Grow Old Gracefully

It started as a by-product of the rich and famous which only movie stars, fashionistas and celebrity personalities boasted.    Slowly it moved into the circles of the wealthy business world and high rollers that had a significant disposable income.    It slowly trickled down into the middle classes until reaching the current destination among the vain working class, you’ve guessed it, Botox.

Living in the glittering Emirate of Abu Dhabi where there are more bored expat wives than grains of sand on the desert, it is nigh on impossible not to feel the peer pressure from the well-kept and toned gym bunnies and the ever lovely, ladies who lunch.   It genuinely never occurred to me that perhaps their creaseless complexions were surgically enhanced and looking back now I wonder how I thought it possible that someone improved on their looks year on year, whilst swilling back toxic quantities of Pinot Grigio.  

Never having considered using Botox, I opted for the long hard road (a week) of exercise, early nights and eight glasses of water a day,  when this combination wasn’t warding off the wrinkles, I upped the water intake and reduced carbs, when still new crevices appeared morning after morning,  I reduced fats and sleep an extra hour each night, still the trenches on my forehead continued to deepen and finally reaching a plateau where for one week my life consisted of seed eating, water drinking, extensive sleeping and some gentle exercise, I decided that I would rather wrangle with the wrinkles than continue to live like a budgie.  Satisfied in aptly aging face I took solace from the fact that my friends were also in the same boat, we weren’t in the Botox set and although there was a portion of ladies who tampered with their looks, we agreed to grow old gracefully.

The agreement slowly slipped off the table and slowly slithered into the ditch altogether when more and more people I knew began to cancel lunch to accommodate their filler appointments.   Each one looking better than the next with plumper foreheads and fuller lips than ever God (any God) intended.  Along with the decrease of laugh lines and crow’s feet so too went the middle aged mammy attitude and re-born was the new old thirty something of years past.  A more confident bird altogether.  Still wary, I continued to stick with my flock and peck on nuts and sup water.

Never having been exposed to the opportunity or the peer pressure of having to become a Botox user I was stumped the day the email arrived.  Botox was on Groupon.   Like a blow-dry, a car valet or a two for one dinner, I could click the button to purchase a series of facial injections which wouldn’t stop the aging process but would procrastinate same for somewhere between eight and fourteen months time.   Never, I would take it on the chin now and live with the ugliness of nature rather than admit the ugliness of vanity.

Staunch in my position of high moral ground which lasted just until I bumped into a good friend who positively glowed with youth.  All experience wiped clean from her face as her smooth and supple cheeks betrayed her forty fix years.  Hoping against reason I complimented her profusely willing her to mention to what she owned her great new look.  Firstly she tried to pawn me off with stories of exercise and diet, when I appeared dubious she changed tactic and mentioned that she had changed make-up and perhaps that was responsible for the massive change.  Not having “born yesterday’ etched into my forehead I knew that Lancôme and Clarins not yet invented a “lose ten years in one week cream”.   She finally conceded,  that she had taken the soup or the injection so to speak.   I felt the warm glow of the upper hand course through my veins, I had won, I hadn’t given in to vanity.

The warm glow soon gave way to a steady flow of green envy as she sashayed past fresh faced and left me pinched faced, eating my bowl of shriveled nuts and warm hoping to stave off the effects of aging through brute force and determination, not that graceful after all.

Ping Pong

It’s the time of year when the weather is just about perfect.   Warm sunny days of comfortable temperatures anywhere between 23 and 28 and fresh nights, the temperatures never going below 16/17.   It’s these few months of the year that make the unbearable Middle East summer months bearable.    It’s also the months for visitors, like ants to a picnic; they start to come, thick and fast.  This week saw the arrival of my sister-in-law, complete with her two under four and four cases all over 35kgs, cases not kids.

Her maiden voyage to the Middle East since my compulsory emigration of three years ago, I was pleased that she finally had the opportunity to witness firsthand the sacrifice I was making every day, just to keep our family together.  Having lived next door to each other  during the boom times, it became obvious after the burst when one of us relied on the private sector and the other relied on public, whose door would remain open, mine was firmly shut punctuated only by a few inconsistent tenants.    Being in a pensionable government job she was able to stay.  I was looking forward to the fortnight, the cousins would meet and she would return home feeling as sorry for me as I was for myself.

The first days didn’t go as well as I expected, the sun beamed in the cloudless sky, warming the bones of our cousins who incidentally had never felt real grass, owing to the persistent rain, broken only by an odd shower of hailstones or sleet.   They all played happily in the back garden from dawn to dusk and afterwards they feasted on a plate of barbequed pony or whatever.  They then slept the sleep of the happy beneath the hypnotic hum of the cooling A/C.  It was difficult to portray my hardship in these circumstances but there was time, she would see that life in Abu Dhabi wasn’t without its trials.

I tried to highlight the loneliness that living abroad brought but between the constant flow of visitors to the front door and Skype ringing loudly in the background it was difficult to get the time to explain fully how the isolation felt.    After one week of varying the itinerary between shopping malls and the beach I felt I needed to point out the monotony of same and how lucky she was to still have a job in Ireland.   When I learned that after Government levies and pay-cuts she was back to earning what she earned in 1978 or something like that, I let that particular argument rest.

I raved about how I missed home cooking as we all too often end up eating out or on the run to accommodate often conflicting daily schedules.   However I lost the argument too, as she stood wide-eyed at the range of options in the foodcourts of Abu Dhabi and mentioned how she appreciated eating out these days, having a diminishing disposable income, shoes for the children now takes precedence over a Friday night curry.

As a last ditch effort, I waxed lyrical about the benefits of an Irish education, I pointed out the frustration of living in a rental property when our home was idle,  spoke at length about the horrendous heat of summer and how dehydrating the A/C was on our skin. 

The friendly game of ping pong came to a close when she clarified a few points for me on living in Ireland today.  After paying the child minder, she has Eu. 150 Euros a month to call her own.   With car tax and petrol on the up and her car park space becoming a deductible benefit, she is now forced to cycle to work in all conditions.   Her kitchen extension plans are on hold for the foreseeable future at her house once called “Wood View House” could now be renamed, “Negative Equity Lodge”, the children’s allowance is being means tested and if it wasn’t for the air miles her husband had clocked up on his six weeks on, two off over the past three years in Azerbaijan she wouldn’t be in Abu Dhabi at all.  If I was keeping score, she would be leading ten nil.  I kept quiet and hoped to God she didn’t notice Nurshami washing my car outside or I’d have no hope of a comeback.

Standard Associated Networking

Just to prick the bubble of belief that all expat women do is shop, have manicures and pedicures and enjoy overpriced lunches in artisan coffee houses, I’d like to point out that it is the primary function of the mammy to be the networker for the family.

In the Middle East it is typical that in over 95% of families that it is the husband who works and the woman who washes, a loose term, you understand.  While the man is out every day bringing home the bacon, it becomes all too obvious that the meal in incomplete without social integration, the eggs and tomato so to speak,  a responsibility that  falls firmly into the woman’s lap.   The everyday expat wife is adept at entertaining, meeting, greeting and attending all the social gatherings which provides the concrete for her family’s foundation when living abroad.   As all these women are flat out playing Stepford Wives,  I’m looking on in amazement ,as being Irish and adverse to accepting help and seeing ordering Pizza for dinner as an eternal black mark on my soul,  I find I’m far too busy juggling housekeeping, cooking and losing my mind to spend sufficient time networking to make significant impact.

While networking is a key part of settling into life as an expat, I’m told that the routine of filter coffee and filtered platitudes can become hum drum.  I rest for a while and lean heavy on the handle of the mop as I recall a saying my Grandmother, mother to fourteen and part-time dressmaker, used to bandy about whilst having tea,   “A woman never looked at her elbow twice but she had a plan”.

So to beat the hum drum, along with all standard associated networking of babygroups, birthday parties and bookclubs, hundreds of expat women channel their energy, focus and flair in other directions.   Some knead out a respectable second income from making birthday cakes for spoiled expat brats, whose mother wants  them to have a Winnie the Pooh cake the doesn’t have Tigger wearing a headscarf.    Others capitalise on their experience gained during a summer spent sweeping hair at the local hairdressers and open their own salon from home and hand out flash business cards as if they weren’t using the bath as a sink.  A marketing plan so slick that even when you find yourself on your knees bending over the bath getting Pantene washed down your face, you’re still happy to pay high street prices for back street salon service.  Bully for her!    Another inventive little moneymaker is the second hand clothes market.  In a society where the speed of a woman’s impulse buy surpasses the speed of light, offering a service to re-sell these garments is like shooting fish in a barrel.    These are just of few of the services proffered by creative expat wives, card making, jewellery designing, home crafts, baby-gifts and cosmetic products are all in the mix also.   I felt useless, unable to find the time to attend these crafty fairs let alone take a table and display any wares!

Downhearted and over-whelmed , I thought I had seen it all.  It wasn’t until the salmon coloured flyer caught my attention in the local grocery that I found myself having to do a re-take.   “Home-made dinners,  everyday meals at a yummy price”.   Was there actually someone you could pay to make the dinner?   I quietly waited until the area was cleared and I had the chance to take a slip from the notice without anyone noticing, intent on retaining my title as a Modern –Day Martyr.    Dialling the number, I learned that dinner could in fact be ordered and collected at approximately 300% of the cost price.   Upon further inquiry I learned that there was a two week waiting list for Beef and Kidney Pie and Chicken and Mushroom Pie, but Spag Bol could be rustled up in as quick as three days.  

My heart soared and I mentally clapped my calloused hands, these crafty women were getting their dinners delivered to the door, which in turn allowed them to say goodbye Cinders hello Miss Congeniality!    Bully for the cook who hadn’t time to look at her elbow twice!  And Bully for her again – she’s Irish!

Keeper to Kept

Over the past forty years the role of the woman within the family unit has changed significantly in Ireland.  Back in the sixties and seventies it was standard practice that women stayed at home while the men went out to work.  The women busied themselves with raising the children, keeping the house and trying to manage both on their often frugal housekeeping money.  

Over the course of the eighties, nineties and noughties women grew into multi faceted beings that not only possessed the maternal and domestic instincts, they also harnessed their academic capabilities and entered the professional workforce, flaunting their finesse and their intellectual prowess with all the gait and pride of a confident peacock, all that and they still managed to make the time to bake brownies for the school bake sale, the women, not the peacocks.

Entering the teen years, life for the modern Irish woman couldn’t have been better, we had it all, marriage, career and money in our purses.  The flaming torch for women’s liberation had been passed from generation to generation and we were  proud to carry the torch for a while before we would present it to our daughters. For the first time in forty years, we could afford to contribute financially to our families lives, that is, if we had any cash left over after paying Katia (the Polish au pair) and treating ourselves to Spa days at the Maryborough.  We were able to steer our family’s lifestyle to an equal degree, as the guilt of not being a fiscal contributor was eradicated, and we brought home the same amount and in some cases more bacon than the husbands.  Progressive social attitudes meant that women were able to enjoy a career and family without having to compromise on either and an independent salary was the cherry on top.

All was going well until woman took up with Declan, the Civil Engineer who found himself relying on a diminishing construction industry to co-support his family.   Woman subsequently found herself casting her career, together with all her ambition and ability into the depths of the Persian Gulf as she landed in the Middle East in a selfless act of support for her husband and her kids Fionn and Fiachra. 

From afar it looks like these women have it all.  The once run-off-their-feet careers mums now find themselves living in sunny Abu Dhabi, in the full-time permanent position post of wife and mother.   The initial reaction of these women may often be relief, perhaps even enthusiasm as they look forward to a life of leisure punctuated by a round of golf or a spot of tennis.  The first flicker of the torch happens when woman realised that none of their bank accounts, credit cards or contracts bear her name, only that of the name of her husband, hereafter referred to as the breadwinner.

First months in Abu Dhabi may see the woman developing a fondness of shopping and luncheons in French (Arab owned, Philipino run) coffee houses.   However the sojourn doesn’t last long,  what Declan may have failed to mention during the first weeks was that every time one of his debit or credit cards  are used in a transaction the bank send a text, stating the amount spent and the name of the retailer.   This nugget of information may clarify why the breadwinner was silent on so many evenings, particularly on the evenings when woman said she spent the day doing housework but the bank reported five separate incidents of card usage.  The financial .rape continues until the breadwinner has no choice but to break his silent and disclose the information he is party to.   From that point forward woman can no longer spend without consequence, both her whereabouts and her spending habits are fully exposed. The torch is quenched.

Wings clipped and without the price of a stamp to call their own, the women who left Ireland, fully qualified, fully employed and full independent persons now find themselves back in the situation of their grandmothers and great-grandmothers, to a time when women rely on men to provide their housekeeping money.  Decades of social struggle wiped as we now struggle to adjust from keeper to kept.

Voyeurism

Across Ireland two year old Johnny’s and Mary’s are spending their morning’s twiddling their thumbs and dragging their blankys from one couch to another, with one eye on the Disney channel and the other on their soggy cornflakes.  Their afternoons might possibly involve tagging along with Mammy to her friend’s house or the shop. The highlight of the week might be an outing to a sofa play centre or the park for just long enough to lick the bars and pick up the germs that you tried to avoid by cancelling coffee earlier in the week with your friend who had two sick kids.

Across Abu Dhabi, two year old Isaacs and Aisha’s are spending their mornings in nursery school, learning how to play, share, when to be quiet, when to be noisy, colours, shapes, animals, the lot.   These baby boot camps run from 8a.m. to 2p.m, many come with full uniform and, much to the delight of the parents who cannot wait to get their child into the education system, some even have books.  So while these baby Einstein’s are learning the difference between the primary and secondary colours, my little genius is picking cheerios out of his nappy for sport.

These nursery schools are not to be confused with crèche or daycare facilities at home.   They are not daycare, they are schools for pre-schoolers.   Bearing in mind that private education is the only option in the Middle East and the majority of Irish expats opt for the British system as opposed to the American, German, French, Pakistani or Canadian schools.   Formal education in the British system starts at aged three, once the child is toilet trained he’s ready for off!  Surely a school uniform and a seven thirty start is a stretch for a three year old, and surely the elastic snaps when you expect a two year old to attend full time nursery and learn Arabic!  However under the influence of just about every other mother in Abu Dhabi, the peer pressure wore me down and I began to tinker with the notion of enrolling my soother sucking sweetie into nursery.  

More in depth consideration brought me to think that I was in no rush to expand the school run, have another lunch to make or part with wads of cash every month to educate the baby, so my little Johnny is a stay-at-home baby with his stay-at-home mommy.   Every day we’re learning,   yesterday I learned that he was able to turn on the outside tap, drag the hosepipe to the back door and flood the sitting room.  Today he learned that mommy doesn’t mind him tipping full bottles of shampoo down the loo, if it means that she gets to have a coffee and a goss on the phone for ten minutes.  So everyday we’re learning, together. 

This begin said, dreams of roaming down the shopping aisles of supermarkets without having tantrums and tears every step of the way and thoughts of going to the pool without an armful of inflatable toys and plastic cups began to haunt my every day.     It became my getaway, dreaming of all the things I could do between the hours of nine and noon, if they were my own… train for the marathon, write a book, take a shower in peace, the list was endless.  Staunch in my decision not to send the baby to nursery but green with envy at the thought of my friends having a full morning “sans children”, to do anything they please, I became curious at how one friend in particular chose to spend her morning.   “Oh we just all sit in the viewing room,  there are cameras everywhere in the nursery and the viewing room has over twenty screens  so  we can see our little darlings at play,  some of the other mum’s bring books but not me, I don’t want to miss a thing”   she said.  Pulling out her phone she began to show me clips of the child at play in nursery.   

Shocked to learn that voyeurism was in full swing in the UAE but happy in the knowledge that while I might not be spending my morning doing exactly as I wish , I’m certainly wasn’t sitting there looking on .

Grass is Greener

Folks in Abu Dhabi are chomping at the bit waiting for the temperatures to drop below 40°c.  It is over the coming weeks that the temperatures will start the steady decline to a tolerable 35°,  next stop an enjoyable 30° and then the glorious 25° plateau which will be the temperature  all winter long, dipping to 17° or 18° on the very coldest of winter nights.  Meanwhile the population of Ireland are facing into the first weekend in October and clutching the sides of their seats with dread of the winter weather and the knock-on effect on their outdoor activities and their gardens.  The only consolation for many in Ireland is that the lawnmower operator will be taking a well deserved break after a long season of mowing, trimming, preening and disposing the lush green grass that grows like wildfire all summer long.

Over next week or the week after will see an onslaught of expats take to the dirtracks, highways and beautifully landscaped compounds of Abu Dhabi, running, walking, cycling, roller blading, etc.     The preparation for the cooling down is well under way as it seems everyone is keen to get their garden in shape and create the perfect outdoor space,  others invest in a state of the art outdoor grill, intent on barbequing the winter months away.   I would at this stage point that while the weather in Abu Dhabi, is sunny all the time,  the intense heat and searing rays cause irreparable damage.   Trampolines turn brittle and snap, garden furniture gets faded and any smidgen of grass that was evident last April is now a scorched weed.   So begins the mammoth task of rejuvenating the green of last year.     Those with cash to splash hire a gardening contractor, explaining in detail to the Bangladeshi landscaper, who incidentally didn’t spent four years in college studying horticulture to get where he is today, how they would like their garden designed.    Myself, I opt for a 5kg box of “Big Green Grass” from Carrefour and a hose but despite my unwavering determination my efforts are without success to date.    I will suffice to say that when I had dewy thick blades at home, I dreamed of sunny far flung destinations.

My failure to resuscitate the lawn was highlighted when earlier this week I enjoyed a juice (of the grape variety) with a fellow Irish gal, in her heavenly back garden.   Her grass was perfect,  green as… well,  green as grass,  framed with peach colour pea gravel and peppered here and there with  flowering shrubs which seemed to overhang as just the right angles.    The lawn was perfected edged in line with patio area, no worn patches and no scorched areas; I couldn’t possibly invite her back without getting my back garden in order.  Not wanting to appear too astonished, I  casually admired the garden and said I was working on my own.   Her garden clearly reflected her commitment and effort; she had it all. I shuddered to think of the message mine was sending out.

My heels were barely out the door when I dialed the number of the Bangladeshi contractor, come quickly I said, it’s urgent.   Three days later, he arrived at the door.   Sitting him down on the faded plastic outdoor chair, I explained my situation about the image I wished to project and the type of outdoor space I yearned sfor.   He looked blankly back and replied, “No understand ma’am, please show”.     This was how I ended up, sitting in the gardener’s truck and peering into my neighbour’s back garden.    I explained that I wanted it just like hers, even down to the large blue pots. 

“This ma’am can be by tomorrow morning”,   not being a biologist by any stretch of the imagination,  I wondered how it was possible,  “All this ma’am,  artificial,  everything fake”  “Grass is synthetic, flowers plastic”.  Appalled, that what I thought was real,  was really phoney.  It made me question the whole friendship,  what else was fake?  Desperately hoping for a reprieve,  I asked meekly,  “the stones, they must be real?”,  Alas, Sinbad shook his head,  “sorry ma’am, also fake, resin product”.    There it was, the garden I hankered after was a real mirage and not possible in Abu Dhabi.  Wishing that some of Ireland could be here, just proves the rule, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Sandstuck

It may sometimes seem that all expats do is complain and look at the negative side of living abroad, away from home, away from family, away from one’s own culture and lifestyle.  Dry your eyes, sometimes life isn’t all that bad in the Middle East and sometimes, just sometimes it can run quite smoothly.  This is exactly what I thought on the day I had arranged to pick up with my pre-summer buddy from Khalifa City originally from Clifden Co. Galway.   Glamorous, witty, outgoing and Irish, just the kind of company I fancied myself keeping.  It had taken a few weeks to settle back into life in Abu Dhabi and it foibles, but this day all seemed well.    The gardener arrived on the day he said he would, yes already my green finger promise was falling asunder but I reckon being willing to pay someone to do the work and rolling up one’s own sleeves, shows the same commitment to task at hand.    My nail appointment was on the compound and I already knew the summer coral shade I was going to use,  it would compliment my new Haviannas perfectly.   .

Midday all was in the order, the coral colour came out beautifully, my new silver Haviannas were perfect with my snow white Capri pants and starched white sleeveless shirt.  The stars were aligned.   We had arranged to meet halfway for lunch to catch up after summer.    On the way I decided to push efficiency into overdrive and call to the post office to collect the mail, most of which is re-directed from Ireland and none of which makes for happy reading.  The postal system in the Middle East is via PO Box so you must collect your mail in a central office.    Pulling up outside the post office, all seemed fine, the car park, I hasten to the add that the car park is a sandy space outside the building that is defined by any boundaries, paths or kerbs, there are a few worn tracks where most cars go, so pulling in and out is easy, just come off the road, wherever you like.   

Arms laden with envelopes from Ireland,( it’s never a good sign when half of your post has a harp on the front of a brown envelope and the other half are the windowed white bank ones) this batch contained no light reading material at all, nothing, not even a flyer from  Pizza Hut.  Anyway determined to get on and enjoy the day that was going so nicely so far and eager to meet the friend,  I sat back into the Jeep ( I will point out at this stage that I can all 4×4’s,”jeeps” and all vacuum cleaners hoovers, even if it’s a Dyson).    I revved up again, and again, I didn’t move.   Maybe there was a blockage, I slipped it into reverse turned the wheels a notch and revved again,  no movement.  A sinking feeling began to develop, both physically and emotionally.   I stood out of the Jeep to witness the two back wheels buried halfway in sand.   I did what I knew every man I knew would shriek at,  I sat in and revved it goodo again, of course this deepened the problem and my plans were now looking well and truly sunk.

I waited for a time to see if someone, like a handy lookin’ kinda guy that could happen to walk past or pull up beside me but on clearer thought decided that there was more of a likelihood of a camel walking past  than a fella with a couple of sand scoops under his arm.  Kneeling down in my crisp Capri pants I started to scoop the dry as a bone dusty sand using none other than my brand new Haviannas.   The sand sprayed on my face, hair, clothes and coral nails as I scooped relentlessly.   A loud guffaw from behind and an arrogant Arab ( not as rare as the fella with the sand scoop) offered to help.  Just the kind of attitude I needed when kneeling in the sand, sweat and dust having formed a crust in my hair, in 48 degree heat and late for lunch. He sat into the Jeep tugged the lever that said 4×4 and drove out with ease.  Dusting down his Dishdasha, he walked away shaking his head and tutted, “expat women should drive cars.”  Nice.

New Years Resolution

For the “school year people”, like myself, that exit the UAE the instant the last school bell rings in June and don’t return until the day before school starts, it can feel like punching time.   Similar to working in a job where you feel under-utilized and under-stimulated, you can seek small solace in the fact that you can play Solitaire behind the bosses back or at least catch up on your emails.  

So every September offers the opportunity for a re-birth, a second coming so to speak, the punctuation marking the end of one year and the beginning of another and all the best made resolutions that are associated with the opening of a new chapter.    Having a penchant for over-estimating myself, I set myself some pretty tough targets for the coming September – June term.   

Target number one, I would not enter into road rage and I would refrain from using expletives at every and any junction, roundabout, slip-road etc, with particular abstinence from expletives when the children are in the car.   Haphazard driving would not cause me to see  red, literally, instead,  I would view the experience as part of the overall course of living in the Middle East,  I would be entertained, amused and most of all,  calm behind the wheel.

Target number two, I will become the perfect parent,  forgotten P.E. gear, lost swimming hats, mouldy lunchboxes, torn shirts, cracked iPads, crocked laptops, overflowing laundry baskets, unmade-beds, unrecognizable bedrooms,  and the non-replacement of an toilet roll in the bathroom would no longer instigate world war three, resulting in everyone cowering in various corners cos mom’s gone crazy again.  Instead, I would embrace these happenings as beautiful hiccups in parenthood.   I would smile, tut and tousle their hair lovingly, reassuring them that mom had it all sorted. I would exude an aura of calm and the house would be filled with a Zen-like atmosphere.   

Target number three, to rejuvenate my tired back garden, making sure to water the scorched grass morning and night in the hope that it would come good, I would become green fingered, I hoped by Christmas, to be a regular user of the line, “My garden is my solace, it’s where I spend all the time”,   one would need to witness the bleak state that my garden is in now in order to fully appreciate the scale of this ambition.

It was morning number three back to school and all was good, Zen hadn’t exactly arrived fully  but crazy had left the building.   I was taking the time to catch up on some emails while the children prepared their bags for school.  It was then I heard the niggle begin of children arguing.   It was a mislaid locker key.   I bowed my head at the computer and tried to drown out the voices but my keypad was too  expensive and so the silence did nothing to help me ignore the voices, which escalated rapidly.  Twenty minutes later than scheduled we left the house, arriving at the school just at the most trying time for the rush for car park spaces.   I pulled off road and switched to 4 wheel drive for the sandy dunes which were the new school car park.   I could see the perfect parking spot ahead and in the bouncy suspension of the 4 x4 we clambered towards it.  Just as I was about to pull up,  a large black Hummer halted in my pathway and started letting out kids, like Smarties from a box, they just kept coming!  And my ass was causing  massive obstruction as a result.  ( I would clarify at this point, when I say my ass, I mean the back of my car, while my own ass is far from pert, it would not cause a road blockage) the horns blew loudly behind. Several hand gestures, expletives and retaliated horn blowing later, I topped off the morning by loudly adding that if the locker key wasn’t mislaid, we wouldn’t be late and in this situation.

I returned to the garden, I grabbed the hose with one hand and played Solitare on my iPhone with the other.  I was still on course for target number three.

Hell hath no fury like a mammy on a plane

Queuing for the night flight from Heathrow to Dubai with three kids, four hand luggage items, I get a growing sinking feeling about the availability of the inadequate bassinette. Far from considering myself a seasoned traveler however, I have had of recent years intensive and extensive experience in travelling with children both old and young over the past few years, I have adopted a certain persona when travelling long haul, keep calm, be organized, keep calm. This sense of calm is hard work and can be fractured easily, any hitch can cause a crack resulting in the shattering of same, not a pretty picture and one I try to keep to the back of my mind, but that was three years ago, on a ninety minute with a no frills airline and if I didn’t smack her, someone else would have! Ironically travelling with an Arabian airline on an eight hour flight from London with young kids is a walk in the park compared to domestic travelling within Europe. Service, attention to detail and all the spirits you can drink all make long haul travelling almost easier that short trips. So boarding the flight and taking our seating positions in front of the baby’s cot, which is a cardboard box strapped onto a plastic shelf all seemed rosy. For the third time in recent months I had lied about my baby’s weight, I looked straight into the eyes of the air hostess and told her he was just under 10kgs (the weight restriction for the bassinette) I could see the doubt in eyes casting a shadow on my integrity as she looked at my little darling whose fat legs were wedged between the armrest and the seat as he struggled to fish the last few Monster Munch from the torn packet, in that moment he looked all of his 14.5kg’s, but I had to weigh up the options, being honest with the tiny Thai airhostess or sit with baby on my lap and get a numb arm for six hours, feeling a little bit of a bully as I stood taller and broader than she but it was no competition, I continued the lie, it was down to a battle of wills, I won. I nestled into my seat with smug satisfaction and started my babies bedtime routine. Two spoons of calpol and a severe lack of eye contact he was asleep within five minutes. Me- time was here, I took to the shopping magazine and kicked off my shoes. Calm didn’t last long as the contrary of the seasoned traveler fumbled in beside me, a couple of holidaymakers with their knackered two year old, who was holding a stuffed camel half her own height and possibly twice her waifish weight. The accoutrements didn’t stop there, as they took out her flight pillow, portable dvd player, various sippy cups and enough snack packs to feed a crèche. My calm was ruffled but in-tact. Five long minutes later the overprotective Mommy continued to dole out sucky sweet, hand-cream, reading material and every other kind of on-board assessory you can imagine. Their excitement about their two week holiday to Dubai was palpable and highly annoying. My calm was showing signs of strain. Breaking point came when the plane was taking off and Mommy produced a book titled, My First Flight to little Izzy. The over-stimulated toddler continued to get more and more excited and the risk that she would wake my sedated sweetheart was becoming a real worry. Minutes later my calm ruptured as the happy family started signing, “we’re all going on a summer holiday”, exactly the kind of enthusiastic attitude I hate. My body temperature along with my sauv blanc were both getting warm and my baby, packed tightly into the bassinette was beginning to stir, to say no wriggle room, would be an understatement. “Please may we move seats, there are three seats in a row back there, can my baby and me take them?” “Ma’am, I am sorry for restriction for baby to have own seat is 14kgs, but as your baby is not even ten, this is not possible”, I stared deep into her eyes, with that look of, “hell hath no fury like a mammy on a plane” she said no more, just helped me move.

Dubai Expat Wives

kj