Happy Holi

Posted on March 23, 2013 by Dubai Mum

Yesterday afternoon DD and DS1 went to a friend’s Holi celebration. Holi is the Indian festival of colours which marks the crossover from winter to spring, and the planting of the crops. Traditionally people gathered to give thanks to God. White was the colour of the day. Over time however, colour has become the order of the day!

The invitation stated:

– wear old clothes;
– bring old towels;
– bring a change of clothes;
– paint finger and toe nails with nail polish; and
– put oil in hair.

Sounds like this could be a very messy party-awesome for the kids,  every parent’s nightmare.

I wondered if nail polish was part of the festival of colours as in ‘paint your nails a bright colour and fully participate in the festival etc.’ If that were the case I didn’t hold out much hope for treating DS1 to a full colour manicure. I didn’t think I could persuade DS1 to have his nails painted a festive hue, let alone persuade him to sit still long enough to have his nails glossed in clear polish.

But more confusing was the instruction to slather their hair with oil. I enquired if this meant ‘baby oil’. ‘Coconut oil’ came the response. Ehh? I am sure I have coconut oil…..somewhere in the depths of my tardis like kitchen I have a very expensive jar of organic virgin coconut oil. Not being remotely interested in cooking more than the staples of meat, carbs and veg, I could not have bought the coconut oil for any exotic, experimental cooking ( much to DH’s disappointment – Nigella, I am not – well maybe apart from the bossy/instructive tone and ample cleavage!).  If my memory serves me I bought it to muster up a concoction for some horrible pus-filled spotted virus that the boys contracted (yeeuuuuggghhhh – molluscum!).

I looked for the expiry date on the jar. There wasn’t one. Ho hum……as they won’t be ingesting it….it shouldn’t really matter, I rationalised…..As I began to apply the organic virgin (who knew this term applied to any oil other than olive oil?) coconut oil to my kids’ hair, I did question why I was smearing their hair with something more expensive than their monthly supply of shampoo and conditioner combined.

Not having used it it for quite a while, the coconut oil was quite lumpy, and gritty.  As I smeared it through DD’s hair, the hardened lumps clung to the strands of her hair and looked like nits on steroids! I squished and pressed the lumps, attempting to dissolve them into her hair. Mental note-explain to the host that the gritty lumps in DD’s hair are hardened coconut oil and not nits!

I dropped them off at the requested time.  By that time the hosts’ kids were already saturated to the core.   Within seconds my 2 were in the midst of the water-gun battle and drenched as I waved ‘goodbye’.  There was no hint of colour or mayhem.  I left feeling more relieved than I was when I arrived.

Fast-forward 2.5 hours.  My 2 were sopping wet.  DS1’s beautifully blond hair was a watery mess of green, yellow, red and blue (am assuming his blond hair made the coconut oil ineffective!).  DD was pink faced and shivering.  Indeed her torso was purple: thankfully not from the chilly breeze sweeping the desert at the time, but the pink/purple ink combo.  When I saw the teeth chattering, I jumped on them and hauled them off to change them into dry clothes.

I was the killjoy.  I was the horrible mummy who ruined the party and their lives (am sure that’s what they said!).  I was so horrible I helped them change out of waterlogged attire into dry, warm, comforting clothes.  As much as they resisted, they appreciated the snug feeling of comfort.

As we bid our ‘farewells’, my 2 remarked….’that was the most awesome-est party ever!’  No birthday party will ever match Holi!

I think most mums would agree!

Holi Jai!

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A note from one of my bosses

Posted on March 21, 2013 by Dubai Mum

This past work week has been manic.  Deadlines, deadlines and more deadlines.  Unfortunately for me, all of these deadlines are beyond my control.  In the deadline scenario, I am the enforcer.  So, my week has been one of ‘enforce, scramble, enforce, threaten, enforce, scramble, threaten’…you get the gist!

Due to the manic nature of this week, I was hardly at my own desk for more than 5 minutes at a time.  Instead I was pounding the corridors in my well practised ‘heels’ strut’, barking at the office manager about the unacceptable state of all things that do not work, all whilst trying to meet a missed deadline with an acceptable amount of tardiness.

The missed deadline morning arrived.  I popped to the office at 7:30AM to sort a few things out before heading off for the day.  I noticed a note from a partner on my desk regarding a meeting he had attended the previous day.  Partners are like doctors: their handwriting deteriorates with each year of practice.  Other than ‘please discuss’, I couldn’t make out all of the message (i.e., the most important part of the message).  Time was my enemy. I didn’t have a spare minute to run to that partner’s secretary to enlist help to decode the message!

My understanding of the scrawled note was ‘Make contact with these guys.  We should send them some ‘boobs”!  Really?????  ‘Boobs’???????  What would your wife think????  But I got to thinking – if we sent all potential clients some ‘boobs’, we’d be overrun and my work would be soooooo easy.  Just how could we do that????

Once the mayhem settled and I returned to the office, I spoke to the scrawling writing partner in question.

‘Books’……he drawled in his unimpressed, humourless accent.  ‘It says ‘books”.

Aaahhh.

Noted.

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Happy St. Patrick’s Day

Posted on March 17, 2013 by Dubai Mum

St. Patrick’s day is one of the days when I miss home the most.  I love nothing more than celebrating Paddy’s day no matter where I am.  I revel in passing on the Irish traditions to my kids (even though DD declared herself English in school today – having sent her in with a tricolour of balloons, a flag and goodies for her classmates!), and encouraging my colleagues to celebrate.  I love that the 17th March is almost universally celebrated.  Once a nation of emigrants, not many parts of the globe have been left untouched by the Gaelic experience!

But as an expat for nearly 20 years, it is always tinged with a little sadness.

I well up at the thought of family and friends enjoying the parades and the long weekend back home.  I recall the days of freezing in my Irish dancing costume and walking in my hometown’s parade!  I become wistful when I read about other expats around the world, and how they are celebrating.  I am touched to see Prince William and Kate wearing fresh sprigs of shamrock (and of course Kate wrapped up snugly in her wool green coat!) as they inspect the Irish Guards in London, and to see the Americans and Aussies mark the day with as much enthusiasm as they celebrate their own special holidays.

I smile when I see the colour green.  Traditional music touches my soul making me shiver.  One year when DH and I were living in Hong Kong and celebrating St. Patrick’s day in Delaneys in Wan Chai, he commented that ‘on St. Patrick’s Day everyone wants to be Irish’.  Never a truer word was spoken.

Everyday I am proud to be Irish…but on St. Patrick’s Day, I am bursting with pride and thankful that my ancestors fought so long and hard to give us this day to celebrate our heritage and culture; a day we can share with so many others around the world.

So…an Irish toast…..’May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live’.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

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Hairy Experience

Posted on March 17, 2013 by Dubai Mum

If I were to poll ladies in the Emirates asking what they most miss from ‘home’ and which is not available here, I imagine,  the answer would be a resounding ‘my hair salon/hair stylist/someone who knows how to style my hair properly/someone who can colour my hair without turning it green/someone who understands the concept of cutting long layers/someone who understands curly hair/someone who understands a trim is not the same as chopping off 3 inches’….I think you get the idea!

I have to admit, I could tick almost all of the above.  5+ years in the sandpit and I am still looking for a stylist who understands my Gaelic frizz, and who can style it consistently well (BTW – blowdries here are amazing…so good, they even camouflage the ‘cutting’ inadequacies.  But going to the salon every other day for a blowdry is not an option, not even for the Jumeirah Janes among us!).

In advance of a night out with DH and his boss recently, I booked a blowdry at my local salon.  I like this salon because they work magic on my parched, thick tresses and I get a mini head massage after the wash! Red Carpet ready hair and zen to boot.  Multi-tasking is always a win-win!

That was until my recent experience…..A stern, Russian looking lady with thick, bleached blond hair led me to the, what I now consider old styled ceramic wash basins, (which for some reason remind me of urinals) and practically pushed me into the chair. Continuing in her rough way she grabbed my hair, and went about her less than gentle hair washing.  ‘Zen’ was looking about as attainable as a sweet slumber for the mother of a newborn!

I should mention, I am a tad pernickety when it comes to certain things, one of which is how important it is to wash one’s scalp and not just the hair. I recall a few instances where my hairwash left my hair drier than that of a baby’s baptised head.

My latest experience, however, was on the opposite end of the spectrum.  This washer scrubbed my head as if she were burrowing furrows into uncared for, dried up sod into which my terrified follicles would sink.

I gripped the arms of the chair and braced myself, praying she would skip the massage and direct me straight to the blowdry.  I figured my chances of relaxation were higher with an overheating hairdryer pointed directly at my head than a ‘massage’ from what felt like ‘trained to kill’ fingers intent on boring holes into my skull.

Alas, it was not to be.  The head massage was part of this washer’s routine.  As she started, I pictured a Russian assasin who could kill by wrangling her fingers through openings of hair follicles.  Perhaps that was her former occupation….I really believed if she ventured near my temples, she would knock me unconscious.  BUT…to my surprise, her massage was amazingly relaxing.  Firm but relaxing.  It was just the right amount of pressure which edged me towards nirvana……

I was simulatneously floating and buzzing when I sat down and awaited my blowdry.  Not even the stylist’s outburst of horror at how dry, and uncared for my hair was….’Haraam’…..(a word normally reserved for the ‘forbidden’ and which feels like it’s on a par with ‘blasphemy’) could burst my bubble!

BTW….as always, the blowdry was coiff perfection!

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Spring Fayre

Posted on March 11, 2013 by Dubai Mum

The Spring Fayre is the highlight of the school’s fundraising calendar.  It is a great day of fun where the teachers, the PTA, parents and children come together as a community to help raise as much money as they can for school equipment.  It is a day of class stalls touting their wares, tempting kids high on cotton candy sugar to spend more of their parents’ money; a day of splurging on raffle tickets in the hope of winning big; a day of kids running amok on the school grounds; and an uncontrollable buzz of excitement.

But….if you are a class rep responsible for one of those stalls, it is a day which always makes you feel like you are unprepared, even though you are not;  a day you wish would zip by in the blink of an eye; a day which starts very early, forbids you food, water or loo breaks, and which leaves you feeling like you have spent all morning running chasing a marathon tail.

Guess who was class rep for one class this year?  For the 2nd year running I decided to take on the role of class rep.  Last year I was a class rep for DS1’s class.  To appease my ‘mum’s sibling equality’ sense of obligation I agreed to repeat the role for each child, and volunteered to be DS2’s class rep this year.  Cleverly, I joined forces with a mum I knew, and who had herself been a class rep last year (and who was also labouring under the ‘mum’s sibling equality’ obligation).

My decision to volunteer for DS2’s class was the cause of many tears from DD.  In her eyes the ‘mum’s sibling equality’ rule was not as equal as she would like.  She insisted on pointing out that she is the oldest and sooooo much older than DS2 that it was sooooo unfair (almost expected to hear the ‘valleygirl’ accented ‘like’ in there!) of me to skip her class.  In my defence, another 2 mums had already put their hands up for her class, and I was just keen to get another class out of the way this year.  A difficult rationale for a 7 year old to understand.

As I see it, class reps are ‘conduits’ between the school and the parents.  Information regarding the school, year, class events etc. are conveyed through us.  We organise coffee mornings and nights’ out, Christmas and end of year gifts for teachers.  Simple!  Or so it seems……until the School Fayre planning starts…..

At Christmas, it seemed like the Fayre, held in March, is soooooo faaarrrr offffff…..but, come the 1st of Jan, it springs up behind you quicker than the March hare!

Experienced class reps.  Not a problem.  We have it in hand.  We will keep it simple.  We will do the minimal amount required (more because both of us work and have more than one child at school!).  AGREED. DONE DEAL.

Being a class rep is akin to being a dictator.  There is no point giving the class a vote/choice re: the Spring Fayre.  Where would that get us but into an unholy mess of 25 different opinions (if the mums responded), most of which would be imposing unrealistic, time-consuming ideas on the reps.  Done deal.  ‘They did the thinking, the reps do the doing’.  NO.  NOT happening.  The mums need to be guided along the path without question, without fear, and without interference!   And this is the route upon which my co-class rep, C,  and I decided.

Fayre day came.  Class reps were there before 9am.  We set up the stall.  We hung pictures drawn by the kids. We traipsed from the car/sports hall to the field and back for what felt like a gazillion times.  We unwrapped sponsor’s banners.  We were good to go for the Fayre 10am kick off.

After a slow start, our stall picked up pretty quick.  I guess, at this stage, it might be helpful to inform you what our stall was…. the Sumo Challenge.  Kids dressed up in inflatable sumo outfits to embark upon a mildly difficult assault course against the clock.  Once our stall was set, we nabbed 2 unlikely suspects to trial the course for us so we could gauge where we should pit the record.  Seriously….these boys were at least 10 years old.  One completed the course in 35 seconds and the other in 48 seconds.  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they were working for the competitor!  7 year old DS1 completed the course in 22 seconds on his first attempt (and brought that down to 16 seconds by his 5th attempt!).

All that aside the day was an enormous success.  C and I could not keep up with the demand at our stall.  3 sumo suits and we struggled to get them off one child to install the next!  As much as I dread Spring Fayre day, I could not have anticipated that this year I would spend soooooo much time on my knees, carefully helping stinky, sweaty boy feet in and out of sumo suits.  Indeed at one point, I was left with no option but to clip the battery pack to a boy’s boxers…..such was the tangle of cables that I could not attach it to the neck of his t-shirt!!!!  If this were any other country, I would be sitting in a cell right now!

7 hours, no loo or food breaks later and we left to make our way home…..hello traffic…only 1 hour for 600 metres……

Spring Fayre….gotta love it!

BTW…..DD’s class next year, according to the ‘mum’s sibling equality’ rules, should be the next ‘victim’ of my by now well practised class rep skills……but am soooo oooovvveeerrr the Fayre, I persuaded DD to accept a large cuddly toy in lieu!  Now that’s what I call a bargain!

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Explaining Religion….Part 2

Posted on March 3, 2013 by Dubai Mum

It’s one thing explaining other religions to your children but quite another when you are required to explain your own!

DS2: ‘Mummy, how old was Jesus when he died?’

Me: ’33 years old.’

DS2: ‘No Mummy, how old would he be now if he weren’t ‘deaded’?’

Me: ‘Ehhh…..over 2,ooo years…..’ I responded just as DS1 interjected.

DS1: ‘2,536 years old’ he stated quite authoritatively.  ‘Was Jesus married?’ he followed up.

Me: ‘No, not that we know.’

My instinct told me where this might be headed.  My attempt to gently try to steer the conversation away from death failed.

DS1: ‘Mummy, how did Jesus die?’

I glanced at DH and bowed my head.  How was I going to explain ‘crucifixion’ without explaining the entire life story of Jesus, and all without giving my kids nightmares about nails in hands.

DH, the only non-denominational person in the family, blurted out ‘He was nailed to a cross.’

My glance turned into a full on death glare as my mind scrambled to think how to explain why/how someone would be nailed to a cross.

‘Hmmmm….but crucifixion itself probably wasn’t the actual cause of death’, I muttered to DH.  ‘Could have been anything from dehydration, septecemia, heart attack.  I had never really thought about that before.’

But for the children, it seemed, honest explanations as to nails and entry points at the hands and feet were sufficient.  Once they had the full picture, they began to discuss it amongst themselves, with DS1 announcing that it would have been ‘very bad’ if the nails had been put in his eyes!!!!

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Explaining Religions….

Posted on March 2, 2013 by Dubai Mum

One of the reasons I love Dubai is the fact it is a true melting pot of so many of the world’s nationalities.  My children’s school is home to 40+ nationalities during the academic year; they have friends from all over the globe.  This makes for a very enriching and colourful experience for them, and raises many questions DH and I might otherwise not think about discussing.  A recent example was a car conversation between DH and the kids (seems all my funny stories take place in the car!) during half term.

‘Daddy, what’s the difference between Christians, Muslims and Hindus?’ asked DD as the representative of the 3 munchkins who had been discussing religion amongst themselves in the back of the car.

DH tried to give a basic explanation of the differences they might understand, focusing mainly on what they are not permitted to eat or drink.

‘So, Muslims can’t drink alcohol?’ asked DS1 sounding almost surprised that a religion would prohibit anything.

‘Not even Fanta?’ shrieked DS2 in horror.

When DH relayed this story to me, all I could think was that if DS2 thinks Fanta is alcohol, I dread to think what he tells his teacher and friends he is allowed to have as a treat sometimes!

This incident reminded me of a conversation I had with a mum from school.  DD and her DD are good buddies.  My DD is Christian and her buddy (‘B’) is Muslim.  DD often takes ham sandwiches to school.  She often mentioned B was very keen on ‘snack swaps’, usually targetting the pork content of her sarnies!  DD, not aware that B should not be eating pork products, was happy to oblige, especially if she thought there was a hint of something sweet involved in the trade!

At a playdate I got talking to B’s mum and somehow the subject of pork came up.  She laughed as she told me how much B loves pork and how tricky it can be to get kids at that age to understand what they can and cannot eat, especially if it is disguised in sweet treats.

The wheels in my mind began turning and I wondered if I should tell her that B always asks if she can have DD’s ham which DD willingly hands over! But as she continued, it became clear that she was aware of B’s ‘wayward’ taste buds.

Recently B’s mum had received gifts which included sweets which had some form of pork product in them.  Not wishing to throw them out, she hid them high up in a kitchen cupboard.  The little monkey that B is, found them and began eating them.  B’s mum caught her in the act and began telling her off, explaining ‘you cannot eat anything that has pork in it; it is against your religion’.

‘But mummy, I love piggies’ was B’s response.

Even B’s mum couldn’t contain her giggles.

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Cooling off in Dubai?

Posted on March 1, 2013 by Dubai Mum

Such is life in the desert.  It’s spring.  It’s heating up.  Averaging 28 degrees celsius by the afternoon, it’s no wonder the kids are looking for some post-school-cool-relief.  Yesterday I had not even packed them up into the car, and they are asking ‘can we have an ice cream?’

Busy with instructing (ready yelling at) them to get into their car seats, I had the perfect excuse to ignore the repeated requests for ice cream.  But DS1 didn’t stop there.  On the 20 minute car trip home, he must have asked at least 10 times.  Despite my repetitive negative response DS1 persisted.  I had to give him credit for the inventive ways he found to ask the same question….if nothing, it was entertaining!

Feeling like the wicked witch of Thursday, I reluctantly gave in and drove to Baskin Robbins in Motor City.  I knew I couldn’t go to Haagen Dazs, as that would cause the ultimate meltdown by DS1 – they don’t serve mint choc chip in Haagen Dazs, you know. DS2 and DD are usually just happy to have ice cream; flavour is irrelevant.

With 3 kids in tow, I entered Baskin Robbins and ordered ‘3 small ice creams, kids’ sized ice creams’.  Now, we are quite the regulars at this ice cream parlour, so much so, the guys know my lots’ favourites, and when they see us are armed with cone in one hand and scoop in the other, ready to roll a perfect coloured creamy ball.  All that is required is to double check that they are not planning on being adventurous with their choices on any day.

The chap behind the counter took the orders and began scooping.  Knowing the cost of the ice creams, I left the exact change, AED18 on the countertop, and made my way to the door with 3 very contented kiddies.

As I pulled open the door, the chap called to me to tell me  he ‘needed AED24’.  Thinking the prices had increased by 30% in the space of a week, I nearly tripped over my 3 kids stuffing their faces to argue how ridiculous that was.  But no, it wasn’t a price hike.  My 3 had received small ice creams and not children’s sized ice creams.  Incredulous, I looked at my 3 not long departed from the  ‘knee-high to a grasshopper’ stage, smearing funky coloured ice cream over their faces.  Why would the chap think I would want anything other than children’s ice creams?  The ice creams looked the same size as the usual ones I pay AED18 for, but the cones seemed slightly different.

‘They look the same as the ice creams I usually get, and I have only ever paid AED18’ I told the chap.

‘No Ma’am, they are small ice creams.  AED24’ he replied.

‘What’s the difference between ‘small’ and ‘children’s’ I enquired.

Holding up 2 ice cream scoops that looked exactly the same to me, he said ‘This one small (waving the one in his right hand) and this one is smaller (waving the scoop in his left hand).

And then I remembered why it is often not a wise thing to question things here; regardless of how impenetrable your logic might be, you end up going round in circles and by the end of it, would happily commit yourself to the nearest asylum.  But, there was no going back now.  I had raised the question and I couldn’t return the half eaten slobbery ice cream cones now!

‘They look the same to me and the ball of ice cream looks the same size as normal.  Besides, I asked for children’s ice creams.  I have 3 children with me, that’s why I asked for children’s cones’, I responded agitated.

He repeated his evidence about the scoop sizes and continued to wave them about in an almost menacing manner.

‘I come in here on a regular basis.  I always ask for the same thing and I always pay AED18 for that.  Why is today any different?’

‘OK Ma’am, but next time, remember to ask for ‘not small” he surrendered reluctantly.

After this exchange, I was very much the one in need of ‘cooling off’ but was still so confused about which size was which, I didn’t dare order myself some ice cream relief!

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First world problems

Posted on February 20, 2013 by Dubai Mum

Yesterday on the radio, people were being interviewed about their ‘happiness’ levels in the United Arab Emirates (‘UAE’).  One lady thought ‘traffic’ was the biggest inhibitor to her complete happiness in the UAE.  This made me giggle.  Traffic here is nothing compared to London where 12mph is the City average!  First world problems, truly first world problems.

However, it got me thinking about my first world bugbears.

– Chargers…..seriously, I must have about a gazillion chargers in my kitchen drawers, all of which seem to  against me to produce one giant tangle of black cable each time I need one.  There’s one for each of my BlackBerry, work BlackBerry, camera, camcorder, electric toothbrush, portable DVD player, iPads, iPod….and then there’s DH’s chargers.  It truly is a wonder that anything gets charged in our house given the amount of rummaging in the ‘charger drawer’ we do to find the right charger!

– Passwords…Why does everything require a password these days?  How are we supposed to remember the correct passwords for all the different accounts without writing them down.  There’s bank accounts, credit card accounts, email, health insurance, blog, Amazon, Facebook, Expatwoman, gift websites, work email account, remote work email account. …And then there are the PIN numbers; here and in the UK .  Has Apple not yet devised an App to remember all of this for me????

– Parking…..there just never seems to be enough parking spots here.  At my office the free parking option quickly fills up leaving no option but to either pay AED20 an hour or risk parking illegally! Parking in the vicinity of Spinneys in MotorCity often proves tricky, especially in the afternoons.  I have lost count of how many times I have had to leave the car park, drive around the area looking for spaces, only to enter the car park 20 minutes later to find a spot.

– Cards….my wallet is full of them; bank cards, credit cards, health insurance cards, driver’s licence, ID card, car registration, car insurance card, parking credit, alcohol licence, breakdown recovery.  I struggle to zip up my oversized wallet with all that plastic!  And then there’s the business cards, my own and others!  If only all the cards could be merged into one……that would make life so much easier!!

But none of these ‘problems’ are such that they squeeze any joy out of living in the UAE.  There are so many great things about living in the UAE that make me smile, starting with the eternal blue sky that greets us every day.

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What is it with boys?

Posted on February 19, 2013 by Dubai Mum

Why does every conversation revolve around ‘poo’ or  male appendages?

How is it they manage to inflict at least one injury a day on themselves, even when they are doing the safest of things (am thinking about DS2 who recently catapulted himself, head first over his scooter handlebars only to face plant in the tarmac.  Then the next day, whilst playing tag in the garden, he ran into the badminton net, nearly missing his eye, but marking his face to such an extent he now looks like ‘Scarface’.  DS1, on the other hand, got whacked in the face twice with the Wii remote control because he thought it would be OK to walk in front of Mummy attempting a smash shot!)

Why do they feel the compulsion to annoy their sisters at every chance they get?

Why is it necessary to chew food and then spit it out?

How come they need half a toilet roll for each loo trip?  Seriously, with such tiny derrieres….why do they need so much toilet paper?

Do they ever sleep?  DS1 says he just rests his eyes….Given he is often awake when I go to bed and up before me…this is probably not too far from the truth!

Why does it seem they are in training to be a comedian?

Only boys think ‘farting’ and ‘burping’ are competitions/funny/acceptable/boast-worthy/manly.

How come they manage to turn every game/sport into world war 3?

Gotta say it…..but why do boys seem to get head lice more often than girls???  Must be the regular combat in which they engage!

DS1 was a placid baby in utero…..the little git fooled me completely!

Having said all that….there is nothing like being told ‘you are the most beautifulest (not sure of that spelling!) Mummy in the whole world and I want to marry you’!

 

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