mothers on the verge

The Mummy Racer is an angry and compulsive beast, so don't be fooled by her cunning disguise as a paragon of maternal virtue: it takes more than a Boden shirt and Birkenstocks to make a saintly matriarch. She may smile sweetly enough if you bump into her in the aisle at Spinneys, but God help you if you get ahead of her on the Sheik Zayed Road... she's got headlights and a highly effective horn and, by gosh, she sure knows how to use them. MR's natural habitat is in the driving seat of the biggest, fastest car she can persuade her husband to cough up a hefty wodge of his annual bonus on - ideally something a bit flash with a huge throbbing engine, for MR is a bit of a petrolhead (her secret crush is Jeremy Clarkson - she often fantasizes about the two of them trawling car showrooms together and engaging in lively discussions on piston performance... ) MR has perfected keeping a manically happy smile on her face whilst roundly abusing other drivers for their lack of skil

They say you can tell a lot by what a woman keeps in her handbag. My handbag - more commonly known as 'The Black Hole'... since once something is dropped into its murky depths it is rarely seen again - has been increasing in size as the years go by and with the addition of each child. At this rate, expect to see me sporting a nice, smart wheely bag this time next year. With some trepidation, I empty out my handbag to investigate. Here's what I discovered: A purse bulging with receipts, credit cards, ID cards, 2 driving licenses, photos and, sadly, not much cash A locker key from Dubai Mall ice-rink (oops, should have given that back) A small bottle of Dettol instant hand sanitiser  A roll of AED100 notes stuffed into a side pocket (not so impressive on closer examination, but still... a happy moment) A tube of Clarins Beauty Flash Balm (to counteract the draining effects of the early-morning school run) A tube of Clarins Eye Revive Beauty Flash (ditto) A tube of

Nine years ago today I was in the maternity ward of the Chelsea & Westminster hospital in London, staring at my moments-old first born child with amazement. Holding that tiny baby in my arms, still woozy and in pain from the long and difficult birth that almost defeated us, I whispered a promise in her pink translucent ear; that I'd love her with my whole heart and endeavor to protect her from harm until I took my very last breath. I still love her with my whole heart and I still protect her as much as I'm able to, but I'm learning fast that I can't protect her from everything; it's not always the wisest course of action to wrap your child in cotton wool and shield her from the world. My job is to prepare her as much as I can for adulthood which means that sometimes, with gritted teeth and a heavy heart, I have to stand back and let her find her own way. Yes, I can be there, loitering in the background for when it gets too much and she turns to look for me, bu

Here's a FB  link to the interview that went out on air on the Catboy & Geordiebird Breakfast Show on Dubai92 this morning. Non-Facebook users, try this . Can I just make it entirely clear, however, that I don't identify with Mid-Life Mummy (I'm much too young, honestly!) What I actually said is that I identify most with Slummy Mummy ; despite the fact I always make my own fairy cakes and my underwear is fabulous, it is true that I've been known to have a sneaky Marlboro or two in the alley behind school and yes, I do keep a permanent marker pen in the car for last-minute school shoe scuff touch-ups...oh, and I once did the school run in my nightie (don't think anyone noticed though)... sad but true! Must forgive them, however - embarrassing as it may be to have people inquiring as to when I'm off to Buenos Aires - fantastic plug for the blog and great fun to do. Thanks Catboy & Geordiebird!

If you're new to the blog and have ventured this way because you've been listening to this morning's Catboy & Geordiebird Breakfast Show on Dubai92 , you may want to check out a few posts from the Dubai Stereotypes Series. To make it easy for you, here are some links: Fit Mum ;  Desperate Dad ;  The Ladies Night Lurker ;  Smug Mummy ;  The Player ;  Mid-life Mummy ;  Botox Babe ;  Alpha Dad ;  Slummy Mummy ;  Trophy Wife ;  Discount Diva ;  British Mummy ;  French Maman For anyone who missed the interview this morning, especially those of you overseas who've taken the trouble to email to ask how/if you can listen in, we'll be posting a link or trying to embed something far too technical for our limited comprehension (yes, swearing may occur) just as soon as the lovely Cupcake sends it over. In the meantime, if you're looking to stave off boredom/ continue to skive off work (you know who you are!), mosey on over to the  Catboy & Geordiebird Faceboo

I've just been interviewed by the very funny Geordiebird for tomorrow's Catboy and Geordiebird Breakfast Show on Dubai 92. It seems that they stumbled across this blog recently and think that the Dubai Stereotypes series is quite amusing, so they wanted to have a chat about it. The interview is going out on air tomorrow so listen if you can and allow yourself a good old belly laugh at the no doubt stupid things I managed to utter. Thankfully I also managed to go a whole two minutes without swearing or saying anything so outrageously rude that I'd be justifiably shunned at the school gates (or arrested), so there's something to be properly proud of. Those who know me, though, may wonder why I sound frighteningly like a man. Can I state, for the record, that my voice does not usually sound as if I've inhaled three shisha for breakfast? It's just that I have a bit of a cold and I was out last night - it's the last week of term out here in Dubai so all the

As I've said before on this blog, I'm never entirely comfortable with being photographed. Family snaps often show me squinting at the crucial shutter click moment, gurning or looking plain annoyed. It's not great. So when my friend Annabel Macrae offered to do a shoot for me with Baby Belly - having promised that she would make me feel comfortable throughout the session and produce fabulous results - I jumped at the chance. We went down to my favorite beach very early one morning to make the most of the natural light. I didn't think BB and I would have such a great time - although BBs compulsive sand and seawater consumption was of slight concern - fooling around, chasing each other up and down the beach and splashing in the sea whilst Annabel told us to sit this way or that, look in a certain direction, smile... it felt entirely natural. It also helped that Annabel is a lot of fun to be around and has a very easy way about her which relaxes you instantly (even BB, wh

Hands up. It seems I'm 'Slummy fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants Mummy'.  Or 'prone-to-disaster Mummy'. Or perhaps 'Useless-and-nearly-shunned-by-overly-emotional-pre-teen-daughter-forever Mummy.' I could go on... Everyone tells me that having a birthday party outside of the house makes life a lot easier, so I was delighted when Firstborn chose to go ice-skating with some of her school friends this year instead of the usual home-based jamboree. There was also a bit of an issue due to the fact that Alpha had banned parties at home forever following the horticultural destruction resulting from over-enthusiastic Pinata-bashing at the Small(er) One's bash back in April. Giddy with the thought that I wouldn't have a torturous week of shopping, baking, sourcing party favours, organising games and all the other little things that usually need to be completed prior to the event, I relaxed a bit too much and yes, it is possible that I took my eye off the ball.

The White Stripes: In The Cold, Cold Night (Live)

Today was field trip day — a day I rustle up my happy face for The Kid so she can enjoy having her mother with her. Don’t get me wrong – I think field trips are great. They get kids out in the real world, away from classroom learning into authentic environments. And she has a great class—they’re rambunctious and curious. Pluses all around. But I think the Dept of Education should throw parents a bone on field trip a day. Sure, I know there are major deficits at work — but really a few small perks would make these days so much more enjoyable — and likely have parents beating down the doors to sign up for the next one. Here’s what quickly comes to mind: 1. A masseuse. Chaperoning kids is exhausting – particularly in New York where a Subway ride is often involved. By the time you’ve reached your destination your shoulders are bricks from stress and carrying the snacks, water bottles and our own lunch. Which leads to… 2. A chef. If they can cook a four-course meal in the Sahara for the

Desperate Dad, or DD as we'll call him (for the sake of convenience) is a sorry excuse for a man. A peacock who lost his glorious plumage many moons ago, he persists in proudly striding through the school corridors with the confident strut of a much younger fellow. DDs burgeoning beer belly signals his approach, a prompt for the more attractive school mums to roll their eyes at each other before pasting on their most polite smiles. DD fondly imagines them to be half in love with his overwhelming masculinity and man-of-the-world demeanor; after all, don't women all secretly adore an older, more experienced chap who could treat them as a lady should be treated? (Look at Sean Connery - the man qualifies for a free bus pass and he's still beating them off with a stick!) DD leans against the classroom door every morning, keeping one eye on Junior whilst stroking his balding pate in a way in which he fondly imagines makes him look both thoughtful and mysterious, the other eye

Throwing Muses: Red Shoes, from the album The Real Ramona Live at Glastonbury, 1989. The sound is a bit dodgy here but nevertheless this is an amazing song - one of my favorites.

Proof that you can get almost anything in Dubai.

Mothers on the Verge now ranks #71 in the top 100 Dubai blog list, according to Blog Rank . We've got to get those numbers up, people! We would sincerely appreciate it if you would recommend this blog to your friends, work colleagues, people in the street, link to us on Facebook ... whatever it takes. Many thanks if you can help us out.

Regular readers may remember that I helped my mates out over at Dubai Reunited with a few branding and PR bits and pieces earlier in the year, especially for their first event, the Royal Wedding Garden Party . Dubai Reunited is now working hard to promote what promises to be Dubai's biggest overseas gathering this August, the Dubai in London Party . (Yes, this is a shameless plug but I'm going for it anyway.) What's it all about? Well, for a mere AED 250 per person you'll have the chance to inject a bit of much-needed Dubai heat into the no-doubt dreary British sorry excuse for a summer. Basically, Dubai Reunited is bringing the best of Dubai to London; expect a party heaving with up-for-it expats enjoying shisha, shwarma and other nice Middle-Eastern things, with a packed dance floor thanks to the glorious disc-spinning skills of a gaggle of Radio 2 DJs (Daisy's my personal favorite, btw). Oh yeah, and you'll be fed delicious things as part of the ticket

Most women I know have issues about their weight. Most would like to lose a kg or two, usually from their thighs or tummies. Some agonise about it. Some take weight loss to an extreme; over the years I've known anorexics, bulimics, abusers of diet pills and other narcotics, extreme exercisers - all in the name of thin. Kate Moss once said something along the lines of: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." There are many many women out there who've adopted this as their mantra. My weight is usually fairly consistent, give or take a few pounds - a combination of nervous energy, smoking (yes, rap knuckles) and trying not to eat unless I'm hungry. The exception is when I'm pregnant, when I start to pack on weight from the moment the pregnancy test shows positive; I now know, thanks to my wonderful Dubai-based OB, that this is mainly down to a glucose problem that only appears when I'm knocked up... something to do with rogue hormones apparently (I won'

A Saturday morning dance-round-the-kitchen-going-mental track. Guaranteed instant mood enhancer - try it and see.

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las

Summer in New York is a complicated beast. Part welcome of course because we shed the winter blues, the outdoors bars open up and we get to spend more time with our kids. (I know this is not a sentiment shared by all. Spare me) But for most of us it's also the time of The Rat. Having lived here for nearly half my life now (stop adding) I sync summer to rats. Legions appear in the warmer months often just at that golden hour when the sun begins to set and bath the city in a magical light. And rats. You can be walking home after a few glasses of prosecco (stop adding) when they dart across your path -- New York reminding you that beneath that $14 glass of joy lies a repugnant fat piece of vermin. And there's never just one. They come in packs. And yes, I am here to report, they squeal. The city of course tries to poison them. Which is worse because they just don't like to die alone. In the dark. They stagger down streets. Show up paws up on subway stairs. Kick off death r

Last night was the first of what promises to be a series of Petticoat Parlour events - billed as the ultimate ladies night (how could we resist??) - and held at Z:ONE bar at Media One Hotel in Dubai's Media City.   Obviously the Mummy Posse and I can never resist the promise of a free drink or three, not to mention the fact that it was ex-Meadows Mummy's birthday ( must come up with a new name for you, Mrs Q), so the scene was set for a storming night out.  Having been warned that the venue capacity is small (Z:ONE is quite cosy) so an early start would be wise, our taxi laden with glammed-up up-for-it ladies zipped down from the 'burbs while it was still light. Which is highly impressive considering that between us we have an insane amount of children yet we still all managed to escape our respective suburban idylls prior to kiddy bedtime hour. What can I say? Good organisation and effective delegation counts for a lot these days. So, what makes Petticoat Parlour diff

I have a confession to make: I'm totally obsessed with fake boobs. It's not that I have any, you know, erm, tendencies  in the female direction - this is not a 'coming out' post (which, incidentally, is not a legal lifestyle choice here in Dubai) - I simply find plastic boobs absolutely fascinating. When we lived in London I didn't know anybody who'd enhanced their natural bosoms. And even if they had, it's so bloody cold there most of the year that who'd know what you had stuffed up your wooly jumper? But here in Dubai it's a different story - you can't walk down the street without tripping over an enhanced pair. On the school run, for example. I see one particular woman on a daily basis who proudly sports a smaller version of the famous Posh Spice boobs (pre-re-op). It's quite embarrassing but I find it very difficult to look her in the eye - to the point that she now looks a little nervous when she sees me (better be careful or I could

I'm a little weary after what has felt like a very long weekend. Highlights: Firstborn went off to Wild Wadi followed by a sleepover on Thursday night, returning the next day with what can only be described as a nasty kiddy hangover. Had a glimpse into the teenage future and it's pretty damn scary. Starting to think I may have to reconsider my strong views on boarding school if I want to retain any semblance of sanity. The Small(er) One and I were invited to another kiddy party at A tlantis Aquaventure  on Friday morning. Can I just say that the whole event has now spoiled me for water park excursions for the rest of forever? Basically, if I don't get a private roped off area with reserved sun loungers, a majlis, multiple Fatboy hammock and beanbags plus a troupe of young males eager to obey my every whim then I'm simply not interested. It was fabulously Dubai.  Mad young unidentified male in crappy car somehow managed to smash into the tree outside our house befo

Every three months The Rabbit has her iron and celiac levels checked. As an 8-year-old, she has pretty choice words to say about being stuck with a needle quarterly. As her mother, I don't love it either. But in the medical building, before we round into her doctor's offices, we pass the children's outpatient cancer wing. I actually try not to look in and rush The Rabbit past too. Yet last Tuesday, at one of her check-ins, I paused long enough to look through the glass window to see a young boy, a YOUNG boy, with IV bags attached to his arm, and his father, tired but smiling, snuggling next to him. I thought of this as I read today about a young 15-year-old British girl with terminal cancer named Alice, and her bucket list of what she wishes she could do if she had more time. To swim with sharks. To stay in a caravan. To have a purple iPad. To have a back massage. To have her hair done...."...if they can do anything with it," she wrote. It made me think of b

Kate and I met a lifetime ago. This was before September 11 th , before babies, before night creams and stretched bellies and when dinner plans could be made at the last minute, at 9 pm, and could be enjoyed because no one had to get up the next morning to pack lunch boxes. We met at dinner. Truth be told, Kate had met The Prince through work in London, and he had told me too many times how much I would love her. Because we shared the same hair. (You have to understand The Prince. He’s actually quite bright.) I did what any sensible person would do when their husband announces they’ve found a new best friend for you – I thought he was nutters and I brushed off the whole deal. Until he came home a month later and told me had made plans for the four of us (Yes, Alpha Male) for dinner. Since The Prince makes plans as often as Hailey’s Comet, this required some attention. I agreed. We met at a dark restaurant in Southwark, a dark neighborhood on the wrong side of the Thames, which I had

I've had a number of people come up to me in the last few days, looking all concerned and peering at my face. "Oh Kate," they've said, "we didn't realise that you've had such a hard time of it recently. You're so  brave !" Then they'd eye me curiously and say, "But honestly, your face looks fine! I'd never have guessed you had shingles if I hadn't read the blog!" Er... that would be because I didn't and I haven't and I hope to God I never do.  Listen up people. There are two of us on this blog. Me - Kate S. - based in Dubai, and Lauren B., my long-time friend and co-blogger, based in New York. It's just that Lauren hasn't been blogging a huge amount in the past year because she's been trying to cope with her world being turned upside down in more ways than anyone should rightfully have to cope with. But she has coped, with style and humour and more fortitude than I could probably ever dredge up, and f

Top Ten Reasons Shingles-induced Facial Paralysis Is Better Than Botox: 10. You don't have to lie about it. (Oh please, you are not just "well rested.") 9. There's no expiration date -- it can last forever, or disappear and then you can always get Botox. 8. It doesn't require needles to administer. 7. You'll instantaneously lose 452 pounds and for one brief anti-viral induced moment know what it feels like to be Gisele until your now-suppressed metabolism kicks back in and you gain 451 pounds back from sucking on popsicles. 6. It's all natural. (Botox is too - but there's something odd about saying a neurotoxin is natural. Maybe that's me.) 5. You get sympathy rather than envy. But your face still looks shockingly smooth. 4. You don't have to worry about side effects. Botox, for example, can bring about facial paralysis, dry eye syndrome, and tingling, painful sensations - which you'll already have! 3. You have an excuse to

Fit Mum is a personal affront to most ordinary mummies. Her bouncy stride, the jaunty ponytail, the tiny lycra shorts encasing glutes so fierce they could crack walnuts, the relentless cheerfulness, the super-toned arms (without even a glimmer of a bingowing to be seen)... it's a carefully honed package designed to deliver an instant dose of depression. Ordinary mummies automatically suck in their tummies when FM comes into view, vowing fervently that the diet starts tomorrow while surreptitiously checking out her taut rear as she passes. But what they don't realise is that FM is a basket case without her daily dose of crippling cardio ; the poor woman is practically a junkie, a slave to the  endorphin overload. Added to this is the fact that neither sugar nor fat has passed FM's lips for at least a decade and that the highlight of her day is measuring the circumference of her thighs every night before she goes to bed, and you've got a major excuse for a full-scale p

No Internet, no cable tv and a burst pipe in the garden means we now have a crater on the lawn (could be turned into water feature? Trying to see the positives right now) and rubbish water pressure in the house. Also had the shortest holiday ever yesterday as crossing the Omani border without a visa is, understandably, not allowed. Alpha is looking fairly sheepish right now. Is this the most frustrating week ever?

I should probably launch into a tome-like explanation over my lengthy absence to the blog. (Boring) But I decline. Instead I'll give you the high-speed chase highlights so we can move on and get to better tidbits going forward. So here we go: Family member got dramatically ill. Then I got shingles. Not the red band around your middle that makes you scream like you're on fire. No. More like the nerve in your head kind that makes your face paralyzed, knocks out some of your hearing and gives you vertigo that puts high heels and a glass of wine simultaneously out of the question. This was fantastic. And yes, while I'm aware that sounds sarcastic, it is not. Let me pull an aside here and note that I think epiphanies are like unicorns. They are magical glorious things we hear that people have glimpsed that change their lives -- and they are fairy hogwash. I did not have an epiphany. I had something more akin to a sledge hammer knocking my canines loose from my mouth. I had