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.
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.