but LB can’t yet) was lacking due to a cold (yes, even in 40-degrees heat!). I’ve also been promising myself for ages that we’ll go to church – there’s a good expat church in a hotel near work apparently.

And the mall is always an option, though I go through phases of never wanting to see the inside of a mall again – not the shops, but the plastic playareas that are mainly populated by Filipino nannies rather than mums.

When the boys started moving furniture around and fighting over the of-no-interest-to-them-normally decorative cushions, it was time to evacuate the house and we ended up at Mini Monsters, which is actually rather growing on me as the kids love it and there’s wi-fi for mummy.

So it all worked out in the end. But if, on a Friday in future, you see a blonde with two boys in tow looking at you thinking, “She would be a nice Friday friend,” don’t assume I’m odd, because one of these weekends it could be you who’s in charge of the kids with no man and no plan.

Would you like to be 20-something again?

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“He said he could give me a J.Lo – for £5,000 extra,” my best friend told me excitedly over curry one night while I was in England this summer.

“A J.Lo, really?” I gasped, in amazement.

“Yes, but it’s too expensive. I’m just going to stick with the body lift!” said BF, explaining the procedure her cosmetic surgeon had in mind – her not-so-hushed tones causing the people on the table next to us to nearly choke on their tikka masala.

There was a very good reason why BF and I were so excited about her upcoming transformation, with or without a J.Lo butt. It would mark the end of a life-long journey for my friend, who, two years ago, underwent radical weight-loss surgery after battling obesity for as long as she could remember.

In the 48 months following her gastric bypass operation, BF more than halved in size. We called her the Incredible Shrinking Woman. She ate like a sparrow, and even came to Dubai to do all sorts of water activities that she would never have done before due to not wanting to be seen in a swimsuit.

While her weight loss has been nothing short of miraculous, the thing that’s been most wondrous to see is the way it’s ignited an interest in dating, something she didn’t have the confidence for when she was a larger lady. So, all of a sudden, in her 39th year, BF started seeing various men – it was like she was living her entire 20s, in the 12 months before turning 40.

This has all been quite illuminating, because when I had kids – and especially after moving into a compound in Dubai made up entirely of families – I became a fully paid-up member of the mummy mafia.

The advantages of membership include lovely DH, BB and LB, of course, a never-ending supply of neighbourhood playmates to distract the kids with and some great mummy friends to talk to while watching our off-spring play. I wouldn’t change a thing, but imagine my delight when I discovered I could re-live the thrill of dating via BF without actually being on the roller coaster myself.

Bloke1 came round to fix her computer a while ago and is still asking her out. Bloke 2 was in America so too far away. But it was Bloke 3 who stole her heart as they bonded over online Scrabble games. Until the despondent text message popped up on my phone.

“He’s dumped me,” it read, the let-down almost palpable.

It turned out he’d been to the dentist and the dental nurse had flirted with him, looked up his details on the computer and called him to ask him out (isn’t that unethical, not to mention rather forward, or am I really out of touch with this dating malarkey?)

We talked about kissing lots of frogs and BF drowned her sorrows – then made the most magnificent comeback.

“They say to get straight back on your horse,” she told me two days later. “I’ve got a date with a fireman on Friday.”

And now he’s Bloke number 4 and her new rough diamond (while Bloke 3, whose dental nurse proved to be no more than a fill-in, is back in touch wanting a rematch).

I’m so happy for her, I really am. She so deserves this. And I’ve also been reminded that, while things may feel a bit Desperate Housewives at times, I find the mummy mafia to be a far less bumpy ride.

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.

Boys’ toys and vintage memories

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I was so impressed on holiday when my seven-year-old niece was given a kit of interlocking pieces and managed to keep all the bits together – apart from two segments that were duly searched for and located.

Lego bricks: Still popular after 79 years

Having produced two unruly boys, our toy boxes are a mish-mash of broken pieces, bashed-up trains and planes, crashed cars, severed Lego heads and stray batteries.

I do go through their vast toy collection from time to time and try to sift out the debris, but it’s a losing battle – the pieces seem to breed and I’m forever finding broken axles and airplane parts scattered around the house.

I can’t remember the last time we did a puzzle that had all the pieces. If a toy does happen to be in good condition, it’s probably because it’s ‘too boring’ to play with.

Then there’s the ‘creative’ way they use objects that aren’t toys at all: I’d already mentioned how, on a previous visit to England, oldest son rolled the living room pouffe everywhere pretending it was a boulder. On another visit, he hung mum’s entire silk scarf collection over the stairs, fashionably arranged as make-believe snakes.

Today, he found a novel use for a garden tent and raced around the garden with it on his head in a Dalek-like manner.

An antique when I was little, this rocking horse must be 100 years old!

All this brings me to something I do enjoy while staying at my parents’. My mum keeps everything, and while I may get frustrated when the drawers are full to the brim, I just love it when she pulls out my old toys.

There’s the antique rocking horse, my old china tea-set, wooden recorder, the Jack-in-the-box (which scared the living daylights out of BB when he was little!), my brother’s wooden train that you pull along by string, original Mr Men books, and my dolls’ house with electric lights (now used by my boys as parking space for the lead-paint-covered veteran matchbox cars that were actually ‘Made in England’).

The model railway in the garage: Dad

But the thing train-mad BB loves most at our British abode is my Dad’s model train set, which dates back to the 60s. It now takes up the whole garage and BB can disappear in there for hours. And when he’s had enough in the garage, he comes outside to be the not-so-fat controller of the steam train running on Dad’s garden railway.

I was sure that somewhere in the attic there would be a Girl’s World circa 1982 – the styling head that gave me hours of make-over fun (and one of the most inspiring toys a girl could own back then!) – but I just found out she’s no more because I chopped all her hair off when I was nine. And there was me thinking that little girls always play nicely!

Operating the garden railway

A revelation: On discovering that people can be any age, shape or size

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Silver expats don

BB has noticed, since being in England, that there are a large number of grannies who aren’t just on a two-week holiday, but actually live here.

It’s a reminder that society in Dubai is sharply skewed towards younger people: families with small kids, older children and teens, and 20-somethings who’ve moved to Dubai to work hard and play hard at the city’s bars and beach clubs.

There are no communities of grey-haired grannies living the good life in Dubai. Aside from issues such as the high cost of living, frenetic pace of life and the heat, it’s tricky to obtain a residency visa once you’re 60 years old. So expats in the UAE have two choices: to repatriate to their home country or become a ‘rebound expat’ and choose another country, such as Cyprus, Spain or Portugal, in which to retire.

So it’s always nice – and very refreshing – to see the full range of society on our trips to England. And that leads me to something else BB has spotted: the fact that there are a fair few people here who are, shall we say, rather portly.

Dubai, in comparison, is geared up for thin people, from the smaller clothing sizes for the Asian worker population to the size10 svelte image aspired to by Jumeirah Janes.

JJ might even consider surgery to keep up with the ladies she lunches with three times a week

In an attempt to lose some baby weight, I joined a Weight Watchers-type group in the UAE and as we sat sipping skinny lattes in the Art Cafe, I realised it was the slimmest group of slimmers I’d ever seen. I swear no-one was bigger than a size 14.

The downside of BB realising that obesity is common in the UK is he’s also noticed my still-not-what-it-once-was tummy.

“Is there a baby inside?” he asked the other day, his eyes wide with horror.

“Nooooooo,” I screeched indignantly. “Absolutely not. Never. Ever. Again.”

He blames the fact I don’t race around the whole time pretending to be a train, like he does. I blame my mum’s delicious apple and raspberry crumble, with custard of course, which I’ve become rather partial to this holiday.

So, now, because it’s so light in the evenings here, I do what BB calls my evening exercise. I don my exercise shoes – not quite trainers but shoes I can power walk in – and do two laps round the park. It’s not much, but I’m hoping it’ll keep me from acquiring slummy mummy status while on my summer hols.

Soaking up the greenery in Royal Windsor

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Today was a British bank holiday Sunday, complete with heavy rain showers and crowds of people off work. Just how I remember such weekends.

We found ourselves at Windsor Great Park, the Queen’s back garden. DH, though not with us, was very much in my thoughts because he’s always telling me that Windsor, the picturesque setting of the royal family’s Windsor Castle, is practically joined to nearby Slough, a sprawling town he remembers fondly from childhood.

The reality is Slough is ‘da hood’ that Ali G pokes fun of and the suburban location of the comedy series The Office. But since DH is always trying to find excuses for us to visit Slough, I usually nod in agreement.

But back to Windsor, this afternoon we found a gem amid the beauty of the royal park. The Savill Garden is well worth a visit, even if, like me, your knowledge of garden plants stops at daffodils and daisies.

The boys ran through the hidden, interlocking gardens with wild abandon while I enjoyed a greenery fix. We followed the sculpture trail and couldn’t quite believe the price tag on this stainless steel eagle: £16,670 (that’s US$27,230)!

Some elderly folk, who were coo-ing over a baby girl, only looked mildly aghast when oldest son screeched through the otherwise quiet glasshouse in express train mode, and my green-fingered mother managed to keep her scissors in her bag: she famously took a cutting from a plant while attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace with my father and actually managed to grow it in our garden!

So nice is the Royal Borough of Windsor it made me want to move there. But, alas, we’d never be able to afford it.

Oh well, there’s always Slough. It’s more or less merged with Windsor, you know.

I even stopped to smell the roses!

INSOMNIA: What thoughts run through your mind in the dead of night?

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Two-year-olds – could they be any more mercurial?

One minute full of joy and laughter, the next minute angry tears rolling down their red-hot faces as frustration takes hold.

LB had a terrible tantrum yesterday. Everyone else went off on an errand, leaving him and me behind. To say he was devastated is not an exaggeration. He flung himself at the front door, his little fingers clinging to the letter box, and screamed like a banshee for a good 30 minutes.

The only thing that stopped his uncontrollable sobbing was spending the next half an hour standing by the road waiting for the car to come back.

Then, last night, he had another treat in store for me. I’ve mentioned before that he’s not a good sleeper. In LB’s case, it’s not a run-of-the-mill night-time disturbance that’s easily dealt with. He wakes up with full-blown insomnia and it keeps us both up for a couple of hours while he tosses and turns.

It’s really very annoying – and tiring.

Here are some of the random thoughts that went through my mind in the small hours last night, after my mum (who has also been getting up in the night, bless her) deposited a wide-awake LB in my room:

– “In the morning I’ll google diseases that make small children wriggle so much at night.”

– “Has my sister-in-law forgiven me?”

– “Should I get a proper job?”

– “Maybe I should research little-known reasons for night-time fidgeting right now. My iPhone’s by the bed.”

– “Why are beds in England so narrow? This double bed is only just big enough for LB and me. Someone – probably me – is going to end up on the floor.”

– “I wonder if my sister-in-law got my email. Perhaps it got lost.”

– “Is it worth trying to go back to Dubai via Nice and get DH to meet us there? I wouldn’t have to do the long Dubai flight by myself with the kids.”

– If LB goes to sleep in the next half hour and it takes me another half an hour to get to sleep after that, I’ll get another three hours’ sleep. That’ll be ok.”

– “I really had better research what wriggling could be a symptom of right now. Or would LB just want to play games on my iPhone?”

– “We could take the Eurostar to Paris. BB would love that. And do Eurodisney. Could I face it? How crowded would it be at this time of year?”

– “Oh god, it’s 5.06am. STOP fidgeting and GO TO SLEEP!”

– “Should I give him medicine?”

– “Perhaps my brother’s cross with me too?”

– “What should I buy my best friend for her 40th birthday. Crikey, I can’t believe we’re turning 40. How did that happen? Weren’t we just teenagers?”

– “DON’T kick me! You just nearly gave me a nose bleed.”

– “Why isn’t LB talking in sentences? He’s nearly three. When my friend’s boy was three he could read the health and safety notice at nursery. That’s amazing.”

– “I wish I lived closer to this friend. It’s been so nice seeing old friends with shared history while in England.”

– “Oh no, is that light creeping round the curtains? I’m not in the mood for the bloody birds to start chirr-uping.”

– “Should we try counting sheep together? 1-2-3. No, it’s just bonus stimulation time for him. Can I remember anything from that baby yoga class?”

– “If I had a proper job, I wouldn’t be in such a mess with my invoicing.”

– “He’s sleeping – at last! Only lightly, but he’s lying still. Now I just have to get myself to sleep. Right here goes.”

– “What if Catherine the Great doesn’t come back to us after her vacation in the Philippines?”

– “Can’t sleep. The edge of the bed is really uncomfortable and I daren’t move for fear of waking him. Feeling panicked about getting to sleep now.”

– “Omg, what will I do if Catherine doesn’t come back?”

– “Oh no, I can hear people going to work.”

– “Should I give myself some medicine?”

– “Agggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

This post was inspired by the very talented Mrs Dubai.
Image courtesy of animalclipart.net