Middle East meets Miami

It’s warming up in the desert (highs of 39°c / 102°F on Thursday and it’s only March!).

While this was (hopefully) just a blip, a reality of living in the United Arab Emirates is while other parts of the world are celebrating the arrival of spring daffodils (like these) and life bursting forth, in a few short months we’ll witness life being scorched.

But the good news is the rising temps mean it’s beach season – and I’ve been here long enough now to know we need to make the most of Dubai’s beautiful seaside in Spring, before it gets too hot to go to the beach in July and August (lobster is not a good look, but is what you get if you brave the burning-hot sand and soup-like ocean during the hottest part of the year).

This weekend, I discovered a beach we’d never been to before – and decided I loved it so much, I’d like to move there.

Lapped by the aquamarine waters of the Arabian Gulf, Sunset Mall beach is flanked by gorgeous Miami-style condos, with views of Dubai Offshore Sailing Club boats as well as ducking-and-diving kite surfers.

If you tire of this driveable and surprisingly shrubby beach, you can walk to the adjacent glass-walled Sunset Mall to browse the newly opened high-end fashion boutiques inside.

Beach and shopping: now there’s something for everyone!

With fish, kite surfers and sail boats, there's lots of entertainment on Sunset Mall beach

What I ‘should’ eat Wednesday

“We’ve got work to do,” said the doctor, peering at me from behind her spectacles.

I’d only gone to the clinic to renew a prescription. But having been ‘invited’ back for a double-appointment visit, the doctor – who previously seemed quite chummy, especially when we discovered we’d frequented the same sweaty, student-filled nightclubs at Southampton Uni – suddenly turned all serious.

“Your risk of having a heart attack in the next decade is three times that of the average person,” she told me, after tapping my blood test results into the morbidity analysis app on her computer. “Three times!” I replied. ‘Wow, that’s S.O.O.N,” I thought to myself – images of the boys making their own packed lunches and reading their own bedtime stories flashing through my mind.

I was quite distressed to find out how much 40-60g of carbs really is! I've had to rethink every single meal.

Needless to say, her words scared me enough to seek help with my blood-sugar levels from a Scottish dietitian, whose boyish charm and looks were a motivating enough reason to follow his where-the-hell-are-the-carbs diet plan.

All this transpired because I had diabetes in pregnancy twice, bad enough to warrant spending months injecting insulin into my pregnant tummy. They tell you afterwards you’re at risk of developing diabetes in later life and should have a blood test every year, which I hadn’t done since LB was born.

It was on my mind, however, as my sugar levels have always behaved strangely – leading to a habit I can only describe as ‘prophylactic eating’, in an attempt to stop them crashing. Weight-wise, I’ve put on the ‘Dubai stone’ (expat weight gain is so common in Dubai it’s even got a name) and would, of course, love to shed the extra pounds – which can stop ‘pre-diabetes’, the label I now possess, from turning into full-blown diabetes.

The dietitian looked at my diet. ‘Carb-icide’ he pronounced. Then recommended I eat like a cavewoman. Berries, nuts, seeds, avocados, salmon, green veg and salad are in. Processed foods, bread, pasta, rice, even bananas are out. For added motivation, he showed me a photo of a bikini model and then emailed me a meal plan, practically devoid of carbs.

Pasta, I miss you!

Aside from spending every waking moment either shopping for food, preparing food or thinking about it, the diet is actually great – and working well (having someone tell me what to eat and when is quite handy really – plus I’m less hungry!).

But, oh, how I miss carbs. The limit at the moment is 40-60g a day – practically nothing, as I discovered when eating a supermarket wrap. I looked at the ingredients and was dismayed to see it contained 68g of carbs. A WRAP! It rapidly became an ‘unwrap’ as I ate just the filling.

So, here it is – the meal plan for Wednesday – what I ‘should’ be eating today, in all its cavewoman glory:

Breakfast, 7am
25g oats made with water, add 100ml semi-skimmed milk and 50g strawberries

Lunch, 1pm
Turkey breasts with green salad (50g cucumber, 100g lettuce, 50g green peppers, two celery sticks, 100g radishes, 2-3 whole spring onions and a half avocado)

Dinner, 7pm
A very small lean steak (optional- substitute with white fish or white meat), and 100g green beans

Snacks (Thank goodness, but don’t get too excited)
100g strawberries (10am)
50g walnuts (4pm)

Drinks, 9pm
Wine (subsitute with gin). Ok, I added this myself. It should say 6-8 glasses of water a day (boo!)

Dancing in the rain. Hooray!

For months now, we’ve been teased.

Women have threatened to dance at wine o clock – wearing fascinators and feathers, their shoulders squared and a far-into-the-distance stare fixed on their botoxed faces.

Scientific puppetmasters have talked about (and possibly carried out) cloud seeding, in which steel lampshade-like ionisers create artificial clouds in the desert sky.

Then, last night, it finally happened: it rained.

And I slept through the whole thing, even the thunder and lightening that I’m told occurred.

It was nothing like a few years ago, when Dubai had hail stones so bad that all the cars were left with an ‘eggshell’ finish and we thought it was the end of the world.

But when we got up this morning, there was a strange darkness creeping round the curtains – Twitter was buzzing with rain tweets from Dubai-ians and the ground was actually wet.

The kids pressed their noses against the window and I joined them, peering out at the marvellous colours: the rain washes all the sand away and so instead of the tans and beiges we’ve been seeing recently, the trees and plants looked green. It’s like seeing your garden in technicolour and appreciating that it’s a lush oasis in the desert, not just a dusty yard.

Even the birds looked like they were dancing!

The world may watch us, rather bemused by our excitement, but when you live in a region where there’s only on average 13cm of rain a year, it’s the equivalent of a white Christmas every time it rains.

Ironically, DH was just off to Toronto and talking about sunscreen. They put it on in the cockpit as they fly over the North Pole apparently. I offered him one of my five or six bottles of sun tan lotion, before waving him off to the airport – and seeing the boys off to school.

Then I sat down with a cup of tea, my eyes glancing skywards at the grey clouds gathered above, and enjoyed an atmospheric, almost romantic (!) couple of hours on the laptop – the ground, by now, completely dry again and not a spot of rain in sight.

Oh well, there’s always next year.

Mother’s Day week

I’ve realised that being a binational family, living in a country in which none of us was born, means Mother’s Day can go three ways.

Our surname is Lebanese, because that’s where DH’s family is originally from. DH is an American citizen and I’m from the UK. This all melts down into two kids who hold both US and British passports.

DH is really keen that the kids know they’re American and learn about American traditions, while I teach them all the British bits – Bonfire night, royal weddings, CBeebies, etc (in case you’re wondering, they have British accents and call ‘erasers’ ‘rubbers’!)

Since leaving the States, I've become mummy rather than mommy. They call pants 'trousers' now, but still say 'awesome' all the time!

When it comes to Mother’s Day, we’re a bit confused because DH has, for his whole life, observed American Mother’s Day, held each year on the second Sunday of May. I lean towards the British one (Sunday just gone) and then yesterday (Wednesday 21st) it was the UAE’s turn to celebrate mothers.

The result is it either all gets a bit diluted – or you can spin it out and spend a whole week doing Mother’s Day activities. At LB’s nursery, they made cards and roses out of tissue paper on Sunday, while BB’s school held a special picnic and sing-song for the mums yesterday.

Although the boys probably have no clue which day is actually ‘our’ Mother’s Day, they are being particularly affectionate at the moment, and as I’ve been feeling guilty that I’ve given them a bit of a bad press lately, I thought I’d elaborate.

“I lub you,” says LB, every 20 minutes or so – his deep brown eyes scanning my face and his little mouth breaking out into a grin the moment I return the sentiment.

His older brother, not to be outdone, notices every time my hair looks different or I’m wearing something new and always says something nice. They might be wrestling on the floor two minutes later or getting into some kind of mischief, but their loving ways bowl me over.

I know one day they’ll have wives who are the centre of their world (and you might remember that I already share BB’s affections with Girl Next Door), but for now I’m basking in their attention.

“I love you to the moon and back, round the sun a thousand times and all the way round the universe,” BB told me the other day.

“And all the way to Girl Next Door’s house and back,” he finished.

The student-led conference

Back in my day, parent-teacher conferences involved mums and dads trooping into the classroom at allotted times to talk to the teacher, with the student otherwise occupied elsewhere.

Knowing full well you were being discussed, you had little choice but to wait nervously – your ears ablaze – until your parents returned and you could gauge the expression on their faces as they walked through the door.

How times change.

Today we went to my six-year-old’s school for his student-led conference – which I presume are becoming popular the world over.

The information reminded forgetful parents to express pride in their children's progress and provided sample questions!

We’d been prepped by the school beforehand with a letter telling us what to do. It would be a ‘non-teaching day’ (which, and I did have to think about this, was a fancy way of saying ‘a day off for the kids’) with 30-minute slots for each child/parent combo.

The idea was for your child to take you through his or her work in the classroom. In case this whole concept was beyond us, we were advised to be supportive, be positive, be curious and to listen to our children.

A slight, okay glaring, error on my part meant our son was the only child not in school uniform when we rolled up for our turn (DH and I both looked at each other as if to say, “do you not read the emails?”), but I think I made up for it by asking BB lots of questions. Whilst lavishing praise, my journalism training meant I practically quizzed him and what I’d heard about these conferences was right: the kids jump at the chance to show off their work.

One of the books was a diary and, on further inspection, I realised his teacher must know everything about what we do as a family. Our trip to an airport museum in Sharjah, outings on the monorail, parties and visitors – it was all there, coloured in and with scrawly handwriting in places. Thank goodness there weren’t any pictures of mummy sitting on the sofa, glued to the iPad (phew).

As we went through his ‘portfolio’, the teacher was obviously listening from behind her desk, but wasn’t participating – BB did most of the talking and thoroughly enjoyed it.

At the end, as we were leaving, I nudged DH to remind him he’d wanted to ask the teacher about something on BB’s report card. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll wait till next time.”

Kids – when it comes to student-led conferences, you’re onto a winner!

On yelling at your kids

I know you’re probably getting bored of this theme, but just bear with me.

A friend of mine, also a pilot’s wife – whose DH is regularly away for much longer than mine – mentioned this week that she had, yet again, come to the conclusion that 5-7 days with just her and their young boys was her limit.

“I’m at the end of day 5 today and I’m suddenly the ‘yelling mom’,” she said. “It came out of nowhere and I’m just spent!”

Can't think why I was drawn to this scene, can you?

The conversation, taking place across the globe on Facebook, was joined by several mums, who all said the same thing, along the lines of, “Good grief, love…that’s longer than I can do.”

I honestly think my friend’s a trouper. Don’t you? To save the yelling until day 5 deserves a round of applause and a row of G&Ts, I reckon. I’d buckle far sooner – as I [confession] proved yet again this weekend.

The rising temperature here in Dubai might have had something to do with it (you forget that running around with kids in the heat leaves your nerves not just frayed, but shredded as everyone gets hot and bothered). Plus the fact it was another unstructured weekend alone. Or I might just be low on patience and energy and making excuses.

But, whatever the reason, as the weekend draws to a close in the UAE, I can still hear myself firing off, ‘NOOO!’ ‘STOP!’, ‘W.A.T.C.H. T.H.E. R.O.A.D.’, ‘WAIT’, ‘JUST LISTEN’, ‘I said NO’, ‘GET OUT OF THE DRIVER’s SEAT’. I could go on (and will for the purpose of this blog post).

Love my children so much it hurts, but when DH is away, they love to test their boundaries. I’m hoping mums of small children reading this will identify with the following exchanges – not all yelled, but certainly not whispered – and I won’t get bombarded with comments recommending I attend Effective Parenting classes (or counselling!):

“It’s 6 am in the morning! GO BACK TO BED!” Delivered sternly, not long after the birds started squawking the dawn chorus.

“I SAID open the door carefully!” After squeezing the SUV into a space not much wider, between a new-looking convertible BMW and a Ford Mustang, at the jam-packed supermarket car park.

“But two minutes ago, you DIDN’T WANT a sandwich.” In response to BB’s sudden un-ignorable hunger pangs, developed shortly after leaving Subway, where he’d flatly refused to eat.

Sometimes it feels like they just don't hear me

“Just let mummy talk for two minutes – perleeeez!” On meeting a friend at the JESS school Spring Fair and wanting to chat rather than be dragged off to the bouncy castle (my friend and I had imagined ourselves sitting in the Tea Garden, then browsing the craft stalls together – Ha! What were we thinking?)

“GO AND PLAY – I just paid 100 dirhams to get you in!” Directed at both boys who were still hanging off my t-shirt at the indoor play area I’d brought them to for a break (okay, the break was more for me than them).

“If you didn’t want the yogurt, WHY DID YOU OPEN IT!” After LB helped himself and smeared half of it over the table – squelching dollops onto the floor too.

“DON’T KILL EACH OTHER! JUST DON’T!” On trying to break up a fight, in which LB bit his brother in frustration (and I started tearing my hair out).

“WHAT HAPPENED??” After asking the boys to sit and wait quietly outside while I nipped into a store, then came out to find LB horizontal, red faced and screaming his head off (he’d fallen off the chair).

“NO you can’t have that *insert* doughnut / KitKat / over-priced toy / flashing gadget.” Repeat 20 times.

“Turn the volume DOWN!” After the noise coming from Tom and Jerry on the TV threatened to reach the level at which ear drums implode.

“RIGHT, bed…NOW!” At the end of a long day, after cajoling and jostling them through the bath/book/bed routine. Then quietly, “Oh no, really? You feel sick?”

Is it any wonder I’ve finished the weekend with all this echoing round my head?

Feel free to add your own.

Where I went Wednesday

I’ve been loving Mrs Dubai’s Wednesday slots – so far, ‘What I wore Wednesday’ and ‘What I ate Wednesday’.

I’m not even going to attempt a ‘What I wore’ meme because if you saw my outfit right now – navy jeans, a black t-shirt (with sequins but quite a few missing), pink strappy heels and a light grey Jimmy Choo bag that DH picked up in the knock-off markets of China – you’d be able to tell a mile off that I’m no fashionista. (Isn’t there something about not wearing navy and black together? Please tell me if I’m committing a heinous fashion crime!)

Since I’ve been running around today, I thought that for my own WIWW post I’d do ‘Where I went Wednesday’ as I’m always interested in what other people get up to, so here goes:

Yes, that's bling on the back of this pimped-out Hummer, stopped next to us at lights today

10am: Town Centre Jumeirah mall. Appointment with a Scottish nutritionist. This is a blog post in itself, so suffice to say: I’m seeing him because my blood sugar levels are all over the place (pre-diabetes apparently, following gestational diabetes twice). He told me last week my diet was ‘CARB-ICIDE’ and gave me a low-carb, cavewoman-style eating plan that’s actually working. 1kg weight loss so far and fewer cravings!

11.30am: Ace Hardware, Festival Centre to buy paint. I’m finally getting round to decorating the spare room and chose a couple of tones of green, with Canyon Dust for the ‘accent’ wall (you’d think, wouldn’t you, that being surrounded by desert would mean I wouldn’t want a sandy colour indoors, but it matched perfectly!) The plan is to create a lush-looking jungle room.

12.30pm: I should have been in Ikea, but DH had had enough.

1pm: Mirdiff City Centre. Quick stop for a low-GI Sumo Salad.

2-5pm: At home. With the kids, while on and off the computer trying to sort out school application admin.

5-6pm: The kitchen. DH took the kids out to get the car washed, while I cooked chicken in lemon-and-herb sauce, with roasted aubergine. I’m not the best cook so don’t be fooled into thinking this sounds delicious. It was ok.

7-8pm: Upstairs. Herding the boys through the bedtime routine and overseeing BB’s Arabic homework (gobsmacked when he actually wrote his name in Arabic – neater than he writes in English).

9pm: Costa Coffee. Stepped out to celebrate finally being paid for work I did 7 months ago, money I never thought I’d see. Hooray!

Quite a busy day in all. Tomorrow this mall rat is staying home.

Show me the way to go home

Whenever anyone needs directing to our villa here in Dubai, I grab a pen and a piece of paper and start drawing a detailed map with arrows, landmarks and my phone number for when they get lost.

Addresses in Dubai are really basic. There are no street addresses, no zip/post codes or area codes – and no postal service. Our mail goes to a PO box at DH’s company headquarters, so no junk mail through the door at least, but lengthy delays in receiving post if DH isn’t able to check it for a while (just got the Christmas cards, thanks!)

As for finding places, addresses such as “Past the mosque, first right then turn left after the cat sitting on the wall” are commonplace.

If you’re having something delivered, stores often provide a space on the form for you to draw a map to your home to avoid confusion.

Directing people to our villa has another set of problems, however.

In a previous post, I touched on how a massive roundabout by our compound disappeared overnight – probably while drivers were on it – meaning everyone coming home the next day got totally lost.

Getting home has never been the same since. We now have to join a 6-lane highway in the wrong direction, make a u-turn, get on the highway again, do ANOTHER u-turn, then join the highway one last time – passing our compound a total of three times.

Confused? So is everyone who’s ever visited us.

And, because our road is literally at a right angle off a mega-highway, you have to pull onto the motorway hard shoulder – keeping one eye out the whole time that you don’t get rear-ended by a poo truck – then turn right after a brown sign and traverse some rubble before getting onto our road..

Try explaining that to a kamikaze taxi driver who’s never been here before. It’s the ride of your life, I tell you.

Of course, adding 10km onto our route home really annoys everyone so we cheat. For those who know Dubai, we can go through Global Village, but the best thing to do if you’re in a 4by4 – and there are no police around – is to go off road. Here’s what it looks like … (just don’t try this in a car!)

Hold on, put your foot down, head for the bridge and don't stop in the soft sand...

Once you're out from under the bridge and onto harder sand, you don't have to worry about getting stuck, but the tilt makes me feel sea sick

Silent Sunday

This tree may not bear fruit, but you can be sure its signal will give your BlackBerry or Apple iPhone a boost…

Good luck finding dates on this tree!

I’ve obviously been going round Dubai with my eyes closed though, because when I posted this photo on Twitter yesterday, I learnt that this telecoms-tower-disguised-as-a-palm-tree is not the first by any means. We saw this on Saturday while on a day trip to the emirate of Umm Al Quwain, but apparently they can be seen all over the Palm and around The Meadows in Dubai. The Meadows is an upscale real-estate development, which – like other communities such as The Greens, The Lakes and The Springs – was named with a ‘desert oasis’ theme in mind.

Wild boys! (and for once, not mine)

The sound of Duran Duran’s sing-a-long favourites rang out across the desert last night as the pretty boys of ‘80s rock proved they’ve ‘still got it’, minus the shoulder pads.

With a full moon, fiery Mars and countless stars shining down on us, Duran Duran belted out tunes such as The Wild Boys, Rio and Girls on Film, catapulting the audience – most of whom must have been orbiting 40 (not a teeny bopper in sight!), back to an era when teenagers awoke to posters of the five British Midlanders plastered all over their bedroom walls.

The band left the stage with a bang

It was a flash-tastic, energetic performance – even better than in the 80s, according to one Duranie who also saw them in 1984 – followed by the prettiest fireworks I’ve seen in a long time.

Which leads me to a confession: I think I might be a Duranie myself. Twenty-five years too late. At school, it was my great friend Joanne who set her sights on becoming Mrs Le Bon (move over Yasmin, Joanne-Joanne sounded just like Duran Duran, we reasoned). I was a Culture Club chick. But in adult life, I’ve seen D-D twice they’re so fantastic live (muffled video clip below!).

I also realised three other things at the Rugby Sevens venue last night:

– Firstly, wearing heels to totter around in sand is not a good idea – you just end up walking on tip-toes.

At least two heads taller than everyone else! But he's forgiven because he kindly didn't move much and his statuesque height meant there was plenty of space

- Secondly, there is no denying I’m getting on a bit. Okay, old. Simon Le Bon – who I remember for his boyish face, puckered rouged lips and knee-knocking baggy silk trousers – is still a sweetie, but now looks like George Michael crossed with Ricky Gervais. John Taylor, meanwhile, appears to be morphing into Keith Richards.

- Thirdly, a height restriction should have been imposed on the audience. The 8ft man just in front of me must have had the best view in the house, lucky chap! Though, actually, standing behind his towering silhouette worked in my favour, because the vacuum behind him was the perfect space for bopping around, even in heels.

Watch this for a blast from the past!

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Back in the day