Boy-racers, B&Q and Barracuda....

You'd have to be living under a rock in the desert to be unaware of how dangerous it is to drive here in the UAE.  On the drive from RAK to Dubai, the side of the road is literally strewn with burned- out tyres and car parts and you're guaranteed to spot at least one major accident on any journey lasting longer than half an hour. 

It's a topic which occupies much headline space and even has its own facebook group 'if you can drive in the UAE you can drive anywhere'.  I joined this group, not because it was going to achieve anything (much like 'liking' a group called 'murder is wrong' isn't going to throw potential murderers into a moral dilemma and stop them in their murderous tracks) but because it creates a sense of belonging among a small, marginalised minority- i.e. those people in this country who can actually drive.

As I see it, the problem lies with two distinct groups- i) those who seem to have no idea how to take a left hand turn, join a roundabout or enter a junction, driving around in 20 year old jalopies crammed to capacity and ii) those young indigenous males - boy racers if you will -who are under the impression that aggressive speeding equates to large genitalia.

Without doubt the latter group are the most annoying and dangerous.  Nothing is more likely to send me careering into a motorway barrier than a glance in the rear-view mirror at the sudden sight of a large white Landcruiser hurtling towards me at 180km per hour, lights flashing, horn beeping, screaming at me to get the hell out the way like some mechanical monster. 

With a jolt you realise that it's either move or die as these idiots are quite mad enough to plough into the back of you just to prove a point.  Of course, congenitally truculent, I have on occasion refused to move; righteous in the knowledge that I am in fact observing the speed limit and that if the demented idiot behind me is in such a rush to get to Starbucks then he'd better go around me.  That just makes them madder, resulting in said car attempting to overtake on the left hand side.

Personally I think the problem could be solved by B&Q- the DIY Superstore- setting up shop here in the UAE.  Men are essentially cavemen and as such are competitive, goal-driven providers.  These traits are usually expressed via work, sport or DIY but I'm willing to bet that the majority of these road-pests are lacking these elements to their lives; ergo the only arena they have to express their inner alpha-male is on the roads.  Were they forced to spend their weekends tiling the bathroom floor or laying a deck, it's feasible that they'd be transformed into pussycats once they got behind the wheel. 

Of course, I'm being simplistic; culture is a difficult thing to change which is why my above solution wouldn't actually work.  The culture of servants (slaves?) here is something that isn't going to change any time soon so it is unlikely that the average young man is about to spend an afternoon putting up shelves in the living room when he has a servant to do the task for him.

Similarly, the average young mother will have at least one nanny to take care of her children (it's not unusual to see two nannies for two children) which is why a university in Ajman has recently offered a new four-year degree- programme in 'the mothering profession' which claims to cover everything from women's rights (importantish) to pedicures (priority).

Many of these women have been raised by nannies themselves which means that they have no experience of what a mother actually does.  The course aims to equip them to take care of their own children, something which is practically unheard of in this neck of the woods for certain nationalities.

Of course, it's an interesting question - 'can mothering (or slightly more PC - parenting) be taught?'  Parenting books are big business these days and there is a culture of fear surrounding parenting where common sense and instinct seems to have been replaced with theoretical models and psychobabble. 

I remember getting home from the hospital after my daughter was born and feeling overwhelmed by the task in hand.  'What should I do?' I wondered as I stood in my living room and looked around me.  I was pretty sure I was supposed to be super-stressed, exhausted and constantly busy but as I looked at the little girl asleep in her crib I realised that there was nothing to do but wait for her wake up. 

Had I read all the parenting literature I'm sure I would have been panicking about her next feed, her weight, her temperature.  As it was, we spent the mornings walking to the village to buy milk and glossy magazines and the afternoons snoozing in front of Judge Judy.  Ah happy times....

And finally...

I finally paid a visit to the famous 'Barracuda'- the massive off-license situated in Umm Al Qawainn. I'm still reeling from the fact that I've lived ten minutes away from it for over a year and yet never bothered to check it out. It's magic! As I wandered around filling my trolley I was overcome with a feeling of contentment and belonging and found myself smiling conspiratorially with the other customers 'isn't this a wonderful find?' I wanted to confide but nobody else seemed as impressed as I was.

Like a child in a sweet shop I dashed from aisle to aisle holding items aloft and yelling to DH 'hey, four litres of wine for 70 dirham's!! Can it be true?....oh wait, look at this - five litres for 75 dirham's! I'm in wino nirvana!'. Hugging my trolley protectively I paid at the checkout and walked, half-ran out of the sliding doors dogged by an irrational fear that the manager would come running out behind me yelling 'sorry ma'am, it's been a mistake....it shouldn't be so cheap'.

Although, on a more sobering note (so to speak) I did make the baffling discovery last week that my Dubai Islamic Bank card, which has been refused several times in our local Cellar off-license, is not allowed to be used to buy alcohol: the clue was the Islamic part of the name although it had never been explained to me before - the guy on the checkout clearly preferring to see me squirm with embarrassment at having my card refused each time.

Bizarre as it sounds, I was forced to leave my stash behind me on the counter, jump in my car and seek out an ATM, climb back in to my car and return to the off-license whereupon I was obliged to hand over the cash manually.

As I walked through the car park, black bags straining from the 4 for 100 dirhams special-offer, I was amused to see the boy-racers sitting behind their blacked out windows in their Landcruisers, beeping impatiently at the staff to hurry up and hand over their vodka.  No, on reflection, I really don't think a weekend grouting the bathroom tiles is on the books for these guys any time soon...

Hell, suicide, and cabbage leaves...

So it’s over.  Thank the imaginary gods above.  And yes, dear reader, as predicted, it was total and utter hell.  

Clearly the female brain is hot-wired with denial when it comes to all things childbirth-related since it’s not until one reaches the second stage of labour that the slow recollection descends  ‘ah yes, I remember this; I’m experiencing the equivalent of being sawn in half without the alleviating ability to pass-out half-way through’ but of course by then it’s all too late.

The hospital in question was faultless and consummately professional aside from the comedienne of a nurse who, two days post-partum, eyed my still-swollen stomach and commented ‘tee hee are you sure you’re not still pregnant?’ which frankly went down like a lead balloon as indeed, I still had all the appearance of a woman 5 months into her pregnancy (I’d like to say it was an isolated incident, but sadly more than one Filipina shop assistant has since made the same hilarious comment, much to my amusement.)

The anaesthetist performed her role beautifully, filling me with enough drugs to cheer-up an NA meeting, thus sailing me through labour stage-one quite blissfully.  Sadly, when this wore off the replacement wasn’t so effective and it was at this stage, as the contractions tore through my body, that I began to consider in earnest the possibility of unhooking myself from the various drips and machines around me, staggering across the room and flinging myself from the 5^th floor window.  

In my naivety I had reasoned that this birth would be quick and relatively easy considering the fact that it was to be my fifth.

A wise man once said ‘madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result’; in other words, having had four agonising births to date, I'm now at a loss to explain how I  could have ever entertained such foolish fantasies that this would be any different. The ordeal lasted 13 glorious hours and by the time the little mite was finally born all I could think to say to the assisting midwife was ‘why on earth would anyone opt to do that without pain relief?’ to which she slowly shook her head as she considered it and replied ‘I really don’t know’.  

To put this in perspective, I had four root canals last year, two at a time.  Although excrutiatingly unpleasant, I kept my cool and managed to get through the ordeal without crying, and had I expressed my wish to experience the procedure fully au naturelle, I'm sure my dentist would have discreetly made a phone call to the local loony bin and had me admitted forthwith.

What they don’t tell you about the epidural is that it doesn’t actually do anything once you’re into the last leg of the event.  Nothing.  Zero.  You’re on your own.

And I couldn’t help but think that all those weeks of effort to look presentable and unflappable at my appointments with my obstetrician; being every inch ‘the experienced mother of four’, was all for nought when I was lying there, legs in stirrups with no idea what vision of hell was being displayed below, crying like a baby and begging him to hurry up and just ‘END IT, PLEEEEEEEEAAAAZZZ!’, all dignity on the floor along with half my internal organs.

But I was rewarded with another little clone and that makes me happy.  I seem to deliver the same baby repeatedly since I am unable to discern any difference between him and all the others I’ve delivered, with the only variable being the quantity and shade of hair they arrive with.

By Friday morning I was 4 days post-partum and woke to find I had had the mother of all boob-jobs during the night.  This is another thing they don’t explain to you on your first pregnancy.  Obviously, this being my fifth baby I was expecting the arrival of mega boobs, but following the birth of my first child it was quite a shock to wake to find my C-cups replaced by double H’s, thus heralding the arrival of milk.   

DH always bemoans the cruel irony of this stage; fantasy boobs but completely and agonisingly untouchable.  Since this is definitely the last time I will experience this, I took a photo for posterity, like an after-picture for a cosmetic surgery advertisement in the back of a magazine.  That's one for facebook!  Well, perhaps not.

They say you can relieve the pain of ‘breast engorgement’ (which is the correct term for mega-boobs) by putting cabbage leaves in your bra.  I tried it once, but walking around with a brassicas vegetable in my underwear did little to counteract the pain and much to repel other humans from me.  And I couldn't help but feel that I was the victim of a male practical joke: 'just how gullible are women?' If they said stashing broccoli in our knickers would alleviate period-pains would we do it?  Actually, we probably would.

One thing that always perplexes me after having a baby is how mere aquaintances feel entitled to ask for intimate details which, in normal circumstances, would never be asked.  

-'Are you breast-feeding' asked the woman behind the counter in my local supermarket.

-'Er, well, I'm combining...well, trying to...I really can't decide...er (why am I answering you?)...it's complicated'.

OR

-'A boy!  Congratulations' said the Indian security guard at my local mall. 'Did you have a normal delivery?'

-'Err...(what??) yes thank you' I replied, wondering how he'd react if I continued 'yes, a normal VAGINAL delivery....13 hours of contractions, no stitches thank god, text-book stuff!' while I watched him shuffle away wishing he'd never asked (and as aside, I resent the term 'normal' delivery; to my mind there is nothing 'normal' about what I've described above.)

Actually, I might try that response next time.  

But it's all over now; Junior is with us and the house just got busier.  DH has grudgingly agreed to be dispatched to the local vet to be neutered within the coming weeks to ensure that this sort of 'surprise' doesn't happen again while in my dreams I contemplate the view from that fifth floor window, and the long drop below.