mothers on the verge

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Trophy Wife is a curious beast. Sometimes mistaken for that other eye-catching species of Dubai mummy,  The Glamazon , she can generally be identified as a TW by the outrageous age gap between her and her husband, plus the fact that she makes other men's wives a little jittery. TW is the ultimate high maintenance woman. Her daily beauty maintenance routine is complicated, lengthy and highly scientific but an essential to keep her part of the marriage contract; after all, hubby provides the dough and the status - she just has to look fabulous on his arm, soothe his ego and act interested at all times. If she is also required to provide children (not always the case if she is the second or third wife) then TW has to drop the baby weight in record time and hire a night nanny to ensure she always looks perky, not so exhausted she barely notices the sick on her shoulder or the leaky boobs. TW is the sort of gal who claims to be unable to walk in flats due to having 'high arches&

I've written about the different species of Dubai mummy before  but the vote is that this endlessly fascinating topic is worth a revisit. Having previously touched on Hummer Mom , the Glamazon and the Dubai Sloane , it's time to examine ze  French Maman: FM will NEVER be seen wearing Birkenstocks or flipflops, her feet are shod in nothing less than ballet pumps or chic leather sandals. She would rather die than wear sweatpants, ratty shorts or a top bursting with cleavage - her understated shift dresses are made of 100% natural fibre (linen or Broiderie Anglaise being the top favorites) with subtle, yet witty, detailing, so well cut that most of us would need a second mortgage to come close to the same effect. FM wouldn't dream of leaving the house without a perfectly blow-dried sleek bob, if her hair colour isn't au naturel we would never be able to guess - Debbie Harry style roots, frizz, split ends or 'funky' colours are alien concepts. Nor does FM pile

Things my kids have said in the past week in a futile attempt to get out of trouble: 1. "But I can't help being badly behaved, Mummy. God made me this way." 2. "I'm allergic to sugar and it makes me naughty. That's why I hit her." 3. "The invisible man did it." 4. "It's not broken, Mummy. So I didn't drop it, see?" (Said despite the evidence being in pieces over the kitchen floor and clear for all to see.) 5. "I think you must have been dreaming, Mummy." (Said despite trangression having taken place right in front of me one short minute before.) I'll say one thing for my kids, they are both in possession of a very fertile imagination.

I can't remember a time when I didn't love to read. As a child, I read books like inhaling potato chips - I couldn't carry enough books from the library to last me the week until my mother would take me again. With The Rabbit nearly 7, and reading for the past 2 years, I have filled her room with books the way I imagine some parents fill their child's room with crayons and paper and paints and glue. Or blocks and Lego and trains. We have those too. But to me, books are the wonder. I think I've taught her well. Taught her that the crack of a spine on a new book as it gently opens is Mozart. That the crinkle of a wrapping from a library cover is joy, calling "Open me. Here. Listen. Dive." I've taught her that feeling of paper -- smooth and rough, full of anticipation. Taught her that words are bells. Hearing them in her head. Reading them out loud. That they are toys - to be played with, written, turned into her own stories. I taught her about Di

Just got this on email from a friend. Sacked via Facebook... ouch. Now that's a sign of the times.

Some days, when I'm feeling especially disheartened (like this entire week), I look at my list of people who are dyslexic and achieved great things. Did they achieve despite having dyslexia or because of it? I'm not sure but looking over this list certainly makes me feel better. Here they are: Hans Christian Anderson Alexander Graham Bell Winston Churchill Leonardo da Vinci Walt Disney Albert Einstein Nelson Rockefeller Quentin Tarantino W.B. Yeats Richard Branson Erin Brockovich Thomas Edison Anthony Hopkins John Irving Pablo Picasso Benjamin Zephaniah Not bad, huh?

We all try to be the best parent we can be, right? But sometimes it can be difficult. Sometimes we are faced with things we cannot fully understand, however hard we try. Sometimes, especially when you're tired or feeling below-par, it can feel impossible. Like today, when I discovered that my dyslexic seven-year-old daughter doesn't know the order of the days of the week. Small things that make it feel like an overload. We've struggled through the reading, the painful hours of stuttering and stumbling over simple words. The one step forward, three steps back phases. The days when reading the word 'and' seemed like a major challenge.  We got through learning to count up to 20, when the number 15 always 'hid' and couldn't be brought out however hard we tried. Sometimes it was the number 11 as well, other days 16 was the stubborn one. The days when she mixed up the letters that spelled out her name. When every other letter and number was the wrong wa

There is a strange trend here in Dubai, mainly championed by the Russians, to display your might-as-well-be naked butt while at the pool. Maybe I'm a bit uptight but since it's illegal to go topless here then why should you be allowed to get your arse out? It is true that I have a personal loathing of g-strings (why would you wear something that gives you a wedgie on purpose ?) and wouldn't sport one of these evil things if you paid me, but it's hard for anyone to deny the fact that there are very few sets of buttocks that stand up to scrutiny in the cold light of day. However svelte you are, unless you're a teenage supermodel with a derriere the shape and texture of a ripe peach then it's best to steer clear. Even if you're blessed with Madonna-like abs and legs up to your armpits, if you're the wrong side of 25 then don't even think about it. So why this shameless parade of wobbly bum flesh? Do these butt-showing perps think that a backside res

I love teenagers. I really do. OK, so 99% of them are total pains in the arse with their angsty "you don't understand me" and "everyone over the age of 25 should be, like, extinct" attitude, but you have to admire their capacity to be OTT self-obsessed. They are also incredibly amusing - although the fact that a 36 year old housewife thinks they are side-splittingly funny would probably be beyond mortifying for any self-respecting Inheritor of the Earth. What is great about the current crop of teens is their glorious confidence and ability to put themselves out there. When I was a teen I just wanted to crawl under a rock most of the time. I was overwhelmed with self-doubt and paralysed by the fear that my mates would find out that I didn't have much of a clue about anything. I became a consummate actor, cool on the outside and a nerd deep within. I recall many hours spent writing gloomy poetry about how shit my life was, in between climbing out on to the

We think it might be the end of Ramadan tomorrow. The announcement has been made that Eid al-Fitr, the Festival of Fast Breaking, starts on Sunday 20th September this year dependent on the sighting of the moon (actually based on astronomical calculations; I was quite disappointed when I found out, crushed my visions of groups of learned personages peering at the moon from hilltops every night). For Muslims, Eid al-Fitr is a time to dispense charity to the needy and get together with family for celebratory meals and to exchange gifts, with special Eid prayers being said at the Mosque early in the morning on the first day of Eid. For us expats it's slightly less meaningful, but it does mean a couple of days off from work, a week off school for the kids and being able to eat, drink, chew gum and smoke in public during daylight hours again now Ramadan is over. It's also an opportunity for ex-pats to get to know their Muslim neighbours better. The kids and I took chocolate bro

We get a lot of emails from PRs telling us about various new products, everything from mascara to software and a lot else in between. I'm an ex-PR - I racked up 13 long years in the business before coming to Dubai and realising that I enjoy a life of laziness far more than a life of ass-kissing - so I know most of the tricks. I know that it's often a numbers game and any blog with a 'parenting' tag is suitable prey. I know that bloggers are the new hot target for numerous brands; I wrote plenty of proposals in my former life on how to engage bloggers in an effort to gain a foothold in the credibility mountain. I even have a small amount of sympathy for those PRs forced to peddle rubbish; everyone has to eat, after all. Most of the emails we delete, especially the press releases spinning stuff with no relevance to what we do (guys, please read our blog before trying to flog us washing powder or teen clothing), but there is the odd one that makes us pause. Up to no

Spent 8 minutes this morning having my eyebrows shaped. Yes, I am aware how ridiculous this is. That a decent pair of tweezers and a steady hand can do the same thing and for $30 less. But there’s the rub. I don’t have a steady pair of hands – nor do I trust my visual abilities to know if I’ve done the trick or not. When I started seeing Connie two years ago, my fascist technician, she fairly yelled at me for the destruction I had brought on my face. “This is too short. This is too skinny. You cannot touch your eyebrows ever again. Do you see this?” But of course, that’s the point. I didn’t. I guess I thought my mishapened arches were holding up my face just fine. Although, of course, I suspected they weren’t anymore — which is why I handed them over to the furious, immensely skilled hands of Connie. She cuts. She waxes. She tweezes. It’s terrible – and terrific. Now I like to believe my eyebrows could hold their own against any others. They’re arched. They’re long. They’re full – but

Just finished re-reading Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser . Apart from the fact that fast food is pretty rank  and my kids are never eating hamburger again (yeah, I know the book is old and the fast food chains have now got the processing giants by the short and curlies re safety/ hygiene/ not putting brain and spinal cord in hamburger patties anymore yada yada whatever, they're still not eating them ever again), what really surprised me was that every time I picked the book up and saw the picture of McDonalds-esque fries on the cover I had cravings for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. What's that all about? It's not like I worship at the shrine of Ronald McDonald, I usually go maybe a couple of times a year at most. I've managed to resist those glittering Golden Arches so far, but possibly only due to the fact that I can't eat in public at the moment due to it being Ramadan and don't fancy the idea of the Drive-Thru. Oh yeah, and feeding dead dogs and cats t

It's that time of year again when the countdown to the Blogger's Choice Awards begins. We've been nominated in two categories, Best Parenting Blog and Hottest Mommy Blogger, and we'd love it if you'd support us. Simply click on one (or both!) of the Bloggers Choice Award sidebar buttons on the left to sign in and register your vote. Thanks!

It was my grandpa's 91st birthday yesterday. Now, that's an achievement. I wish I could have been there to give him a birthday hug but that's the downside of being born on the other side of the world from most of your family - I was the product of a union between an American and a Brit, born and raised in England, and as a result never felt properly American or British (God knows how my kids will feel, at last reckoning they are a quarter British, a quarter American, a quarter Kiwi and a quarter Fijian, plus a dash of Irish...) - then choosing to live even further away as an adult (Dubai, UAE). A phone call and a gift through the mail had to do instead. Happy birthday, pops.

I had my first run in with the law today. With half an hour to kill between school drop-off and a session at the dentist, I parked up by the beach as I was feeling a bit dizzy and desperate for a drink (it's been 42C here today and I've had a bad head cold, to say I wasn't feeling great would be an understatement). Of course it's Ramadan so eating, drinking and smoking in public is prohibited, but I took one sip, thinking that as the beach was fairly deserted and I was tucked out of plain sight in my car, it would be OK. Wrong. I had just put the can down when a police car appeared out of nowhere, pulled up alongside me and gestured for me to open my window. A police officer emerged and asked for my license, then asked if I had taken a drink. My stomach lurched. Since the evidence was clear to see, in the shape of a mini-can of Diet Coke skulking in my drink holder, I 'fessed up and apologised profusely, explaining that I wasn't feeling very well. He gave

Went to our first Iftar on Friday at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel . Gluttony took over and I am still in a carb-induced zone-out; the pudding selection was far too good to refuse, think I got to thirds before finally admitting defeat. Even the kids were faced with more chocolate cake than they could handle, pretty much a world first. Although as the Small(er) One wisely pointed out, it was a "pretend" Iftar as we are not Muslim nor have we been fasting. Fun though. Maybe I will be sufficiently recovered tomorrow to rouse myself to write more than a few sentences. Possibly.

Bit cross today as spent the third morning in a row looking at real estate in Dubai, Alpha being a bit keen to invest some money in bricks and mortar. Just got off the phone to umpteen agents, each more annoying than the last. Here is my rough guide to communicating with estate agents in Dubai (most of them anyway, I know one who is great. Email me off-blog if you want her details): Rule #1 - never believe anything they tell you. Dubai estate agents LIE outrageously without any qualms whatsoever. Rule #2 - if an advert for a property looks too good to be true, it is too good to be true. When you call to inquire after the huge, gorgeous, incredibe bargain you've just seen an ad for it will inevitably already have been 'sold'. In other words, it didn't exist in the first place (except in the estate agent's imagination) and it was a cheap ruse to SUCKER YOU IN. Rule #3 - square footage in Dubai is not the same as anywhere else in the world. There are two types of s

"I hate you! I'm going to find another mummy. You'll be sorry when I'm gone! I hope you cry for a million years and infinity!" Small feet thunder down the corridor and a door slams, an enraged wail emenates from the bedroom. This was the Small(er) One's response to being chided for trying to pull one of the kittens out from under the sofa by its tail. A similar response was evoked when she was told off for playing tug-of-war with her sister - the object in the middle being our very cross Mama cat. Now the ginger kitten starts to tremble when he hears the Small(er) One's dulcet tones, while the black kitten hides and Mama cat looks for the nearest exit. Alpha and I thought having pets would be good for the children - you know, teach them about being gentle and respectful of animals. Pah. The kids treat the cats like toys, albeit more interesting versions that can be chased and captured. Thankfully for the kids these are incredibly tolerant cats. They