Cut It Out

I’ve got a thing about labels. I don’t mean buying expensive ones as there wouldn’t be much point. My clothes could be from Dolce & Gabbana and Karen Millen, but they may just as well be from Dodgy Old Pullovers and Millets. I have no way of proving the source of any item in my wardrobe as I have a terrible phobia of scratchy, itchy, sensitive skin-enemy, hive-inducing, information-imparting… labels.

Every tag must be cut out before I can even contemplate putting a new purchase on; even those loops that help to keep clothes on hangers have to be snipped within minutes of getting them home. You recognise me now? I’m that strange woman with the hanger marks in all her shoulders. I know you laugh at me behind my puckered back but I just can’t help it. Washing instructions must be guessed at and I’ve had more than my fair share of laundry disasters. That lovely white silk blouse, which should really have gone to the dry cleaners, is now part of Baby Teeny Tiny Doll’s extensive wardrobe. I’ve ruined most things that require hand washing and please don’t get me started on grey bras and colour runs.

I sincerely hoped to avoid passing this foible onto my children but it seems the little sponges pick up things even when we don’t want them to, especially the things we have some sort of OCD about. Sharks in the sea, spiders in the bath, egg shells in the scramble. I have a friend in the UK who’ll never be able to visit me as she’s terrified of getting on a plane. Her 13-year-old daughter has never even tried. I recently took a load of excited kids to an adventure park and spent the day consoling one child who refused to go on any of the rides – even the baby ones. ‘Oh she gets that from me’ said her mum, cheerfully, when I returned the traumatised child to her at the end of the day. ‘I’m afraid of heights, speed, merry-go-rounds and water’. If she’d only told me that before, I would have understood. After all, everyone can be a bit neurotic at times. Or am I labelling again? Pass me the scissors – I need to cut it out.

Groundhog Day

Is it time to go back to school again? Where did those two months go? They slipped by in a haze of jim-jamma laziness, late nights and sleep-ins. I was full of good intentions to forcibly adjust their nocturnal body clocks, thereby easing them back into that 5.45am alarm shock, but sadly, it never happened.

With the beginning of term looming, my kids are more likely to still be wide-awake and full of beans while I’m yawning away and sloping off to sleep before them. I had meant to start chasing them up the stairs at around 8pm at least a fortnight ago in preparation, but after weeks of burning the midnight oil, they look at me now as if I’m crazy. Of course they’re not tired at 8pm. Not yet, anyway! After a week of those painfully early mornings though, they will be begging me on their jamma bended knees to tuck them into bed-ee-byes at a decent time. It’s just a shame every year that before the status quo is established once more, we have to go through all the mood-swings, tears and tantrums. And that’s usually just from me.

We get up ridiculously early here in order to get our kids into school for the 7.30am start, and for what reason? It can’t be for the purpose of avoiding the heat of the day, as us parents will wait patiently in the playground surrounded by a pool of our own sweat for at least the next couple of months. All I want is one extra hour before that dreaded alarm goes off, it’s not too much to ask, is it? Even if your kids were enrolled in a summer camp course over the holidays, and were still ruled by the alarm clock, it feels like a lie-in to get up at 7am. That’s why I love the holidays as late nights and lazy mornings are a luxury. It’s another challenge, however, to keep their brains active for the duration of the long vacation.

Many a sworn oath of mine is broken on an annual basis when it comes to keeping my broods’ brains ticking over the endless summer break. Tell me I’m not the only mother who doesn’t keep up the book reading, the handwriting practice or the mental maths repetitions. I always remember to do it towards the end of the holidays, but it’s not easy shouting out times tables when you’re fighting in the queues for schools shoes, especially as I’m embarrassingly fuzzy on the answers myself these days. (Curse those tricky sevens!) I’m sorry to say the only vaguely educational activity my kids did all summer was swap watchingHannah Montana for Horrible Histories.

Is it worth investing in those shop-bought exercise books, only for them to be found, at the end of the holiday, languishing unloved and empty at the bottom of a suitcase? Or is it better for my kids to try and beat Granny and her cronies at cards, which involves equal amounts of numerical dexterity as pages one to 76 can impart. Granny and her gang are all wicked card sharks, Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit players who hold no stock in making allowances for tender ages. Charades contains many beneficial educational qualities plus interactive skills, and there’s a whole heap of fun to be had getting Uncle Albert to act outCamp Rock in his cardie and slippers. Perhaps I should get Uncle A to test them on their seven times tables too, as he’s got a sharper memory than me, judging by his recollections of historical significance. Or maybe it’s better to just play sometimes and catch up with family and friends.

I know people in the UK who complain that their holidays are too short at just five weeks, and their kids have barely mastered the art of doing nothing before they’re whipped back to lessons again, kicking and screaming. There’s no moaning about short holidays over here though, as by the time September has rolled around our kids are so sick of slobbing around in their jammas, they can’t wait to see their friends and get back to some kind of regimented order. I feel a pang of conscience that I should have spent more time honing their skills at long division, but my girls return relaxed and rejuvenated. At least they are looking forward to finally going back to school after so long. Well, apart from those early mornings of course.

Time For Tea

My youngest daughter invites her new best friend round for tea. She’s a sweet little thing with angelic curls, a lovely smile and good manners. It’s all going well and they disappear upstairs giggling, leaving older sister in peace to do her homework and me free to prepare their supper. I like my kids to have a good diet. I cook fresh, homemade delights whenever the mood takes me, and even when it doesn’t, and I always make sure their play-date pals leave my kitchen having devoured something vaguely nutritious and healthy.

So after an hour of banging my pots and pans, I turn around to find the little cherub staring at my back as I stir away at the stove. ‘What are you cooking?’ she intones in her cute little sing-song voice. From this moment on it all goes downhill rapidly. I’m not dealing with just any kid here. I have before me ‘Fussy Child’.

‘Fussy Child’ does not like my painstakingly prepared offering, so I improvise, and thinking on the spot, offer her the greying fish fingers that I discover in the back of the freezer. She doesn’t like fish. She doesn’t like potatoes or pizza either, but we finally settle on something she will eat: pasta. It has to be plain pasta with no sauce, mind you, as ‘Fussy Child’ does not like sauces, or cheese, or butter, or anything else apparently.

By now, I am banging around the pots and pans just for the sake of it, and also because it offers some minor relief from my culinary frustrations.

My kids, sensing that it’s mum, and not the pasta, that’s about to boil over at any minute, are very quiet, exchanging worried glances, and tucking into their supper with over-enthusiastic vigour.

The pasta is eaten, plainly, and they happily trot off to play once more, leaving me with the dirty dishes and a welcome silence. I’ll know the next time she comes over that before she can say ‘I don’t like that’ I’ll slap that plain pasta down on the table quick as a flash, and all will be well.

We know that all kids can be awkward at times, but somehow I feel a new sense of empathy, or possibly sympathy, with ‘Mother of Fussy Child’.

Perhaps it might be an idea to ask her round for dinner.....................? Maybe not. 

Winter Wonderland- No Thanks

If you’re dreaming of a white Christmas then you’re not going to find it here in Dubai. Well not unless you fancy lashing out a handful of dirhams to stand in the snow dome in a blue boiler suit surrounded by the stuff. If that floats your festive boat then fill your plastic boots, I say. Or get on a plane and go chase the chill. I know there are some of you out there who believe that you don’t get the same Christmassy feeling if it’s not freezing cold, but personally, I think cold is over-rated. I’ve never been a fan of the polo neck sweater or similarly throat restricting garments, which I imagine as a throw-back to my previous life when I was hung, drawn and quartered for illegally roasting chestnuts. Do we really need dramatic drops in temperature, a three-month promotional build up and the constant crooning of Bing Crosby to remind us of what is to come? The sunshine still manages to lull me into a false sense of security, which results in another year of panic present buying, but there’s something refreshing about how December creeps up on us unawares.

What we do get are blue skies, beautiful temperatures and the chance to emerge from the closeted air-conditioned gloom of the long sweaty summer months. We get to throw open our doors and let the warm breeze blow through the cobwebs. So what if this frivolity means dust settles on all the furniture? We get a light sprinkling of sand as opposed to a heavy flurry of snow and I can live with that. The kids may gaze wistfully at pictures of friends overseas frolicking in their winter woollies, but you know the reality of dealing with that type of extreme weather. After the initial excitement of waking up to a white winter wonderland, and after the first day of sledging, building snowmen and snowball fights, all you’re left with are dangerous driving conditions, mushy slush and chilblains.

If you miss gathering round a real fire and staring into the flames then I suggest you nip down to the local hardware shop and get yourself a fire-pit. A cast iron semi circle on legs, it’s a marvellous, if somewhat useless invention, designed for no other purpose than appealing to all those boys who never grew up or out of the desire to burn things. Gone is the dilemma of how to get rid of those broken garden chairs. Think how much fun you’ll have by getting out your chopper and chucking another bed slat on the fire to watch it crackle. Obviously you’ll have to reign in your little (and big) pyromaniacs into using only broken wooden furniture, or alternatively you could purchase expensive imported Norwegian slow-burning logs where you can literally watch your money go up in smoke. My family looks forward excitedly to ‘fire-pit season’ every year as we warm our toes and toast marshmallows in the garden. It’s not so good for the grass though, but for hours of cosy contemplation it’s a small price to pay. (Apart from those logs of course).

Even cooking the dreaded Christmas dinner and all the trimmings is a stress-free affair in Dubai, when you can order your perfectly roasted turkey to go. This allows plenty of time for being together as a family and reflecting on the true meaning of Christmas while the kids tear into their presents, without Mum stuck in the kitchen for hours worrying over her giblets. If you’re feeling ambitious and have a natural resistance to all strains of salmonella you could have a go at embracing the Southern hemisphere way by barbequing the beast. However you prepare your feast, if you fancy eating your Christmas dinner Al Fresco, then why not gather round the table outside to enjoy it. At least you know there’s no danger of the cutlery fusing to your fingers in the cold.

If you’re the type of person who gets a warm glow of happiness by a cold front coming in from the East, then maybe Christmas in Dubai is not your cup of tea. It may not be a cold white Christmas here, but it’s a warm and welcoming one, with some fantastic tree displays, a few motorised penguins and more than enough fairy lights to warm the cockles of your heart. You can keep your white Christmas thank you very much Bing. I’d rather have a sandy one and hit the beach.

Goodwill To All Men? Humbug

Men never really grow up when it comes to Christmas, do they? Of course, they get over-excited at all the presents and cram themselves full of enough treats to make themselves sick, but that goes without saying.
No, I mean that they never really have to take responsibility for the whole occasion. They slide seamlessly between Christmases at home with their mum and dad, to spending the day at the girlfriend’s family abode and then finally at home with the wife and kids, without ever having to stuff a turkey or criss-cross a Brussels sprout.

Do you remember the precise moment when you signed the agreement stating that you would be sole representative of Yuletide Duty? No, that’s because it creeps up on you, but the list of tasks we apparently agreed to is endless. It begins with writing every card to all relatives on both sides, even the ones we only met once, briefly, at the wedding. (Who is Great Aunt Mabel anyway?) And there’s no My family/Your family divide anymore as we’re now all one big happy family.

Before we know it, we’re also responsible for purchasing presents for said happy families, on both sides, and all our mutual friends too, plus their kids when they come along. Our budgeting skills at this time of year would have the Chancellor of the Exchequer jingling his little black box in appreciation, and our ability to make giant plastic objects disappear until they are discovered under the tree should, by law, grant us immediate entry into the Magic Circle.

Then there’s the food and beverage duties, which include the ability to cater for an entire football team, while simultaneously making gravy, telling jokes and assembling a Lego monster with moving parts. Child peacekeeping skills worthy of a UN ambassador, saintly patience in dealing with relatives and intellectual dexterity at Trivial Pursuit and other games are an added bonus, although not compulsory.

Just because men are given the one duty of carving the turkey does not justify spending the afternoon dozing in front of the TV while you clean the entire kitchen. It’s enough to drive you to commit hara-kiri on them with the carving knife, but that would upset the children.

So, this year, I say let’s all relinquish our Yuletide duties and draft up a new contract. Merry Christmas everybody!

Going Out?

In the BC (Before Children) years, getting ready to go out was a wonderfully long process that included bubble baths, a meticulous music selection, and the painstakingly slow application of make-up – all accompanied by a glass of something tasty. Potential outfits were lined up like suitors, chosen at leisure and discarded before a final decision, often by a vote from the ‘posse panel’. These GNO (good/girls’ night out) preparations were a communal process, and I loved the laughing, the trading of clothes, make-up and accessories and the bubbling excitement about the forthcoming night of frivolities. Food never really paid a big part of those evenings either – like a camel in the desert, I used to go days without sustenance and remember with fondness the time when a piece of toast and an orange constituted a balanced meal.

Then everything changed. My gorgeous girls arrived and put paid to all that… time. I barely know the meaning of the word now, apart from that it marches on, there’s never enough of it in a day, it’s running out and it’s showing on my face.

Now if I’m going out, I have to eat a jacket potato at 5pm as my blood sugar levels dip precariously low if I’m forced to wait until 8pm before I look at a menu. If I have time to have a shower after I’ve supervised homework, fed the kids, made the sandwiches (a task I enjoy on a nightly basis as much as I enjoy having my un-varnished toenails individually ripped from un-pedicured feet) then I definitely do not have time to ponder what to wear and tend to waste precious time staring at my wardrobe before bursting into tears with the wailing cry of, ‘I’ve got nothing to wear!’ I’ve no time for the luxury of applying one coat of mascara and waiting... waiting... waiting for it to dry before applying layer two. The whole shebang is applied in 10 seconds flat, particularly if the taxi is already outside with the metre running.

But, on the plus-side, I have discovered a really raunchy smudged rock-chick look just by accidentally sticking the wand in my eye. And anyway, who needs hours to get ready? When you’re a mum you get your gear on, get your slap on and you go girl.

By Time Out Dubai Kids staff
Time Out Dubai, 29 December 2009

The Magic Inflatable Woman

I know all about the Dubai stone. Been there, done that, got the two-sizes-larger-than-when-I-arrived T-shirt. At certain times during the day, I look like I’m well into my second trimester. I accept the loose, wobbly skin, and I happily sign up for stretch marks, but I strongly object to this inflatable bag that has hijacked my middle region, swelling up steadily during the course of the day. Call it water retention, call it swelly jelly belly, call it what you like. I call it nasty.

So, I finally decided to do something about it. I tried jogging, and would start off down the road with all good intentions, only to get to the corner and collapse in a wheezing heap. There was also this nagging feeling that people would see through my fashion shorts and blister-inducing trainers and recognise me for the jogging fraud that I am. ‘That woman’s not a REAL jogger!,’ I’d hear them taunt as I turned up my nose and my iPod and took a swig of my latte.

I contemplated a spinning class, but quickly ditched that idea after it rekindled memories of a rather unfortunate incident with a mountain bike when, as a student, I foolishly pedalled up and down a few Welsh hills and promptly lost all use of my legs.

Yoga sounded ideal. Good enough for Madonna, good enough for me. So off I trotted to the romantic-sounding ‘moonlight’ yoga session. Unfortunately, so did thousands of mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies, obviously on their way to the Ugly Bug Ball and deciding to stop off for a snack on the way. Apparently the sweat from my exertions was just too delicious to resist, and I spent most of the class frantically swiping them away which, by the way, is not easy when you’re trying to do a headstand.

Not one to give up easily, I moved on to power yoga, only to discover the class had been infiltrated by a rogue group of contortionists escaped from the circus. I gave it my best shot but, frankly, power yoga is like childbirth: way too much huffing and puffing, quite sore and the only reason you’d ever return would be because you’d forgotten how awful it was and decided to have another bash.

So, I’ve decided just to accept who I am and exploit those new-found circus contacts. Roll up, roll up everyone, and marvel at the magical inflatable woman!