It’s just been one of those days….it must be catching……
DS2 just asked said ‘Mummy, what if ‘fatboys’ were called ‘fatgirls’ or ‘fatmums’?
For the uninitiated, ‘Fatboys’ are a brand of fabulously comfy(and trendy) beanbags. Am not quite sure DS2’s re-branding efforts would appeal to the wider market……
And all this as I watched DD place the balance bike over the swing seat and try to mount it……
When we arrived home from school today, DS1 made a beeline for the fridge. All I could see was a little derriere covered in blue Chelsea football shorts sticking out from behind the thick silver door, wiggling back and forth. For all I knew he could have been trying to cool down his sweaty head after his football session.
When he finally emerged from the chiller he was brandishing a ‘courgette’ in an almost menacing way.
‘Is this a ”corvette’? he asked looking quite pleased with himself for having identified a vegetable he hasn’t eaten since it was mushed in the early days of his solids.
‘I wish it were’, I replied, refusing to allow the giggles lurch from my belly to my mouth.
Ahhhhh……if only courgettes could transform into corvettes…….a modern day Cinderella tale…….
Today DH went to re-register his car. This is an annual event which every vehicle in the UAE must undergo. Re-registration requires that one’s car must pass a basic roadworthiness assessment. A mechanic drives off with the car, does a few simple checks, mainly safety checks, and usually returns with a tick in the right box. The fee is paid and an updated car registration card is issued fresh from the printer.
Today, however, the requisite tick was not obtained without DH gritting his teeth, raising his eyes and begrudgingly handing over his credit card (and not to mention thinking of revoking my drivers licence….which he has the authority to do!).
The thing is, DH is the registered owner of his car and my car. The other thing is that I drive a lot more than DH each week. I do the work commute, school pick up, after school activities’ runs, and any other miscellaneous ‘things to do’ runs that require attention before the day is out.
The final thing to note is, one cannot register one’s car until all fines on all cars in one’s name are cleared.
In my 5+ years of driving in Dubai, I have never noticed a speed camera flash me! The speed limit on Sheikh Zayed Road is 100km but it seems the cameras do not care for anything until it hits 120km+ However it seems the handheld police-held speed cameras on the highway’s flyovers are a teeny bit more sensitive.
With the geographical logistics of my driving routes each day, and more because I never seem to be able to leave work on time, I am required to drive a tad faster than I should do. My route to the school pick catapults me down SZR. I have even joked with my bosses they may need to fork out for any post-work-pre-school-pick-up speeding fines.
Oh, how jokes come home to roost…….AED1,800 (Euros360/GBP300) speeding fines roosted happily on DH’s credit card……sigh
It’s funny how the world pokes fun at the British for considering the weather a ‘must’ topic of conversation. It is almost frowned upon not to make reference to the weather in 99% of your conversations in Blighty. It is irrelevant that 90% of references to weather are moans about the climate; it should be mentioned.
Other nationalities find this odd, bizarre even, especially as there does not seem to be much diversity to the weather on the Isle. Spring tries desperately to escape the bone aching damp of winter, but summer is upon us by the time it succeeds. Summer totals about 2 weeks spread over a 12 week period, and willingly welcomes a blustery, grey autumn just as one would welcome a dear friend. Sure, sometimes the weather treats us to a ‘heatwave’ (3 straight days of 29 degrees does not constitute a heatwave) and winter fun in the snow (fun for the kids but not so much for the big people who try to go about their daily business in a country that freezes with lack of preparation. But at least it presents yet another reason to grumble about the weather).
People grumble about the climate that rarely fails to meet expectations. Yet they still have hope that it will improve, that it will transform into a sunny, blue skied, breezy-as-if-by-the-sea type climate and dare to rival their European neighbours, France, Italy and Spain. A nation of optimists?
Dubai is not that much different. The 4 seasons are lovely, hot, very hot, and so flippin’ hot you need gills to breathe! Whilst we may not use the word ‘weather’ very often, we still talk about it a lot. We tend to talk more about ‘temperatures’. Every summer we bemoan the heat. It’s the desert. We know that. We know what to expect, yet each year we have hold onto the British’ hope that this year things might be different. We talk of the early onset of summer, the length of summer, how much longer it is getting, how much difference 5 degrees can make, and of course, the impact of humidity (who knew there was humidity in the desert?). The lifer expats talk of summer ending in September 10 years ago, yet now it seems summer is only vanquished mid way through November……
From mid-November we are on rain watch. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder.
When in December/January morning car themometers read 11 degrees, we feel like bears waking from hibernation. It is time to celebrate. We feel alive, energetic and ecstatically happy.
However, last week the morning car temperature quickly increased by the day to reach 21 degrees. It was not even mid-January. What was happening? I was stunned. Everyone I know dropped their defeated heads, disappointed that global warming was forcing winter into an even earlier retreat.
This is what we talk about at each school drop off, school pick up, at work, at the weekends, sitting by the pool, when testing the pool waters, when sitting at the side of the football pitch, rugby pitch, tennis court, even on the dash from the carpark to the supermarket……the desert weather is an ever present constant in our lives.
I guess we are no different to the British!
Each January we head off to a hotel to escape the incessant and unbearable drone of the 24 hour motor race across the road at the Dubai Autodrome. This year we decided to try the Hilton Resort and Spa in RAK, instead of our usual haunt, the Jebel Ali Beach Hotel.
For the kids was like Christmas all over. Excitement levels were through the roof at the thought of the three of them sharing a room, their own TV, and a gynormous pool in what is effectively in their back garden!
We planned to drive straight from school pick up to RAK. This meant packing the car with our luggage in the morning……It seemed to take DH a very long time to pack the car for a weekend away.
The fact it took 3 hotel employees and DH to unpack the bags on our arrival at the hotel explained DH’s multiple trips back and forth to the car that morning. This is what ended up in the car:
– 3 full sized ‘pulley’ suitcases which included everyone’s clothes, shoes, the kids’ favourite blankies, pillows etc;
– 3 mini ‘pulley’ suitcases packed by the kids themselves, and containing a rugby ball, geomags, a football and other favourite toys;
– 1 bulging backpack filled with electronic equipment, iPads, cameras, portable DVD player, and most importantly, chargers;
– 1 overflowing beachbag filled with swim suits, wetsuits (it’s winter here – pools are cold), goggles, flip flops;
– 1 bag replicating the medicine cabinet and lots of sunblock (I know I said winter is cold, but you can never be too careful);
– 1 handbag – home to the usual Mummy paraphenalia as well as extra baby wipes, water beakers, books, and everything else that fell out of every other bag and off my kids;
– 1 sports bag containing a lot of healthyish snacks for the kids – just in case!
On arrival to our rooms, the kids wore a track in the carpet going back and forth unpacking their cases. There was a lot more in there than I originally thought. DS2 even thought to bring his Christmas decorations and hang them above his bed…..talk about making himself feel at home!
And with all that luggage which really rivals what we, as a family of 5, take on a month’s jolly over the summer, I forgot to pack my tops….perhaps I should have the kids pack everything next time – they seem to transport their world to an hotel room quite well!
Only the first week back at school and DS2 has been keeping me on my toes with his wonderfully inquisitive mind.
After his first day back he declared he would be the third person in his class to die! I quickly realised he was working on a ‘seniority’ death scale here; the oldest dies first, then the next oldest and so on. He is the 3rd oldest in his class…..apparently the seniority rule can only be superseded by someone killing you…all a bit dark, I know, but it is hard to shelter him from such things when his older brother is all about ninja moves, submarines, guns (not that this has ever been encouraged), and the general theme of ‘fight to the death’.
Today DS2 asked DH and I the cutest question I have ever heard.
‘Can you show me your ‘marry moves’?’
My heart melted.
Catching DH’s facial expression out of the corner of my eye, I knew what he was thinking; needless to say, it was probably something which could not be repeated to DS2 until he is at least 8 years older!
I, on the other hand, wracked my brains trying to decipher his question. I did ask him what he meant but, asking a 5 year old to explain what he means is not as easy as one would think. In my experience children appear disappointed if you don’t meet their needs instantly or, in this case, answer their question instantly. DS2 gave me this ‘are you for real?’ look and shuffled off; the disappointment that mummy doesn’t know everything etched all over his angelic little face.
Desperately trying not to let him down, and desperate to regain my ‘SuperMummy’ crown, I tried the first thing that came to mind – I associate ‘moves’ with dancing which got me thinking about DH’s dance ‘moves’. I gave DS2 a demonstration of how DH struts his moves on the dancefloor. He was half amused, half confused. He continued to walk away……can’t blame him. DH’s ‘moves’ by DH are enough to send anyone running!
A later repetition of the ‘marry moves’ question, told me DS2 wasn’t satisfied with my first response but, thankfully he was distracted by something else to be too bothered waiting on another feeble attempt at a comprehensive answer! Close to bedtime he came to cuddle with me on the sofa. ‘I am going to marry Mummy’, he declared with a great degree of certainty. He was obviously not impressed with Daddy’s ‘marry moves’!
One thing I am glad about though – he hasn’t applied the ‘death seniority rule’ to Mummy and himself!
Today we waved ‘adieu’ to the Christmas tree and all things Christmassy; the tinsel was tucked away for another year, and the cards stacked in the memory box. The kids looked so sad watching their Yuletide cheer disappear; so sad I was tempted to introduce a Christmas tree ‘grace period’, but I realised I had to stand firm. No point in breaking with tradition now, and potentially inviting bad luck. Life goes on, and only another 300+ days to go to the next one, and all that…..
It’s funny how quickly you get used to Christmas decorations; how homely, inviting and warm they make a house feel. They are the spark for the flame of the Christmas spirit which inhabits most homes every year, especially those housing uber-excited ‘naughty and nice’ list delegates! After waiting a year for the festive season, it always flies by as quickly as Santa delivers 2 billion gifts around the world in one night.
At this time of year it seems our New Year’s resolutions also get packed away with the tinsel and the Christmas stockings. Driving to work this morning, Radio 1’s DJs were talking about their New Year’s Resolutions, polling each other on whether they had broken their 2013 promises yet, when one DJ informed the audience that by the end of the week, most of us will have given up on our New Year’s resolutions!
A complacent smirk crept across my face as I mentally complimented my unusual strength of my 2013 resolve. It felt like this year would be the year I would keep my resolutions. I felt so strong, I vowed then and there to add new goals for each one that is ticked off my original list.
However, when I arrived home to lonely, awkward shaped gaps in my furniture layout and pale, lifeless walls…….I recalled DJ Danny’s words from this morning……My resolutions no longer seemed so vivid, so achievable; they were fading, and my will to commit was feeling battered and bruised.
Perhaps this is why so many of our New Year’s resolutions are the same each year; perhaps they are stored away with the baubles and the fairy lights each January, where they wait for the magical season’s sparkle to dust them off the following year!
Finally, after too long, I plucked up the courage to go to the hair salon. Over the summer, when I was home, I had my hair colour ‘corrected’ and a cut which I was really happy with. Not particularly pleased with the colour care I have found in Dubai salons, I was reluctant to return. However, there comes a point in every wary Dubai woman’s maintenance schedule when the desperate need of a hair colour and/or cut is no longer capable of being camouflaged!
I ventured back to my usual haunt. There they cut my hair, more often than not, too short (it seems one should at least halve the number of inches when instructing the stylist!), but it grows out well, so I can’t complain on that front. As with haircuts in any part of the world, the true test of its quality is in the final blow dried product! Most hair stylists in Dubai are Lebanese men. English is not their strength, but their intuition women’s hair is!
When it came to drying my hair, this is the conversation which ensued:
Hair Stylist (‘HS’): – ‘How you want?’, he asked as he tugged at strands of hair.
Me: ‘Big, wavy, with volume’, I answered. Remembering a British stylist in Dubai got this request comletely wrong, I began gesticulating madly, to ensure he got the message I did not want my hair straightened.
HS: ‘Medium. Not too tight. Out?’ he asked with a knowing look. (Translation: Medium sized brush, Curls not too tight. Flicked out).
Me: ‘Exactly’, I confirmed with a nod.
He promptly got to work.
He pulled, he curled, he contorted my thick locks, wrapping them round styling brushes before pinning them to my head. When he was finished blowdrying, he returned to the first wound up curl, and unravelled each one with care.
My head resembled that of a poodle. I fought my face’s desire to convey my real thoughts!
HS: ‘Out now or later?’ he asked gruffly, perhaps sensing my horror. (Translation: Shall I unravel the ringlets now or would you prefer to do it yourself later?)
Me: ‘Now please’, I managed politely.
His expert fingers teased my Irish dancer curls; they tossed and tussled, and gently tugged my hair to salon, sleek perfection.
My smile said it all; as did HS’!
Last week the bunk beds arrived much to the delight of my boys. Indeed, I was just as excited, if not more: too often in the past year DS2 has been wandering into our room asking if he can sleep on his mattress on the floor beside our bed! Unwilling to take on a sleep battle, and concerned he gets a good night’s sleep (especially now as he has started school), we have caved.
So, yay! DS2 now has no excuse…he and DS1 can share a room. DH and I no longer have to endure grinding teeth, sleep giggling, and pre-6am wake up calls.
For quite some time DH and I have debated whether to put the boys in the same room. We have held off for as long as we could mainly because the boys are very different ‘sleepers’. DS1 does not like to sleep. He would rather be playing with his toys, running about the room doing goodness knows what, reading, chatting, singing; doing just about everything to ward off the Sandman. It appears DS1 wins these Sandman Sleep Challenges regularly. Even he says ‘Mummy, the Sandman forgot to come to me last night’!
On the other hand, DS2 inherited his Mummy’s ‘sleep-loving’ gene. He loves 12 hours, and although he wouldn’t admit it, he still likes to nap! If DS2 needs to sleep, he just does! So many times I have wished him ‘sweet dreams’, walked 5 steps to turn on the hall light, and he is zonked! Bliss….that is until he wanders into our room having been woken by a bad dream.
Spurred on with trying to reduce these nightly wanderings, we took the plunge and bought the bunk beds!
On the first night we laid down the rules and expectations. DS2 is the big boy, and should set an example. ‘Lights out’ means ‘lights out’. No jumping from the top bunk. No chatting, singing, playfighting; no farting competitions…..actually the list was longer than I would have liked…..but the beds were now in place and ready to be used. We installed makeshift safety measures in case of first night ‘rolling over and falling out’, and crossed our fingers as we left the room.
The first night went relatively smoothly…..but since then, DH has been fitting in a lot of cardio running up and down the stairs to ‘shush’ the Terrible Two. The ‘safety mattress’ became DS2’s landing pad from the top bunk, and DS1’s launching pad into his bottom bunk, the ceiling was DS2’s new ‘wall’ against which he could bounce things, the ladder became a ‘running the gauntlet’ type game…..could DS1 run up the ladder before DS2 could grab his ankles through the rungs?….now officially renamed ‘running the rungs’! And, let’s not forget the ‘fart foot’ game – how many kicks through the upper slats from the lower bed will it take to make DS2 fart????
I am very glad that my boys are having fun and getting on so well together in one room. I am even more happy to be getting an uninterrupted night’s sleep! But in a way it feels a bit like sleep trainig all over again. This time, I am not so sure leaving them to self soothe is the answer!
‘I love you ‘Bedy’. I will never forget you. From DS1 and Others.’
The message my caring, sensitive DS1 wrote to his old bed which was recently replaced with bunk beds. I suspect the ‘Others’ refers to the mini jungle of soft toys (definitely too many to mention, let alone name!) which sleep on his bed each night!
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