Breaking Up Via Text Message

Ugh, I am really sorry.  Have been getting emails from people asking what the HELL ever happened with The German and the party.  And I'm so embarrassed that I didn't follow up on my last post in a timely fashion.  I mean, there are acceptable cliffhangers, and then there are blatant attempts to drive people away from the blog by author inactivity.  Apologies!  Please come back!

So here's what happened.  The day before the German party, I texted the husband: sorry to bother you, it appears your wife is not speaking to me, am wondering if we are we still invited?  He, in what I took to be a cowardly move, did not reply.  Then the next morning (party day!), I received the following text from The German herself:

"First of all, not smart move contacting [Husband].  He would never discuss my issues with somebody else!  Second, I just realized that we are living in too different worlds, so I think it's better to stop this texting relationship and this being involved like before.  That doesn't mean that I am not talking to you anymore... Third, the girls are still invited, sure.  But if [Screamer] is still on [restricted] diet it will be difficult for her, there will be lots of candies all over the place."

From this I took the message that the *girls* were invited, but the girls only.  So I did what any spineless combatant would do: I sent the kids to the party with Daddy, and then sat upstairs and watched the whole celebration unfold through my bedroom window.  Daddy returned to report that, while The German went out of her way to say hello to the children standing at his side, she never uttered a single word to him.  Aargh!

I was surprised when, the next day, I received this text from The German:

"Thanks for joining the party and thanks a lot for the great coloring books, the girls love them much, we already started today!"

I didn't know how to respond (an exclamation point??) so I didn't (good thing, too, as I later realized that this was her version of a thank you note).  But I hoped she was waiting by the phone for a buzz that never came. 

One week later it was time for Sushi's party in *our* backyard, to which The German's kids had been invited long ago.  I started to sweat; would SHE show up at MY party?

Nope.  She followed suit and sent *her* girls with *her* husband.  In fact, I was shocked when she made a momentary appearance at the end of the party to collect the kids; I said nothing to her (but made sure she saw me in my fabulous hostess dress; she has otherwise only known me in some version of pajamas, I think).

Awkwardly, the present that she gave to Sushi was a bookbag from the international school that her kids attend; I quickly confiscated it, lest Sushi get confused about the likely change in enrollment plans.  Then The German sent me this text the next day:

"Thanks for the party.  I kept the invoice, just in case you need to change something.  Maybe the girls can meet at the clubhouse pool some day?"

Was the ice thawing?  I didn't care.  At that point, I had gotten over feeling hurt and betrayed and had moved into feeling angry.  PopPop had given me the great suggestion to start wearing my (prescription) sunglasses to the clubhouse, which made my frequent close encounters with The German there a lot easier to endure (for the most part, I pretended not to see her, despite the fact that behind the dark lenses, I was performing an endless and comprehensive scan of the entire property for any sign of her).  Once she and I even bumped into each other while exiting adjoining bathroom stalls-- yikes!!-- good thing I was wearing my sunglasses even in there (and suffering near-blindness as a result, but sooo worth the inane fumbling around in the darkness).

Then yesterday, I almost fell off my chair when I received this final missive:

"Hi [Mommy], can't help it, I still care a lot for you... If you are still interested in nursery school for [Baby], it could be good timing to go to main school campus asap as they are filling the toddler classes.  I got a spot... Good luck for you!"

So now the question: HOW DO I REPLY, IF AT ALL?  I'm awaiting your sage advice... xo

I Should Be Sleeping Right Now BUT...!

Family update post!  Family update post!  Are you as excited as I am?  (Actually, I'm really so very tired.  Made the mistake of taking some Tylenol PM last night *before* I checked with the kids to see if they were planning to wake me up 3 times during the night.  They were.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to repeatedly pull yourself out of a Tylenol PM coma??)

So ok, here we go.  In no particular order...

SCREAMER - is potty trained!  And has been for 2 weeks now.  She put it off a bit longer than I had expected (Sushi was out of diapers at 27 months, whereas Screamer is 29 months, and it makes perfect sense to me that the children would hit all of their developmental milestones on the exact same dates) (you know, because I gave them Filofaxes at birth) (ahaha Filofaxes no one uses those anymore) but she really hit the road running.  Hardly any accidents, yay!

SCREAMER Part II - spent 2 days in the hospital this week for dehydration.  Picked up a stomach bug and absolutely couldn't shake it.  Puked for so many days that her little frame seemed to be shrinking before our eyes, and when she lay down on the floor, I couldn't help but think of E.T. in that part of the movie where they found him all white and shriveled in the woods (see? I am still scarred by that movie to this day) (and to think that Daddy *dared* suggest we name one of our daughters Elliot)  ("Ellllliiiiooooot").  The whole hospital experience was pretty miserable, even aside from the obvious misery of having a kid in a hospital bed trying to pull out her IV;  I learned the hard way that 

(a) there are very few actual American people in the "American Hospital" (uncomfortable moment: Mommy says to familiar-looking woman behind check-in desk, "Have to say I thought there'd be more Americans here."  Woman who is clearly from New York or Connecticut responds, "Nope, not too many."  Mommy smiles affectionately and says, "So it's just us, huh?"  Woman raises eyebrows and replies, "Um, I'm from Palestine."); 

(b) it is possible to receive completely contradictory medical advice from the doctors in the ER and the doctors who admit you to the hospital, which is not great for bolstering confidence in the medical care about to be administered; and 

(c) I have the potential to transform into a raging lunatic when unable to track down a doctor-- ANY DOCTOR!!-- over the course of a 4-hour period (suffice to say that, at one point, I was standing at the nurses' station, Screamer limply on one arm and the IV stand in the other, loudly demanding that SOMEONE get the PRESIDENT of this HOSPITAL on the phone for me right NOW!!!).  Thankfully, apart from the occasional mood swing (which I may indefinitely continue to attribute to imbalanced salt and sugar levels, just to give her the benefit of the doubt), as of today the Screamer is fully recovered.  PHEW.

SUSHI - is very proud because she has just begun writing her name in both capital and lower case letters, having been previously *ruined* by a mother who first taught her how to write her name in ALL CAPS (this is her teacher speaking here, not me).  Also, she is beginning to read-- really READ!-- simple words, which pleases me to no end.  I am going to hammer her like crazy over these next 8 days before her birthday, just so that I can say with authority that "my daughter was reading at 3 years old!", an accolade that surely serves no purpose on this planet whatsoever other than making me feel like my stay-at-homing-ness has yielded some tangible reward.

BABY - *finally* started crawling a couple of weeks ago, after giving me fair reason to suspect that she might be happy just sitting on the floor for her entire life (then again, maybe her slight delay suggests intelligence instead of lethargy: after all, why waste energy crawling when you have Alice to carry you around 14 hours of the day?).  Is also sleeping through the night.  And thinks that a person jumping rope is cause for spastic fits of laughter.  In case you were wondering what her comedy weakness is.

DADDY - is in Paris!  On business.  Because we can't all be globetrotters like he is.  But if the kids are good, he is likely to "surprise" them with the "presents" of whatever schlock he can hurriedly gather from his first class airplane seat as he deplanes (last time, Sushi was ceremoniously presented with a United Airlines eye mask and tube socks).  (Can't blame him for not spending actual money on presents, though, as Sushi is still talking about that ridiculous faux-satin eye mask long after I threw it out on principle.)

POPPOP - continues to put men half his age to shame with his muscled physique.  Wears his iPod as habitually as a teenager.  Lives in sunglasses reminiscent of Top Gun.  I actually can't remember the last time I saw him wearing a shirt that did *not* have cut-off sleeves. But more power to him; the last time I exercised was September 18, 2007.  For reals.

Z-MAN - celebrated his birthday this week.  The kids and I made him a cake.  He told us that this is the first time in his life-- !!!-- that anyone has formally acknowledged his birthday.  So we all felt pretty good about the mini party we threw him in the kitchen... the guy could not have been smiling any more broadly than when the girls presented him with the big chocolate pile of frosting that boldly bore his name across the top.

And then there are a couple items of current events...

THE BAD NEWS - My friendship with our next-door neighbor, The German, has gone up in flames.  IN FLAMES!!  Here are the highlights of the story.  

(1)  Screamer is released from the hospital.  

(2) Two hours later, the kids and I are playing quietly in our open-air garage. 

(3) The German's children come tearing in, wielding chocolate bars and shoving them into my kids' hands. [NOTE: This happens with significant frequency.  And it is not unheard of that they would just stroll into my house and begin rifling through my cabinets for snacks. THIS MAKES ME CRAZY.  MOMMY DOES NOT LIKE UNINVITED VISITORS.]

(4) I pry the chocolate bar away from Restricted-Diet-Screamer, and then cheerfully go on to entertain The German's kids for the next 20 minutes by allowing them to draw all over my body with face paint. 

(5) After the impromptu playdate ends (due to Sushi throwing an unholy fit over something or other and my having to drag her screaming up to her room), I send The German a text message to this effect, "Hi there, hey, could you or [your housemaid] just give me a heads-up before the kids come over?  Sometimes it's not a good time and I feel bad sending them away."  [NOTE: This is really the gist of what I wrote.  I even rewrote it a few times to make sure it did not come off as overly inflammatory.]

(6) I then receive the following text message from The German (AND I QUOTE): "Don't worry they will not be coming over again ever.  Sorry if you can't control your kids.  I am not making calls to playdates on my street."

(7)  My stomach lurches.

(8) I frantically send her a series of messages attempting to backtrack, making vague apologies, and generally trying to avoid incurring the wrath of this enormous person who is uncomfortably well-connected among the Important Moms To Know in Dubai and who lives a REALLY uncomfortable stone's throw from where I lay my head at night (and who ADMITS that she watches us through our windows!!!).  She promptly replies (AGAIN, I QUOTE),  "You stay in your place and there will be no need for fighting.  You are way too hysterical.  Do I need to change my phone number?  I was always a friend and always defending you.  But not any more, you crossed a line too much.  Focus on your kids, that is all you are interested in."  [NOTE: Is that supposed to be an insult?]

(9) Panicking (while at the same time FUMING), I make a last-ditch attempt to salvage the relationship by texting the suggestion that we stop writing for now, we're both getting carried away, let's try to work this out for the sake of our kids, who enjoy playing together.  She then launches the final missle: "Backyard is big and kids are busy- they were happy before you moved here and they will be happy without your kids.  Same to me."

(9) HOLY SH*T!!!

And if that wasn't bad enough, her kids' joint birthday party bonanza is TOMORROW in her BACK YARD.  A few hours ago I sent a text to Mr. German, who we *thought* was a pretty level-headed and reasonable guy, asking if we are still invited.  As of press time, there has been no reply.... 

[Postscript to The-German-Hates-Me Story: You know how I'd kinda resigned myself to sending Sushi and Screamer to the international school, even though I kinda really got a better vibe from the American school?  Well maybe this is the sign I'd been waiting for; maybe we will end up sending Sushi to the American school just so I don't have to deal with seeing The German every day at dropoff and pickup; and maybe that will turn out to be the Best.  Decision.  Ever.  and I will look back on this unpleasant incident and thank my lucky stars.  Maybe.]  [Or, maybe I will become a social pariah and wear dark shades and duck into my car whenever I absolutely have to leave the house.  You know, like I did this morning.]

And now... THE GOOD NEWS! - It seems that we have FOUND A SECOND HOUSEMAID!!  (Cue the stream of disgruntled expletives from all of my overworked and underappreciated stay-at-home-mom friends back in the USA.)  We specifically chose her to interview because her classified ad declared her a good cook-- hence, I will refer to her as Julia (Child) unless a more nickname-worthy event takes place-- and she has been with us for a week now.  I'm THRILLED to report that so far, Julia has been truly fantastic: she has been working overtime to earn the affection of Sushi and Screamer (not an easy thing to do); she hardly batted an eye at the unusual series of challenges presented by Spring Break + Screamer Illness; and she has just been generally lovely to be around (we even caught her and Alice sharing a giggle in the kitchen one evening, and our hearts were collectively warmed!).  So this is the best best best news, because it opens up the possibility that I will be able to actually explore Dubai for a few hours a day without the kids in tow, perhaps even do some volunteer work somewhere, and not let this whole whirlwind experience pass me by in a haze of repetitive park visits and frozen dinners and bedtime rituals, all of which I will have plenty of time to do when we get back to the States.  Hooray!

Alright, since Daddy is away I have no one to proofread this for me.  Thus, I apologize in advance for any typos or disjointed sentences; am gonna post it anyway.  And if there are any parts that don't make sense, just blame the Tylenol PM.  xo.

She's a Mommy, Too.

Uuuuugh, something kinda sad just happened.  

All day long, Alice has been walking around with this pouty face on.  And of course, because I am a neurotic narcissist, I assume that it's because of something I did.  (This is not entirely unfounded: she got really pissed at me last week for requesting that she come back to the house after she mistakenly thought I'd given her an extra day off, and she sent me a text that literally said the following: "Mam, if you think that I made mistake b'coz of this you can cut my job.  I have nothing to do if [Daddy] get upset to me.  Maybe I'm not the right one that you need inside the house.  I do everything my best already.  Thanks."  I almost fell over upon receiving it; who knew that mild-mannered Alice had it in her?)  So anyway, she's moping around and I'm feeling worse and worse about it and I keep asking her what's wrong and she keeps saying nothing.  And I have to tell you, it began to feel like true family dysfunction.  When we first moved here I had no idea-- no idea!!-- that having "domestic help" live with us would be SO. MUCH. WORK.  I mean, emotionally, it's suuuuuuper draining.  And maybe it's just me-- I admit that I'm pretty thin-skinned when it comes to interpersonal dynamics-- but seriously, in these 4+ months since our arrival, I've already expended an inordinate amount of energy (a) worrying about whether the "staff" is happy here; (b) contemplating whether I am a cool enough "madam;" and (c) mediating the staff's relationship with one another.  In fact, it often feels like I have 5 kids instead of 3 that I'm responsible for tucking into bed at night, and I mean that in the least condescending, most maternal-instinct-y way possible.

So anyway, I keep asking and Alice keeps blowing me off and then finally the day is over and, just as I'm about to check if she needs me to drive her to the supermarket for some food, she goes into her bedroom (depressingly located right off the laundry room, though it should be noted that I did once offer her a larger room upstairs near ours) and she pretty much closes the door in my face.  So I knock and she opens it a crack and I hear her crying and I stand out there and ask, about 6 times, if she will please open the door.  She eventually does, and I beg her to tell me what's wrong, saying that whether she likes it or not she's my closest friend here and it breaks my heart to see her this way.  After much sniffling and stalling she finally starts talking...... though about what, I unfortunately cannot say.  See, when Alice gets emotional, her English gets even more broken... so when, at one point, she said to me through a blur or tears, "Do you understand?", I had to shake my head regretfully and say, "No."  Awkward.  

But I did ultimately get the gist of it (I *think*), which is that she suspects that her husband back in the Philippines is screwing around on her, and that he is also frivolously spending the money that she sends home every month for their two sons.  I didn't know WHAT the hell to say to that ("Men are jerks!" ? or "I'm sure you're wrong!" ? or "Here's a loan!" ?) so I just went with, "If you need to go back to the Philippines for a few days and deal with stuff, just tell me and I will arrange it" (even though I was screaming at her with my eyes, "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THESE CHILDREN, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF THEM").  But what really got me was the end of the conversation: she wiped her cheeks and quietly said, "Sometimes I see you with your family and you are so happy and I think, 'I am so jealous of that.'"  And suddenly I was keenly aware of how incredibly blessed I am to be able to kiss my children goodnight and watch them taking their very first steps and help them prepare for their first days of school... whereas poor Alice is missing out on ALL of that with her two children.  For YEARS and YEARS at a time.  Instead, she has to watch *my* kids take their first steps and get ready for school and get kissed goodnight by *their* mommy.  Which pains me to imagine, and makes me realize that the world can be a very cold place, for an awful lot of people.

As PopPop says at times like these, "Obviously housemaids and drivers are people just like us-- the difference is, we were born lucky."  

Ok, so what are you waiting for, lucky person?  Go and kiss your kids.  xo.

We Can Kiss, But Only If My Lawyer Is Present.

Hi! Sorry I have been out of touch; we have been busy serving as seriously lousy hosts to some visiting friends (other than washing my hair before their arrival-- which is something!--I'm not sure I put any significant effort into making their visit more enjoyable; I blame the children's spring break from school for sapping me of my energy and inspiration!). But I have been meaning to follow up on my previous “law and order” post; you would not *believe* what happened to some friends of mine here. This story is entitled, “There But For the Grace of God Go I.”

So this couple I know, they got into a little bit of trouble with the law. Thus, by the powers vested in me by the state of Blog, I hereby pronounce them "Bonnie and Clyde."

(Note: This story was told to me personally by Clyde; however, my ears were hearing it through the haze of a deceptively potent Cosmopolitan. So apologies in advance to Bonnie and Clyde—who are readers of the blog!—if I miss or screw up important details. Here’s the story as well as I remember it, now that the hangover has worn off.)

Ok. So Bonnie and Clyde go out with their friends, whom we will call Loverboy (a Canadian) and Lovergirl (an American), for drinks one night. Many drinks. Loverboy and Lovergirl are dating; Bonnie and Clyde are married. At some point, the couples part ways. Loverboy and Lovergirl get into a cab. Bonnie and Clyde get into another cab. Clyde sends Loverboy a text message to the effect of, “Let’s now go to X party.” Loverboy responds with this text message: “Love to. But I’ve just been arrested.” And he punctuates it with a sad face emoticon, you know, because he just wanted to make clear that this was an unhappy development.

Several more text messages are exchanged, during which Clyde learns that the following events took place: Loverboy and Lovergirl may or may not have been canoodling in the back of the taxi. The taxi cab is pulled over. NOT by a policeman. But by a UAE CITIZEN—an all-powerful Emirati (whom Clyde refers to as a “National”). Emirati families make up only a small percentage of the population here relative to the kajillions of expatriates, but they are afforded all sorts of privileges simply by virtue of the fact that they are natives to this country (for example, a law was recently passed declaring that Emiratis cannot lose their jobs in a financially-driven employee layoff; Emiratis can only be fired for cause). Furthermore, Emiratis can legendarily get away with almost anything on the roads-- speeding, cutting people off, etc.-- and are conveniently identifiable by their license plates: Emiratis have single, double, or triple digit license plate numbers (i.e., A 26) whereas mine, by contrast, has a letter and 5 digits (translation: go ahead, run me off the road, I’m a nobody here, I have no connections!).

Ok, so back to the story. An Emirati man waves the taxi over to the side of the road. He then opens the door of the taxi and starts yelling at the couple something like, “You are disgusting! Do that in your own country! You have offended me and my wife! I have called the police!” Soonafter, the police show up, and the couple is arrested.

Not sure about Lovergirl, but Loverboy is charged with the following 3 offenses:

(1) Public Drunkenness (You are legally allowed to consume alcohol in hotel-affiliated bars, but the minute you step outside the establishment, you are now technically in violation of the public drunkenness law. Nice!)

(2) Inappropriate Public Display (canoodling, which Loverboy denies took place; he is sticking to the story that he was merely “smelling her hair”) (ahaha)

and here’s the crazy one:

(3) Adultery, even though NEITHER PERSON WAS MARRIED. Here in the UAE, it is considered “adultery” for a man and a woman who are not married TO EACH OTHER to be found alone in a secluded area. As Paris would say, Loves it!

Ok, so at this point in the story, it's pretty late and Loverboy is in the clink. Clyde says, sit tight, I will figure out how to spring you in the morning. (Long night for Loverboy ensues, I would imagine.)

Next day, Clyde prepares to orchestrate Operation Smooch. He dresses up in a fancy sportsjacket and grabs his fancy briefcase. He and Bonnie hop in the car to take a morning drive to jail.

Pulling up to the jailhouse, Clyde wonders aloud whether Bonnie should stay in the car. She is agreeable to staying put. Clyde goes into the jail and takes a seat at a counter not unlike the DMV.

Speaking to the guy behind the counter, Clyde is given a bit of a runaround regarding Loverboy’s likelihood of getting out that day—something about the magistrate not being in the office over the weekend, and how it would be at least 2 days until Loverboy could be sprung. “Go speak to the guy in Office 12,” says desk guy to Clyde. So Clyde gets up and goes into a crowded room looking for Office 12, at which point he is confronted by an angry guy with a Breathalyzer. “Blow into this,” says Breathalyzer officer. Panic!, says Clyde's internal monologue, wondering if there could possibly be any alcohol remaining in Clyde's system from the previous night. He attempts to blow into the device but can't get it on the first few tries, having had no previous Breathalyzer experience (you'd think this would be a plus, but instead the officer warns, “Stop messing around or I will arrest you.” Yikes!). Clyde finally gets the machine to register: 0.02%. At which point the officer says politely, “Would you like us to take care of your car for you?””

And just like that:

CLYDE

IS

PUT

IN

JAIL,

TOO.

Can you stand it??

Meanwhile poor Bonnie, sitting out in the car-- in her words: “playing with the windows, trying to get the cross-breeze right”-- gets this text from Clyde: “In jail.” (No accompanying sad face emoticon, which I think only goes to support the case for Clyde's sobriety.)

Long story short(er), Clyde pretends he took a cab to the station and by text message, sends Bonnie home (presumptively, in the hopes of avoiding a Seinfeld-finale-type scenario in which everyone they know ends up behind bars). Bonnie begins frantically calling everyone she knows, desperate to find someone—anyone!—who has not had a drop to drink in the past 2 days and can go surrender his or her passport to the jail as Clyde’s bond. She finds a stone sober friend, that guy goes to the jail, and minutes later, Clyde is a free man. Clyde later said that his half-day behind bars was more than a little bit scary: instead of even a semi-private jail cell, he was tossed into a jam-packed room of about 40 possibly violent criminals-- at which point Clyde tried to stay out of further trouble by fastidiously reading the newspaper and sending text messages (not unlike my own mornings, come to think of it.)

Sadly, the story did not come so quickly to an end for Loverboy, who ended up spending more than 48 hours in jail... all for kissing his date! Both Loverboy and Clyde have future “court dates,” however, so this sordid tale of international intrigue may not be over yet. Stay tuned…

(And for heaven's sake, if you have the freedom to do it, go make out with your sweetheart in public. Do it for us. Do it for Loverboy!)

Law and Order, Dubai Style

A tabloid-y newspaper here called "7 Days" recently ran a story entitled, "Top 10 Laws to Remember." Here they are, some more interesting than others, reproduced in part by little old transcriber moi...

#1 - "License to Imbibe" - "We all know about those places you can go to buy alcohol if you don't have a liquor license, but the fact of the matter is that, if you want to enjoy a few drinks in Dubai, you should really have a 'red card.'"

(Editorial note: Daddy is currently in the process of trying to get us a liquor license so that we can legally have wine at the house if/when we have to entertain work people, but it's such a production; just today I got a call from the liquor authorities saying that Daddy's application has been rejected because it is missing a signature from his company representative. Sheesh, Daddy, hurry up: THESE CHILDREN ARE DRIVING ME TO DRINK.)

#2 - "Crimes of Cohabitation" - "It's one that is not often enforced, but since we're talking about laws to remember, it seems fitting to mention the one that outlaws unmarried couples living together . . . . If you are worried about the risk, . . . the choice is to go and get married, or live apart."

(Editorial note: Sucks for college kids.)

#3 - "Illegitimate Bumps" - "Getting pregnant if you are not married is a big no-no here. If you are having your prenatal checkups at a government hospital, you will be asked for your marriage certificate when you register. If you are at a private clinic, you won't have to show your marriage certificate until the baby is born. Either way, you need to have that crucial piece of paper before giving birth here, or you could end up with more than sleepless nights."

(Editorial note: SERIOUSLY?? What if the guy knocks you up but won't marry you?)

#4 - "Remain Orderly" - "Drinking in public view (unless you are at a licensed venue or event) is illegal, so don't take your six-pack down to the creek for a sundowner. Being drunk and disorderly in public is against the law no matter where you are."

(Editorial note: Just ask those Brits who were famously drunk and hooking up on the beach.)

#5 - "Keep the Loving in Check" - "Holding hands is nice and won't land you in any trouble, but think twice before kissing, hugging and other displays of affection. It may be acceptable in some places (like in airport lounges), but it has known to get people into bother, particularly if the hugging and kissing is on the more amorous side. Beware in nightclubs: a seemingly innocent kiss, even between married couples, can result in a bouncer giving you a warning."

(Editorial note: Hugging??)

#6 - "Bounce into Jail" - "Whereas in other countries, bouncing a check is usually seen as a civil offense (unless you are found to be doing it frequently and fraudulently), here in the UAE it is a criminal offense and can result in jail time."

(Editorial note: This doesn't worry me as much, seeing as we don't have a bank account here yet. In fact, I haven't handled a check since November '08.)

#7 - "Don't Have One for the Road" - "It goes without saying that drinking and driving is illegal. But what many people fail to understand is that there is no such thing as a safe, legal limit when it comes to drinking and driving here. Even a sip of wine or a strong brandy pudding can put you over the limit, because the limit is zero. If you are driving, you should stick to soft drinks."

(Editorial note: "Hello, Dad? I am in jail. When they pulled me over, my blood / brandy pudding level was 0.8%.")

#8 - "Over the Counter but Outside the Law" - "Codeine is widely available in over the counter medications in countries like the UK, and Temazepam is a commonly prescribed sleep aid. However, they are illegal substances in the UAE, and possessing them could result in arrest. You can't buy them here, but it's a good idea to tell your overseas visitors not to stock up . . . before they arrive. If they do need these medications, they should carry a doctor's prescription, translated into Arabic if possible."

(Editorial note: I will go to prison before I unhand my TylenolPM!!)

#9 - "Respect Ramadan" - "In the UAE, it is illegal to eat, drink, or smoke in public view during Ramadan fasting hours. 'In public view' includes your car, the beach, and even the gym. You should not chew gum either. Many restaurants have closed off sections where you can eat lunch out of sight, and most offices set up an area where non-Muslims can eat and drink during the day."

(Editorial note: Unlawful gum chewing??)

#10 - "Look Mum, No Hands"- "It's one of the most widely flouted laws in the history of the legal system, but it is absolutely illegal to drive while talking on your mobile."

(Editorial note: Oops.)

So there they are... did any of them surprise you?

I Never Knew I Could Hate a Grape

So this post might not have much to do with Dubai, but something affected me today and I wanted to share it.

This morning I attended the first session of a pediatric first aid course.  The training took place in the living room of a friend's friend.  All of us there were the mothers of young children.  All of us appeared to be in our early thirties.  For what it's worth, all of us were white (not sure what that has to do with our first aid aptitude, but it struck me as interesting; draw your own conclusions, if any, as to the sociological significance therein).  All of us, as evidenced by the rapt attention displayed on our faces, were familiar with the nagging parental refrain: What if?, and What would I do?

As the instructor, a local paramedic, was setting up the powerpoint projector, she raised her eyes momentarily and asked, "Which one of you recently had the choking child?"  A woman sitting across from me, attractive, well-dressed, and holding a baby boy on her lap, sheepishly gestured with her hand.  "Well everyone in Dubai is talking about it," said the paramedic matter-of-factly.  "So can you tell us a little bit about what happened?"  And then she went right back to connecting extension cords and rebooting her computer, oblivious to the way she had just left this poor woman dreadfully exposed in front of all of us strangers.

The story began casually enough: Her 3-year-old son was eating some grapes before dinner.  It was a Friday (which is a weekend day here), so her husband was home (thank goodness, she said).  She left the kitchen momentarily, and when she returned, she saw the boy struggling to swallow.  "But you never know how serious they are..." she explained tentatively.  [My brow furrowed in empathy, and I felt a flash of shame in realizing that I now routinely dismiss Sushi's daily pseudo-medical complaints as frivolous ploys for attention.]  The woman tried banging the little boy on the back but it wasn't working.  Ok, this was no joke.  She screamed for her husband, and his banging on the back wasn't working, either.  The little boy continued to struggle.  She frantically called for an ambulance.  The person on the phone was asking for directions.  ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS.  They tried the Heimlich Maneuver but didn't know how to administer it to a child.  The boy was turning blue.  AND THE AMBULANCE DID NOT COME.  The woman started pounding on neighbor's doors, begging for help.  The boy was now bleeding from the mouth.  Still there was no ambulance.  At this point, the husband managed to dislodge the grape enough that the boy was beginning to make some groaning sounds, but the grape remained in the boy's mouth, as he was clenching his jaw.  Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived.  The driver asked the woman which hospital she wanted them to drive to.  Tests were done at the hospital.  The diagnosis: brain damage.  But the doctors would not know the extent of the brain damage until further tests could be performed.

As I sat there listening to the story, I wept, and I wept.  To the point where I was a little bit embarrassed.  And I am not a person who gets all mushy and emotional at the slightest thing; in fact I pride myself on my cynicism.  Yet this woman was tearing my heart out.  Because christ, how many times have I turned my back on the children while they were eating.  And hell, I stopped cutting Sushi's grapes in half ages ago; at 3 years old, she just seems so... grown up, relatively speaking... and it doesn't even *occur* to me to treat her like a little kid anymore.  This could have been *my* story.  The woman was just like me.  This could have been *my* kid.  Turning blue.  Christ.  I was terrified.

By the time the woman finished the story, she, too, was crying, as were a few of the other moms.  Apparently there is a happy ending: the boy seems to have fully recovered, and the brain damage, I guess, never materialized.

But I was shattered.  Aside from the obvious cautionary aspect of the story, there were so many realizations in her tale that unnerved me: Hello, I live in a country where the ambulance DOES NOT COME.  I live in a country where you have to have enough wits about you, while watching your child turning BLUE, to give someone on the phone DIRECTIONS.  I live in a country where the emergency operator takes your street address but can offer you no medical assistance, does not make any effort to walk you through a layperson's rescue whilst you wait for help to arrive. 

Meanwhile, the paramedic was doing little to allay my fears: It's true, she said, that you cannot necessarily rely on the ambulance.  It's not like other countries, where an ambulance is dispatched from the closest hospital; here, you get an ambulance from one of the main public hospitals, regardless of how far away, unless you specifically call the direct phone number of a closer clinic.  She even recommended that, if there is someone else at home during the emergency, that person should stand outside the house and attract as much attention as possible to assist the ambulance driver in finding the house.  Like, jump up and down.  And she warned that often, the drive to the hospital, especially in rush hour traffic, can take an hour at least.

I felt overwhelmed and defeated.  In the States, all my life I had just taken for granted that, in an emergency, qualified help would be at my doorstep within minutes.  And now?  All that security had been taken away.  The chill crept up my spine: In an emergency, we could be on our own.  *I* could be on my own.

In spite of myself, I kept sneaking occasional glances at the woman throughout the 3 hour lesson.  How was she able to regain her composure, after what she had most recently been through?  And didn't it freak her out to hear from the instructor that "everyone in Dubai" was talking about her crisis?  Did she feel like we were all watching her, evaluating her?  And was it just my imagination, or did the paramedic take particular care in walking this woman through the practical portion of the lesson, as in-- I'd better make sure she gets it; this lady has already failed as a parent once... ?

It bothered me throughout the entire class that this woman had involuntarily been put on the spot to discuss such a private ordeal.  Especially because we all know how mothers just LOVE to judge one other.  So when the class was over, I made a point of approaching her.  "Excuse me," I said, "but I just wanted to say that I think you're a real hero.  Saving your child like that, without help... No mother should have to see what you saw, and you should be so proud of yourself for holding it together."  The woman's eyes welled with tears.  "It was all my husband's doing," she said.  "No," I assured her, "you're a hero in my book."  She smiled appreciatively and said, "You wonder, if something *had* happened, and he had not made it, would I have spent the rest of my life saying, 'I should have...' and 'I shouldn't have...'?"  And I strongly felt, from the look in her eyes, that the rest of that thought was, "And for the rest of my life, would people have been looking at me like, there's the woman who let her son choke to death?"  I didn't know what to say.  Because we both knew that the answer to both questions was yes.

And you wanna know one last crummy thing?  Tonight, at dinner, I left the kids alone while they were eating their chicken.  I wandered in and out of the room, listening to them goofing around, checking my email, texting the neighbor.  I wasn't watching them.  The paramedic said that children don't thoroughly chew their food until age FIVE.  And yet there were my 2- and 3-year-olds, jumping around unattended with food in their mouths and making each other laugh.  It's as if the complacency had already crept right back in and reclaimed the comfy spot where it's been living these past 4 years since I became a parent.

In my defense, I will venture this one theory: Maybe I didn't retain the full traumatic impact of that woman's story because I simply... couldn't.  Maybe, in the same way that they say you "forget" the pain of childbirth (or so I hear-- I'm a 3-time c-section champion, myself), maybe mothers have to "forget" the vivid fantasy that a fatal accident could happen to their own children, or else they would be unable to parent.  Maybe, if you let the choking stories and the drowning stories and the car crash stories run too many circles around your head, you lose the ability to live in the everyday world-- maybe you become so morbidly fixated on the "What if?"s that you become ineffective in processing the "What next?"s and the "I love you!"s and the "Hurry up and get in the bath!"s.  I don't know how else to explain why I wandered in and out of the room while the kids were eating tonight.  

But I'm sure as hell going to pay attention in class again tomorrow.  I do know that.

I Have a Headache THIS BIG...

Ok, first I just have to vent for a minute. Because I have been doing "bedtime" with the kids for over TWO HOURS now. And the best part is, every night, it's something different, a different kid, a different issue. Tonight it was the baby. Screaming whenever I even tried to bring her up to her room. As soon as I took her out of her room, it was all coos and smiles and laughter. I offered her food, I offered her drink, I offered her Tylenol, I offered her play, I offered her cuddles, but she would not go to sleep. I have no idea why this time-- the 73rd attempt, probably-- worked. She is quiet, my head is pounding, and I am asking myself once *again* WHY oh WHY did you have SO MANY CHILDREN SO CLOSE TOGETHER. (For those who are keeping track, the eldest kid is turning 4 next month... I have been away from the children for a total of 6 days over those 4 years... this means that I am more-or-less coming up on my *1,460th* consecutive day of having between 1 and 3 children howling directly into my ear at alarmingly close range and in an impossibly high pitch. And if you don't think that's enough to drive a sane person slowly but surely insane, then I invite you to come over to my house and stay for a while.)

Alright. Now I feel at least a little better (though apparently blogging about aggravation does little to ease the physical manifestations thereof; my shoulder is pinched so tight at this moment that I can hardly turn my head). On to bigger and better things.

Well, Daddy returned from his trip. Obvious revelry ensued. (Mostly because now I have another set of hands around the house into which to shove a child and bark, "TAKE THIS OUTSIDE.") Sushi greeted him with her usual tactless "What did you bring me?", but when she followed it up with, "I was sooo good while you were away!", I could not help but break out into maniacal laughter. (My favorite episode during his absence: Sushi was throwing a colossal fit. The baby was asleep. I dumped the writhing, screeching Sushi in her room and, after about 7 unsuccessful attempts to get her to stay put so that I could get poor Screamer into bed, I locked Sushi's door from the outside [a curious feature of the middle eastern architecture that is near-impossible to resist at desperate moments like these] and said I would be back in five minutes if she would JUST. STOP. CRYING. Always the resourceful one [read: manipulative liar], Sushi opened her second-story bedroom window, leaned OUT of it, and screamed down to Z-Man's ground floor bedroom, "HELP! I need HELP! I accidentally locked myself in my room! Please come up here! QUICK!" Which of course sent him tearing up the stairs in a sweaty panic, only to be stopped firmly in his tracks at the top of the staircase by the death rays shooting out of my eyes. Good times.)

What else. Well, I went on a tour of the American school where Sushi was accepted (Screamer's application would not even be considered there, due to the birthdate issue), JUST to be sure that the international school for both of them was the way to go. And I have to say, I was momentarily comforted by the apple pie names punctuating the artwork in *this* hallway: "Ethan," "Madison," "Jeanne," and "Taylor," to name a few. That said, the tour guide told me that even the American schools teach Arabic (the Ministry of Education apparently *requires* that both Arabic and "Islamic culture" be taught to all students over a certain age), and I reminded myself that my kids will have plenty of time to hang with white kids whenever we return to the US. Thus, barring some upset regarding the baby's nursery school prospects (there's a chance that in the fall she could *squeeze* off the waitlist at the conveniently located nursery where Screamer and Sushi presently attend, but only if Screamer stays there another year and maintains Baby's "sibling priority"), I'm thinking that we're heading into an "international" school experience. (Go on, tell me what a big person I am!) (No, really, tell me, so I don't chicken out.)

Other things. Today we had a "trial day" with a second housemaid candidate, whom I will refer to as "Lucille." She was far from an unknown quantity, as we usually have to contend with during these interviews; rather, Lucille works at the house right across the street from us, but her employer guy just lost his job and is taking his family home to Japan. Lucille wants to stay in this neighborhood and so has been lobbying us aggressively for the second maid position. My problems with Lucille, now confirmed after having spent the day with her, are these: (1) She is bossy; (2) She is old (love me, love my ageism); (3) She is insensitive (when Baby took a faceplant while sitting on the carpet amongst her toys, Lucille reluctantly picked her up and mumbled, "She'll just have to learn"); and (4) She is too alpha female to play second fiddle to Alice, who was here first and should be allowed, I believe, to remain the dominant housemaid. (ahaha who ever could have guessed I'd find myself in a position where I would have to oversee the delicate interpersonal dynamics of a "primary" housemaid and "secondary" housemaid.) This means, of course, that it's back to the drawing board (or bulletin board, as the classified ad case may be) for me. (CONFIDENTIAL NOTE TO THE UNIVERSE: PLEASE SEND ME A SUITABLE SECOND HOUSEMAID SOON. IF I HAVE TO TAKE THESE KIDS TO THE SAME BORING SANDBOX PARK ONE MORE TIME, I MAY RESORT TO EATING A BUCKET OF SAND JUST TO BREAK UP THE MONOTONY.)

Ok, well, I can't think of anything else of interest, and I should probably get some sleep while it's still quiet around here (heaven only knows how long this precarious truce between the children and me will last). So I wish you good evening, and hope that, wherever you are in the world, *your* little rugrats aren't also giving you The Treatment. Sweet dreams...