The mum without the car seats

It’s lovely, isn’t it, when your children start to make proper friends at school. I love that first sign of independence when they tell you they want to go home from school with a friend for a play date, and they don’t mind that you won’t be there to pick them up or go with them.

We’re sort of getting there with DS now he’s four.

I know – it’s a miracle.

And, while I’m overjoyed at the thought of having a little peace in the afternoon while he has a great play date, I have to say, letting him go home with others does bring its own set of problems.

Our school isn’t a five-minute walk away; neither is it a quick drive through the local community – it’s a 20-minute drive at 140kph on the road formerly known as Emirates Road (now technically known as Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Rd – not to be confused with Sheikh Rashid Rd or even Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Boulevard).

To get an idea of what the road formerly known as Emirates Rd is, take the M25 in rush-hour, supersize it to 12 lanes, then plonk the world’s supply of village idiots on it, in badly maintained cars capable of driving at 160kph.

That’s our school run.

Is it any wonder that I’m a bit anal about insisting that DS is always in a proper, age-appropriate car seat? But sometimes I find it difficult to ask other mums outright if they’ll be putting DS in a car seat. Usually I ask nonchalantly if they have enough car seats or should I drop one off for DS to use? But other times I barely know the mum so I resort to sneakier tactics.

This involves lurking in the car park until I’ve watched her put her own kids in her car. If they’re strapped into car seats, we’re cool. But if her own children are flying loose in the car, their heads bobbing about between the front seats as her driver accelerates the Range Rover out of the car park in a cloud of dust, poor DS finds his play dates stone-walled – unless the other child comes home with us.  If that happens, we’re usually subjected to a barrage of four-year-old outrage: “What? I have to sit in a baby seat?”

Um, yes dear: You’re not going through my windscreen.

Birthday presents for an eight-year-old girl

I thought I’d write a post about this given the number of mums who texted me before DD’s birthday to ask what she might like. Obviously, all girls are different but here are the gifts that went down well with DD:

Moshi Monsters are dead. And these disgusting little Trashpacks are what took over in the classroom craze. Steer clear if you can.

-          Perfumes and body sprays.

-          “Real” makeup (blusher, pale eye shadow).

-          Anything to do with Trashpacks (don’t ask if you don’t know – you’ll wish you didn’t know).

-          Costume jewellery of the adult variety (not kiddie jewellery).

-          Grown-up gifts like photo frames (thank you A) and CDs and – from me as her main gift – a radio/CD player for her room.

-          Cash and/or cash cards to spend in the malls.

And, if you’re interested in hearing what an eight-year-old girl says she wants, it would be: Her own laptop, her own iPad, an iPhone 5, loadsamoney and a car with her own driver so she can go wherever she wants.  Oh, and Justin Bieber to perform a private concert. On time.

Dream on, babe – especially on the last one!

Silent Sunday: The box

You can buy your kids all the toys in the world, and enrol them for 100 classes, but the thing that’s given my children the most pleasure for the entire last winter season has been this old carpet box. They play “house” in it, picnic in it, play “schools” in it, camp in it and hide in it. Cost: Zero. Value: Priceless.

DD and the manmade-fabric school shirt

I was telling DD last night that she must wash carefully under her arms because, after a day in her poly-crap school shirt (why can’t they make them in 100% cotton?) with a polyester blazer over the top, she can get a little pongy.

Fact of life: Hot country + polycotton shirt = sweaty child.

But then I don’t want to give her a complex about it, so I started explaining that she only smells, a bit, because the school shirt’s not a natural fibre.

“It’s made from a manmade fabric,” I told her. “Not a natural one. It’ll make anyone’s armpits smell – even the tooth fairy’s. If it were down to me, I’d make your school uniform in cotton because it doesn’t make you smell.”

“It’s the fabric,” I added, “not you.”

I was desperate not to give her a complex. But it’s a fine balance between not saying anything and teaching her why she needs to wash properly.

“Is it still called manmade fabric if it’s made by women?” she asked. “Or is that called lady-made?”

Good point, I thought. And what about those school uniforms made by children in child-labour sweatshops? I didn’t say that, though. She’s only eight and it was bedtime.

“Maybe it should be called human-made fabric,” she suggested. “Then everyone’s covered.”

A snapshot of life as a stay-at-home mum

DH writes from a conference he’s at in the south of France (I know, seriously, the south of bloody France):  “Hi darling, how are you?”

Me, from home:  “Glad the week’s over.  How about you?”

This is the cruise ship, Med and palm trees shot from DH’s room. Am I jealous? Yes. Do I want to be there? Yes.

DH sends me a couple of photos of the view from his room: “I’ve just checked in. That’s my view.”

I’m looking at the photos – they’re all palm trees, Art Deco architecture and bright blue Mediterranean Sea. I can even see a cruise ship anchored offshore in one of them.

Me: “Looks gorgeous. It’s been a tough week; I’ve been working till 11 every night. Obviously up at 5.50am to do the school run. Can’t wait for you to get back.”

DH writes: “Oh, hold on. Got to go, they’ve just told me I’m moving to a suite…”

Messaging resumes the next day – Saturday.

DH: “Hello, conference is finished. Suite’s gorgeous! I’m sitting in Cannes old town, having a beer. So what are you up to?”

Me: “Oh you know. Usual Saturday. Screaming loud kids’ birthday party. Now I’ve just dragged two bickering children round the supermarket, fighting with them all the way. When are you back?”

DH: “After the weekend.”

Happy days.

The tooth fairy: An endangered species?

Last night, the tooth fairy made her eighth visit to our house.  I was saying goodnight to DD, making a mental note not to forget the money, when she said,

“Mummy, is the tooth fairy really real? Like, a real fairy comes? Or is it just you putting money under my pillow and taking my tooth?”

I know she’s suspected this for the last two teeth and she’s probably old enough now for me just to come clean – but I have DS to think about. She’s had eight magical visits from La Fairie Des Teeth - I don’t want it to be ruined for him before he’s even had one.

“Why do you ask?” I said. “Don’t you believe in her?”

“Yes…… I… do,” she said. “But some people don’t?”

“Well, all that matters is that you do. She exists.” (In your imagination, I added, crossing my fingers.)

But then came the moment of the dreaded tooth/cash exchange. I’d asked DD to put the tooth close to the edge of the pillow to “make it easier for the tooth fairy”.

“But she’s a fairy?” DD had retorted in a “der” voice. “She flies! She can do anything.”

DD placed the tooth under the centre of her pillow and plonked her head right on top – a position she was still in when I crept into her room at 10pm to do the deed. I did it as stealthily as I could, balancing on three toes and sliding my hand like a snake under the pillow, but there was a crackle or two of the letter she’d left for TF and then, when I got back to my room, I wondered if she’d actually been faking sleep.

I crept back in and looked at her. She’d changed position, her knees were drawn up. Was she smiling?  I went back to my room.

But I couldn’t settle. I had that sinking, quicksand feeling that I’d been caught out; that she’d seen the whole exchange. I went back to her room. “DD,” I whispered, watching her carefully for a tell-tale flicker of the eyelids in the light from the hall. “DD?”

No response. Did I get away with it? I had to wait till morning.

“Did the tooth fairy come last night?” I asked, casually, when she came in to say good morning.

“Yeah,” she said, with equal nonchalance. “15. Can I have toast for breakfast?”

She wasn’t telling – and I wasn’t asking. I wonder how tooth nine will go.

Silent Sunday: The Dubai sat-nav

Communities are built so fast here that this sat-nav view is not uncommon in Dubai. “Sorry, DD, we may be late for your play date!”

The KHDA school report (“Mummy knows best”)

The KHDA (the UAE’s version of Ofsted, for those unaware) released the results of this year’s school inspections this week and I was delighted to see that my children’s school was not among the 12 that had been rated as “outstanding”.

Yes, I said not.

Obviously, the mums whose children go to the “outstanding” schools were looking a bit smug in Dubai’s coffee shops yesterday, but I personally think we mums should trust our own judgement more than that of the KHDA.

The KHDA ratings are done on a combination of school inspections, which are carried out with the school’s knowledge and hence open to abuse, as well as questionnaires filled out by parents.

Significant weight is given to the teaching of Islamic education and Arabic language; if these aren’t up to the KHDA’s expectations, the weighting of the school slides a little. My children go to a British school, with a British curriculum. That they learn Arabic is a wonderful thing, but it’s hardly the lynchpin of their school careers.

Anyway. When our school sent home the link to the online questionnaire, the headmaster pointed out what a disappointingly low percentage of parents had bothered to fill it out last year and appealed to the parent body to make more of an effort this year.

But, why would I want to fill it out? If I admit that the school’s as good as I think it is, it’ll get an “outstanding” ranking and hence be permitted to put its high fees up even more. The alternative is to lie and say it’s pretty rubbish – if we all did that, it’d get an “unacceptable” rating and wouldn’t attract good teachers.

So, stuck between a rock and a hard place, I didn’t bother doing it. Again.

But here’s the thing: My children run into the classroom each day without looking back; their teachers have all been excellent; the children astound me with the things they’ve been taught each day; they’re both making progress above my expectations; and they miss school in the holidays.

You can’t get more “outstanding” than that, can you?

The hips don’t lie

My hips sometimes get an honorary mention in this blog. It’s not that they’re fat – honestly, there’s not a lot of fat on them – but they’re wide. “Child-bearing hips” says mum – to be honest, I’d have gone with two C-sections if it meant 5cms off the hips for life (before you shoot me, I had one C-section – I know they’re not easy).

I don’t think DH would have any objections either! As long as I only danced at home!

Anyway the other night we were at a friend’s house for a little evening soirée and it turned out she’d arranged a belly-dancer to entertain us.

I haven’t seen a belly dancer perform live for about 12 years. Like visiting the National Portrait Gallery when you live in London, it’s not something you do much once you live here.

So she shimmied and she jimmied and she jangled and she wiggled – and she held me totally entranced. She had a little belly, but what I noticed that night was that belly-dancing is actually not dependant on a big, wobbly belly. It’s more about a slim waist and curvy hips.

It was a revelation to me. At last the hip girth is useful for something. My friends, may I reveal my new career: Mrs Dubai – belly-dancer.

The castle with the pointy bits

I like to think my children are pretty literate. You could discuss some quite hifalutin topics with DD when she was two, and DS, while being slower to get there, is also showing the same tendencies. Which I’m happy about.

But there are times when he just doesn’t know the word for what he wants to say, so he tries ever so hard to describe it. An example would be: “Mummy? Mummy? Please can we get a … a … what are cats called when they’re really small?”

“Kittens?”

“That’s it! Yes, please can we get a kitten?” (The answer was no. Mean mummy!)

But he flummoxed me the other day when he asked if he could go to the “castle with pointy bits”.

I racked my brains. “Atlantis? Where Aquaventure is?”

“No.”

“The Tower of London?” Who knows what they’ve been learning in school.

“No!” (Rise in pitch denoting increasing frustration).

“Darling, you’re going to have to help me a bit more here. I can’t think of a castle with pointy bits.”

“It’s here. On the way to the shops. That castle, you know, with the pointy bits? Can we go to it?”

Here? On the way to the shops? Oh good god, I have no idea what he’s talking about and, if I don’t decipher it in the next 20 seconds, he’s going to go into meltdown.

“Where on the way to the shops?”

Not our local mosque but the Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi. I can kind of see where he got “castle with the pointy bits” from

“It’s by the car park. You know, the castle with the pointy bits. It goes ‘Allahu akbar!’” (he sings the call to prayer remarkably well). “S goes on Fridays?”

“Oh! The mosque! You want to go to the mosque?”

“Yes,” he says. “I want to see inside. Can we go? Please?”

Can he? Can I take him into our local mosque? I’m ashamed to say I have no idea.