Unaccompanied Whiner

It’s no secret to anyone who has boarded a plane with me that I'm a terrible flyer.  I get really nervous on take-off, and any little bit of turbulence has me convinced that one, if not two, of the wings will snap off in mid-flight, sending us plunging to our imminent death.  In actual fact, it’s not so much the flying I’m afraid of; it’s the crashing.

Over the years flying has become more tolerable to deal with as I nurse a glass of wine or three, or alternatively, take the meds for anxiety that my doctor prescribed specifically for air travel.  Everything’s cool as long as I’m not responsible for anyone else, nor expected to function at peak capacity, once I land at my destination.

The only thing that makes me more anxious than flying with my family is flying with my children alone.  I like to think that Dan and I are a fairly equitable couple:  we share the ironing, the dishwashing, and the "I'll drive #1 to soccer if you help #3 with his homework".  But over the course of our marriage, we’ve both gravitated to some of the tasks that we’re more comfortable with, and probably better at, than the other person.  So, he does the banking, reads the manuals to all the electronics that come into the house, and lights the barbeque.  He is also responsible for, when we travel, carrying all the passports, checking us in online, and getting all of our boarding passes.  Basically, he's the Take Charge Guy at the airport.  Me?  I…you know…do other stuff that’s equally as hard.  I’m sure I’ll think of something in a minute.

I'm grateful that our kids are great travellers, and at their ages, we've had several years of sheer parental bliss on airplanes.  We pretty much just pay for their ticket and get them to the right gate.  But obviously our presence is still required for their peace of mind; they like to know that someone who knows what they're doing is looking out for them.

You would think that maybe a person with my phobia would seriously question the viability of moving a third of the way around the world.  Certainly, at some point, I would have to get on a plane.  And because Dan doesn't get three months holidays a year, sooner or later I'd be travelling as an Unaccompanied Parent.

Of course, it happened.  Our long, three-month summer vacation was laid out before us, pristine with uncharted possibilities, our yet unbooked flights to Canada awaiting our decision.  By April, I had to act, or we'd be as good as grounded.  So, I booked our trip, purchasing outbound tickets for me and the kids alone, with plans for Dan to join us in July and fly back with us in August.

For a couple of months I lived in oblivion, pretending that I was not going to be getting on a plane in June, unable to partake in any of my sky-high vices, with three kids for a four-legged trip from DOH to FRA to YYZ to YWG to YYC.  About a week before departure, I got Dan to walk me through all the scenarios from check-in in Doha to getting through Customs in Toronto.  I didn't want to have to think about any of this once I got on the plane.  I knew I'd be concentrating on more important tasks, like keeping my vision fixed on the wing flaps to ensure that they hadn't iced over mid-flight, while simultaneously trying to tear my eyes away from the episode of Discovery Channel's Mayday that the person in the seat in front of my had so thoughtfully tuned into on the inflight TV.

But the day came, and I did get on the (correct) plane.  An eerie, unmedicated calm came over me as I watched my kids independently walk through security and collect their backpacks and jackets on the other side of the X-ray machine.  I found our gate, and cleaned up the fruit salad and juice that one of the kids had spilled on the two of us.  I did my best to ignore the rattling and creaking inside the fuselage as we took off (there goes the first wing!).  And when we got to Frankfurt, I adeptly got the boarding passes for the next two flights, and then sent a text to Dan reporting that now it was official:  only one of our children had never puked in an international airport.

From about that point on, I was too tired to even care if there was anyone actually flying the plane.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not cured by any means.  But I may have stumbled upon a suitable antidote:  being delirious with exhaustion.  Maybe that's been the ticket all along.

Heartbreak City

Dear Doha,

I think we need to see other people.  It's not you.  It's me.  Well, maybe it's a little bit you.  OK, actually it's all you.

We've been together now for almost a year, and I do feel as though our relationship has really evolved.  I'm much more comfortable with you and all your crazy moments.  But there was so much excitement at the beginning:  you took me to different places and introduced me to all your friends.  Even learning about your culture was fascinating to me.  Now, not so much.

It's been great hanging out with you - you're such an important guy in your family of Qatar - but I need to get back to a country that really knows me.  A country that's known me my whole life, and gets my jokes.  A country that doesn't criticize what I eat, or what I wear.  A country that has actual weather.  A country that's not seventeen shades of beige.

Sure, it's been fun sometimes.  You brought me to concerts, fancy restaurants, and long walks along the waterfront.  You bought me clothes and knock-off designer handbags.  You even took me out to the desert and drove like crazy through the dunes, and we rode camels together.

But you kind of have a mean streak, especially when you're driving.  Every time I get behind the wheel with you, I feel like I'm taking my life in my hands.  And, as generous as you are, you're not alway the best provider; when I say I want Cheerios that taste like real Cheerios, why do you make me pay $13 a box?

When I first met you, a friend of yours told me that if I started a relationship with you I would be given two buckets.  One would be for money, the other for BS; when one or the other was full, it would be time for me to go.  One of mine almost needs to be emptied.  If you have to ask which one, then maybe you never really knew me at all.

So, I'm going to go home for awhile.  I'm going to wear sleeveless dresses, drink wine in public, and eat bacon for breakfast every day.  But I'll be back in a couple of months, and I hope you'll wait for me.  Me, and the rest of your expat wives...I can't get through this alone.

With affection,
Desert Mama

Congratulations! You've Just Won a Brand New House!

When Dan moved here last June, ahead of us by a couple of months, he moved directly into our company-provided villa, and then spent about a month getting it ready for our arrival.  We've called it home ever since.  Secretly, I occasionally have other names for it, but I try to keep those to myself.

When we lived in Calgary, we used to say things like:  "We're a one-vehicle family.  We choose to live inner-city.  And yes, our house may be smaller than our friends' in the suburbs, but we're willing to make that sacrifice so our kids can walk to school, and Dan can take a short public transit trip to work.  We don't want to spend our lives in the car."  You should've heard us.  We were adorable.

Then we sold our house and moved to Doha.  It's amazing what 11,000 kilometres and a couple of weeks will do to help you shrug off your principles and become a two-vehicle, SUV-driving, non-recycling family with an impressive 200 tonne carbon footprint.  The distance to school from our house is roughly equivalent to that between Mercury and the sun, except the drive to school is not quite as pleasant.  My kids now spend so much time on the bus that just yesterday, when Jacob got home, it looked like he needed a shave.

But other than location, our villa is actually quite nice.  If I have one tiny, little complaint about the house itself, it would be the kitchen.  In realtor parlance, the description would go something like: "1980's style, uninspired design, with shallow sink, four drawers for storage and a grand total of three square inches of counter space.  Dishwasher prone to provoke swearing.  Seller motivated!"  I'm sometimes seen balancing a baking sheet on one knee while scooping from a bowl of cookie dough precariously perched on the top corner of the microwave.  Those yoga classes are starting to pay off.

And then, a few weeks ago, Bob Barker knocked on my door and offered me a brand new house.  Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Archaic references to The Price is Right aside (seriously, when was the last time I watched a game show?), the company Housing Committee sent out a note that sounded like a potential windfall.  They were looking for volunteers to move into a new compound this summer.  Given the choice, I'd rather ram a hot poker into my eye while gargling Tabasco than move, but with the location of our current house, we thought we should at least check it out.

Friends of ours, who just recently moved into the new place, pointed out that the drive to school for them was seven minutes.  Right now it takes me about seven minutes just to work up the motivation to get in the car.  By the time we went for a tour of the show home, I was sold.  I threw myself onto the six-foot granite-topped breakfast nook, weeping.  Mr. Housing Committee Chair, you had me at the kitchen.

Last Saturday, the Housing Committee held a lottery for choosing villas in the new compound.  We were among the twenty-odd families to draw our new addresses out of a hat.  Barring any moving company delays, which is a distinct possibility in this town, we should move into our new house sometime this summer.  Or, I should say Dan will be moving us into our new house while the kids and I are in Canada.  It seems the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Hot Enough For Ya?

Before moving to Doha, we knew it was going to be hot.  How bad can it be? I thought.  After all, I had lived through Canadian summers across three provinces and one territory with temperatures sometimes approaching 40C.  I thought it would be refreshing to have consistent temperatures.  I thought it would be manageable.  Actually, I thought it would be kind of nice.

I thought wrong.

Admittedly, the winter here was quite pleasant, and temperatures stayed in the high 20's and low 30's through March and April.  Mercifully, we've so far been spared the 87% humidity that greeted us when we got off the plane in August and stayed with us until November.  But in the last couple of weeks, with the mercury hitting 45C, I thought it was time to give a brief presentation on the basics of heat endurance.  Here is Surviving a Qatar Summer:  A Primer:

Driving

If 170F is the temperature at which to safely keep cooked meat to prevent food poisoning, then it’s a safe bet you can put those cooked burgers in your parked car while waiting for your dinner guests to arrive.  But, if you’ve simply parked at the mall for an hour and are hoping to head home, you need to follow a few basic steps.  If you’ve parked in the shade, place one butt cheek gingerly on the driver’s seat, reach around the steering wheel and turn the key in the ignition.  You’ll need to leave the door open for a few minutes while the air conditioning brings the internal temperature down to roughly 60C, at which point you’ll be able to touch the steering wheel with one finger to navigate home.  If, on the other hand, you’ve parked in full sun…may Allah have mercy on your soul.

Walking Outside

You’ve decided to walk to the compound clubhouse, let’s say to buy milk, or to go to the gym.  One block in and you’re committed, so you continue on to the clubhouse with its promise of shade and air-conditioning.  This is the point when you need to ask yourself one question:  Do I continue to walk slowly to conserve energy, but run the risk of my hair spontaneously combusting, OR do I break into a sprint in order to get there faster, but run the risk of all my bodily fluids evaporating before I reach my destination, leaving nothing but the shriveled husk of my former self as carrion for the circling vultures?  Answer carefully.

Groceries

Never before has shopping for groceries been such an adventure, and a lesson in thermodynamics all rolled into one.  If you’re planning to buy milk, it’s always a good idea to bring a cooler, otherwise that purchase of sour cream was redundant.  If ice cream is on your list, you can also buy frozen butter to help keep it cold, and pack them together in your cooler and hope that it survives the trip.  On second thought, it’s probably safer to pack five spoons and the whole family and just eat it in line at the check-out.

Tap Water

Most villas have water tanks on the roof, which is great for water pressure, but brutal for water temperature.  From about November through March, you can count on lukewarm water coming out of the cold tap.  The rest of the time, the two taps are distinguished by their new temperatures:  hot and scalding.  Laundry at this time of year becomes a challenge, with all loads now being washed in hot water.  So long, black bikini underwear.  Hello, grayish thong.

Attire
Picture a sunny clime and one immediately thinks of sundresses, tank tops and shorts.  Not so here.  Out of respect for local culture and religion, women should cover their shoulders and knees.  So, depending on what I'm wearing around the compound, I'll change before going out, often into something more, well, more.  Which usually translates into warmer.  But yeah, I totally get it.  These middle-aged knees of mine can be quite beguiling in a certain light.  However, there is something to be said for wearing a cardigan when it's 47 degrees C outside and entering a mall where the air-conditioning hovers just above freezing.  Maybe they're onto something.

And there you have it, a little advice and some insight into climate in the Gulf.  We're just going to hang out here and wait for this dry spell to pass.  After all, it's not the heat that'll get you...it's the humidity.

Playing It in the Key of Eh

My house is never quiet.  Looking back, I can point the finger of blame squarely at Avril Lavigne.

It was the summer of 2003 and Dan and I had just purchased Lavigne's first album, by then about a year old.  We packed Avril up along with our collection of preschoolers and toddlers and drove them across the Prairies to visit the grandparents.  We heard a lot from Avril on that drive as we had only taken about 15 CDs for the 38-hour round-trip.  By the time we got to Swift Current on the way back, we were desperately trying to find a radio station that would fill the silence.  The CD player in our van had declared an embargo on anything it had played more than 17 times in the previous two weeks.

Later that year, I heard Ben plunking around on the little battery-operated piano he had received for Christmas.  I said, "Hey, that tune sounds familiar - what is it?"

"Avril Lavigne," he said.  "Number four on her CD."

Alrighty then.

Thus began our career with Ben on the Party Circuit.  "OK, now Ben, play that Chantal Kreviazuk song for the nice lady!"  You might think we were getting carried away, but we were only reacting to our shock at this family development.  Any musical talent our kids might have is surreptitious, or at least curious in its origin - Dan and I both have a healthy smattering of very talented relatives in that regard, but neither of us share their company on that list.

Let me be clear:  we weren't the kind of parents to ensure that our children listened to classical music in utero, nor did we thrust "Baby Mozart" CDs at them in the hopes of developing them musically.  Rather, our kids were fed a steady diet of what some might call musical junk-food:  lots of pop, alternative and rock...basically what we listened to.  (Cue the collective cringe of music teachers the world over.)  I recall vividly when, at the tender age of four, Ben earnestly told Dan's aunt that he liked to listen to Sting's Ten Summoner's Tales, and that his favourite song on that CD was "the one where Sting loses his face".*

At the time of Ben's Eureka moment, I may have harboured notions of concert halls for my three-year-old.  But I resisted the urge to become the Mrs. Lindros of the piano world and decided instead to start asking around about music lessons.  After a couple of years of Orff Music for Ben, I enrolled him and Nicholas in piano lessons, and did the same for Jacob a few years later.

The boys brought what they learned and we brought our piano from Canada, and they continue to take lessons here.  In the last week, both Nick and Ben performed in talent shows at the Middle School and the Upper Elementary School, respectively.  Nick played "Surf Board" by N & R Faber, and Ben played his own arrangement of the theme from the movie Inception.  Click on the links below to see the video clips of their performances:

Nick - ASD's Got Talent 2011

Ben - Upper Elementary Talent Show 2011

Thanks, Avril.  I owe you one.

*If I Ever Lose My Faith in You, Sting, 1993

Rabbit, Interrupted

Spoiler alert:  If you're under nine-years-old, stop reading now.  In fact, just to be on the safe side, let's make it 10.

Now that we've established that you're old enough to read this, I can state the cold, hard truth:  The Easter Bunny Doesn't Exist.

He especially doesn't exist here in the Gulf, where Easter Sunday is just a regular work day.  Happily, Dan took a holiday day, and the kids had a day off school.  In Doha, in keeping with all its glorious weirdness and contradictions, there are a million choices for purchasing chocolate Easter eggs, baskets, and quacking ducks, so there was no problem getting prepared for Easter morning.  Buy the stuff, but keep your Eastery-Easterness out of my face, is the message I get.

I have to admit that we did have the weirdest Easter to date:  church on a regular business day, bike shopping at the souqs, lunch at a Lebanese restaurant - even hung out at the pool with the kids while the turkey was in the oven.

But getting back to the EB:  I've been lying about him for going on 13 years.  Not just lying, but completely making stuff up.  I've had an explanation for every seed of doubt, every chocolate purchase receipt that's been left out, and every chocolate egg I've been able to find that has escaped the kids' sight.  Sure, Nick and Ben are a little old for that stuff, but they have been silent accomplices to my fabrications.  They've been operating under the motto of "You've gotta believe to receive".  My objective has always been to keep Jacob a believer well into his thirties.

This is not the first time we've spent Easter away from "home" in a warm location.  Last year, we went to Disneyland over the break with my parents, and rented a house in Anaheim.  We arrived late on the Saturday before Easter, so I planned ahead and brought things to fill the kids' baskets (as did Grandma, as it turns out), and chocolate eggs to hide.  In each of their baskets they received, among other things, a coupon booklet for five free Slurpees from 7-Eleven.

Fast-forward to July 2010.  It was finally warm enough to even consider getting a Slurpee, so the kids and I piled into the van and headed out to Sev.  I parked in front of the store and the three of them went in with their coupons.  A few minutes later they came out with their drinks, and as they were getting back in the van I asked Jacob if he had any problem using his coupon.  He said no, in fact the man behind the counter commented that they were great coupons, and he would really like to find out where to get one.

"I wonder why he would ask you that," I said.  "This is the location I bought them at."

What did she just say?

A time-warp had descended over our van.  Everyone stopped moving for a few seconds - Jacob in mid-sit, Nick in mid-buckle, and Ben in mid-door-closing.  As for me, I was frantically trying to figure out a way to pull the thread of my comment back into my mouth.

Then Jacob asked, with a look of incredulity, "You're the Easter Bunny???"

Busted.  After more than a decade of constructing the myth, of providing perpetual fairy tales for every question of suspicion, blithely deflecting my kids' misgivings with made-up, on-the-spot answers, I had blown it.  Not only that, but I had single-handedly set the charges and pressed the button for its implosion.  There was no way to unspeak the two fateful sentences that would fell this house of cards and bring to an end this chapter in my children's lives.

We haven't spoken about it since, so I was a little worried about how to handle it this year.  One night last week at dinner I said to the kids, "So, about Easter this year..."

They all looked at me and smiled.  And then Ben leaned over and whispered, "Just hide the eggs anyway, Mom."