Family Day

I think it's always good, before any large Family Day event, to make sure that you arrive home the night before at 2.30am. When you wake up on "Family Day" you will congratulate yourself for those immortal words that were spoken at 2.15. "Shall we finish the night with a bottle of champagne".

Thank you Doha Film Festival people for the Hotdogs. The hotdogs helped. Having to line up in three different places to eventually get them - not so much.

Thank you to all of the School choirs that sang in the open air theatre - you were seriously cute, even with sun beating down on our faces. Thank you to the Dad with the video camera who changed seats like a commando soldier five times during his child's performance to get the very best angle. I promise it was not me who laughed out loud when you eventually tripped mid commando roll on isle 10.


Thank you to the amazing woman who painted the girls hands with Henna - I could have watched you do that all day. And with the line up that was there when we left, it's possible you are still there. To my child, who then accidentally wiped their Henna on the back on my very favourite overpriced blue shirt that I bought in Australia. I have forgiven you, but only because you are cute. And you shared your water with me. I needed a LOT of water.



Thank you to the Bollywood dancers and the drummers. Yes, the drummers! You guys were great. And you were quite loud weren't you?! When we got up nice and close to the speaker I could actually feel the vibration in my head.

We loved the kites, both those in the sky and the ones we got to make in the kite tent.

G particularly liked carrying the kites. Those long jabby bits of plastic proved to be great swords on the way home in the car. Thankfully everyone still has the use of both eyes.

We also loved the bubble garden, the sandcastles, and the craft tent.

These guys were amazing - The Little Travellers said "she must REALLY trust him". Have a look at Doha in the background.

Doha Film Institute - your Family Day just gets better and better. I just wish it didn't always have to coincide with Halloween weekend and the breast cancer walk. A few of the venues were perhaps a little rough around the edges.

But then again so was I.

Next year, more sleep, less champagne.

When will I learn?


What's your worst, ahem, "tired" event with children? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

I'd just like it to stop here.

It wasn't the content of the email that upset me. It was the sender. Her full name pinged into my inbox - it wasn't shortened. It wasn't the name that we use for her. It was the name on her birth certificate and her passport. Her official name. Her grown up name. The subject was 'homework' and the tone was excited. "Hi Mum, I handed in my Math Homework...I'll tell you all about it when you pick me up :):):):):)"

An email.

My 11 year old is corresponding with me via email.

So what's the big deal? Get over yourself. What a self indulgent, first world problem to have. People are starving, others have lost their homes, their jobs. Someone, somewhere just lost their mother. There are so many bigger problems in the world. I know all of this. But when the email came through, a little piece of my heart chipped. It didn't break, it didn't explode, it just chipped.

I wasn't the only one. I forwarded it on to G and received his baffled reply. "We're communicating via email now?"

I don't want my children to get any older.

There, I said it out loud. You want to know something else? While I'm here confessing. I tell them, demand them, not to get any older. "You can't be 9? Let's not do 9, let's just stay 8".

I love their milestones and achievements but I'd like it to stop now. We're out of nappies/diapers, everyone can hold a fork and after 10 years, we've finally traveled without a stroller. The physical slug is over and I'm happy to have said goodbye.

I'd just like to stop here.

It's not like I was careless with the time I was given. I listened when I was told "they grow up so quickly" and "hold on to it, it'll be gone before you know it". I've held on, I'm hanging on, but I can't control it, it just keeps moving. It's racing away from me and I'm trying desperately to slow it down.

It's chipping away at my heart.

I don't want them to get any older. I like it just how it is.

How do I slow it down?

Black Gold

Tonight's the night.

Everyone's frocking up and getting out their bling.

Film Festivals are sexy aren't they? Red carpets, celebrities, press rooms and opening night parties - it all starts tonight.

I was there last year, it was hot and sticky. Not tonight though, it's gorgeous in Doha tonight.

Over the next few days over 50 films will be screened from 35 countries at the Doha Tribeca Film Festival. They'll be more subtitles than a hearing loss convention.

The big one, the one that's got everyone a bit excited, is tonights premier.

Black Gold.

Filmed partly in Qatar with actors from Tunsia, Egypt. Morocco, Algeria and Lebanon, the film has a truly authentic feel - particularly if you try to forget that Antonio Banderas is Spanish.  My favourite statistic from Black Gold is not the 10,000 extras or the 2000 horses. It's the 10,000 camels. That's a lot of camels. And a shed load of camel poo to clean up. Do you think that's what the extras were doing?

Here it is.




Are you a Film Festival person? And if you're in Doha and did go tonight - how was it?

The Prince

G has been in London. The house takes on a different feel when he's not around. The expectation that usually builds at about 6pm just isn't there, the front door will not open to a squeal of "DADDY!"

Last night we ate early. Everyone was looking a little tired from their weekend. After we'd gone through the incredibly exciting routine that is bath, teeth and pajamas, I poured myself a nice big glass of wine.

When the Travelers were babies and G was traveling, bedtime became earlier and earlier . "No, it's definitely 6 o'clock" well, it felt like 6 o'clock. The wine glass was proportionate to the duration of the trip. By the end of G's time away I was looking for a flower vase for the Sauvignon Blanc.

I don't feel that way anymore - it's easier now. Now my pain comes in a different form - math homework.

Somehow the Third Little Traveler ended up with the Barbies last night. He's usually strictly a Lego kind of guy so I was interested when he told me he wanted to make a movie using "The Prince" and Barbie.

When he comes to me in 10 years time and says he has a blatant mistrust for leggy blondes, I'll just point him in this direction.






Barbie takes on a whole new persona in a different set of hands. In the next movie he made she began using The Prince's head as a football and "scored". I'm not sure what the Prince was doing for Barbie to harbor this sort of resentment. Maybe he was sleeping at the Hilton, flying first class and eating in central London? Maybe he bought her back a lipgloss when she was secretly hoping for the new iPhone 4S or maybe she didn't secretly hope, maybe she just asked for one - but she got lipgloss instead.

When the fourth little traveller came to reclaim Barbie he shrieked "Where are her shoes? What have you done with her handbag? Look at her hair. She's a mess!"

She was a mess, she'd been jumping up and down on the Prince's head and it had taken its toll.

I'm sure Barbie knows she is very lucky to have everything she has. I'm sure she knows that she doesn't really NEED the iPhone 4S. I'm sure she felt a little bit guilty this morning when she didn't look that excited about her new lips gloss and the Qatar Airways complimentary chocolates.

I'm also sure that as soon as the iPhone 4S lands in Qatar - she can go and get one herself.

You can't be what you can't see.

In the past week I've received 2 invitations to a screening of Miss Representation. The invites were from opposite sides of the world. This movie is spreading faster than head lice at Kindergarten. Both invites were from smart, switched on women who also happen to have a couple of children the same age as mine. Both of these women are fantastic role models for young girls. I have not seen either of them dance in a wet bikini in front of a group of men while holding a snake between their legs.

When we first moved to Doha we stayed in a hotel. Each night when G came home from work I would escape for a run on the treadmill in the hotel gym. The gym was mostly full of men. There was the usual line up of treadmills and televisions with a constant stream of music videos. On one particular night I watched a group of men stop for a moment to look at the screens. I can't remember who it was, maybe Britney? GaGa? Ciara? Rhianna? I was a bit distracted. I was busy trying to work out why she was wearing a see through white bikini while dancing with a snake wrapped around her legs. She appeared to be very attracted to both the stripper pole in front of her and the snake. It was completely gratuitous and out of context with the song. One of the guys said something I couldn't hear, everyone laughed and I immediately felt uncomfortable. I felt like I'd accidently joined in on their party and their party was watching soft porn at the gym.

Is that an over reaction?

Should I be cool with watching a woman wearing a dog collar being led around the room? What's the line between sexy and sexism? Would I point to these women and then tell my daughters "one day if you work really hard at school...". "Keep practicing your trombone sweetheart and then we can pop you in a bikini, hose you down and see if you can earn a living".

Take a look at this:






You can't be what you can't see.

I've been over to Miss Representation and taken the pledge.

“I pledge to use my voice to spread the message of Miss Representation and challenge the media’s limiting portrayal of women and girls”






How about you? How do feel about how women are portrayed in the media?

I missed it.

When she was tired, the first little traveller sucked on the the ear of her stuffed rabbit. He came everywhere, every trip, whether it was the supermarket or the airport. He weathered the conditions, tropical rain, desert sands and play group. The constant sucking led to damage. Grandma sewed his ear back together. He was perfect again.

One day she just stopped. I'm not sure when.

Somehow, I missed it.

One day I looked at Peter Rabbit and realized his ear was no longer damp. She'd moved on.

The second little traveller sucked her left thumb while playing with her eyelashes with her right hand. It was the cue for nap time, the thumb and the lashes. No pacifier or dummy, blanket or bear.  One thumb in the mouth, the other hand gently tapping each lash.

One day she stopped.  I'm not sure when.

Somehow, I missed it.

I saw and old photo, her lashes pressed in between her fingers with a thumb in her mouth and I realized she didn't do it anymore. She'd moved on.

The third little traveller loved having a sticker on his forehead. Yes. Really. Every piece of fruit in the fruit bowl was raided for a sticker, every item from the store. "How much are you worth today?" I'd ask as I pulled $4.99 from his forehead. He was a banana, an orange, a kiwi fruit.

One day he stopped. I'm not sure when.

Somehow, I missed it.

Today the house is bedlam, the latest head count was 9 children. I had escaped to the couch and was reading a book when the fourth little traveller came to join me. He was tired, he can't keep up with the others. He snuggled in to my lap, grabbed my hand and started to do his thing. I pushed the camera app on the ipad.



One day he will stop - because it would be weird to be 23 and still rubbing your mothers fingernails when you were tired.

One day, probably soon, he will stop.

I may not realize and I may not notice immediately.

But I will miss it - it will be gone.





Have you noticed any habits that have disappeared? Were they unnoticed?

No more.

Imagine holding a bbq in your backyard. The food is passed around, people are laughing and then the conversation switches from how well the garden is growing to politics. You've heard the Prime Minister/President is in town. Immediately everyone begins to speak in a hushed tone, you gather closer together to hear the story. One of you has some information from working closely with the government and everyone hangs on every word. You begin to whisper, just incase the neighbours hear. Sounds ridiculous doesn't it.

We whispered in Libya. 

We whispered because even though we really liked our neighbors we were never sure about their relationship with Gaddafi. And we never asked. You didn't ask. We whispered because we'd heard the stories about people who said too much.

We were told on arrival in Libya that he was to be referred to as "The Leader" - we giggled, we thought they were joking. They weren't. There were pictures of him everywhere, on every corner, his presence was a constant, at every shop counter, every gas station.

After we left Libya, it all felt a bit surreal. I'd tell people about the whispering, about the hold he had over his people. I would never have been brave enough to blog in Libya.

Last year, before Tunisia and Tahrir square erupted and Syria became a daily news story, I came in contact with Khadijateri. I scoured through her photos of her life in Libya, the beautiful pictures of "the farm". I read about her family, her cooking and her work. I made a few comments here and there and asked her for a Libyan Soup recipe. I loved her sense of humor and the way she spoke so candidly about her Libyan family (particularly her sister in laws). She was funny and upbeat, her personality shone through her blog. 

And then the world changed. Libya changed. Khadijateri disappeared.

I wasn't the only one who feared the worst. There were many of us leaving regular messages of concern. As the fighting continued and got closer to Tripoli we all kept our fingers and toes crossed that her and her family were safe. I wondered how they were going for supplies. Was food still getting in? Did they have the basic necessities? 

And then one day, in late August, she reappeared. 

She reappeared and said although they'd taken away her internet she'd still written. You can see on her blog she has posted from March - August, each has its own tab.

Her story is incredible. If you want to know what it's like to watch basic supplies in your supermarket dwindle to nothing, to line up for a day for petrol/gas only to go home empty handed, to see your son head off to fight for freedom. Go and read this blog. Can you imagine the schools closing, your job disappearing and NATO planes flying overhead each night?

You have to go and read her blog.

This was my favorite post.

Khadijateri, thank you for sharing your story. You stayed, while everyone else fled. You kept caring for your family, writing and cooking your peach cobbler. You continued to pray that Libya would some day be free. 

And today - he is gone.

There will be no more whispering.

Jumping leads

The culture shock of arriving in a new country can be severe. Possibly you're driving on what feels like the wrong side of the road, the street signs may be in a different language and none of the items in the supermarket look vaguely familiar.

For an expat, the first 6 to 12 months can bring all sorts of surprises. Over time though, we begin to adjust and maybe even forget about the things we originally felt we couldn't live without . On a good day when the sun is shining and you're enjoying what your new country has to offer, you start to feel like there's really not that much difference between where you are now and where you were originally from.

And then something happens.

Today, the battery in my car went flat. For about a minute I stood looking at the car wondering what happens next. I then remembered hearing G say something about an organization that we were a part of - if only I'd listened to what they were called.  I had a quick search through the car and of course found nothing. I rang G.  He was in a meeting. I rang a girlfriend who then gave me the number of AAA. Yep - that sounds about right.

I spoke to a man and had a conversation that involved me repeating the number 28 at least 48 times. When the man finally came, he went to number 7.

When he rang me from number 7 I told him I'd stand out the front so he could see me. I was expecting someone to arrive in a vehicle maybe looking something a bit like this:

Nope.

When he approached I wondered if he was the pizza delivery guy. He arrived in this:

After much discussion where neither understood what the other was saying, we both agreed that the battery was dead. He assured me all was okay because he had "jumping leads".

His jumping leads did the trick and the car was back in action.

I learnt something new today. It turns out car batteries last maybe 2 summers in this heat if you're lucky. We've just finished our second summer. Who knew?

Thank you Mr AAA for your jumping leads - maybe next time could bring along a large Hawaiian?

What have you learnt in your travels? 

Good Luck New Zulland.

Thus week I huv coloured the stars on our flug red. I um lustening to Crowded House, Splet Enz and Dave Dobbyn. The kuds are watching Lord of the Rungs und Kung Kong, cuz we all love Peter Juckson.


I saw my frunds from New Zulland thus morning. They were all viry huppy. I said "How about those Wallabies, dudn't they play like Shut. All Blacks had them from begunning to ind. I'm so proud of New Zulland".

"I thought you were from Australia Bro?" they said

"I um, but we Aussies claim iverytheng good from New Zulland. Rumember the Funs? Tum and Niell? They're really bug in Australia?"

My frunds from New Zulland hadn't seen thus clep, so I said I'd post it for thum.






I asked the Little Travelers who they'd barrack for this weekend in Rugby World Cup. The vote was unanimous "The Kiwis! We have to barrack for the Kiwi's, all of our friends are Kiwis and it's so close to Australia - we're neighbours!"

At every International School the Little Travellers have been a part of, the Kiwis and the Aussies are always lumped together. Our flags look very similar, our accents differ only slightly and we tend to have a very similar view on the world. We join clubs together, and on ANZAC day each year we remember the history and the depth of our relationship. In Qatar each year over six hundred Kiwis and Australians get together for the ANZA ball and the party is HUGE.

New Zealand has had a really crap year. I have listened to many stories about lost houses, struggling relatives and devastation caused by natural disasters.

It's about time the Kiwis had something big to celebrate.

The French, I don't think they've got a chence.

Do You Think He's Gay? And other inappropriate questions.

This is what Henry Hotdog feels I should wear when I take him to school.

He likes the feathers.

At least two mornings a week, while I stand draped in a towel flicking through clothes in my wardrobe, as if he's never suggested it before, he'll say "Why don't you wear the feathers Mum? I think everyone would REALLY like it."

Henry feels the feathers should be my "signature" piece on the daily school run. Can't you just see me on the side of the basketball court? Or maybe sitting in the bleachers at swimming lessons. I could wear it while I loaded the groceries in to the back of the car after I've swished around the supermarket on a Tuesday morning.

From the moment Henry could walk, he found his way over to the dress up box and started putting things together. All four of the travelers have been big fans of the dress up box. Everyone, at some stage has donned a tutu. They've been Wiggles, cats, princesses, builders, and Masterchefs. Henry's favourite for a long time was the rainbow fairy dress. I love that dress. I bought it for the first little traveler in Perth at the fairy shop in Freemantle. Watching the fourth little traveler wear it in the snow in Canada six years later, always made me a little melancholy. That dress had been a constant, packed in every suitcase, and when everything else seemed to be changing, the dress was still there.

For roughly two years Henry wore the dress constantly, which seemed to bring two types of reactions from friends and family. People either scooped him up and told him he looked fantastic or tried desperately to look like they were okay with it while they were obviously struggling.  I had all sorts of hideous comments from "Do you think he's gay?" to "Geez, I hope he grows out of it".

Do you think he's gay? Is not a cool question for anyone. Not a 5 year old, a 15 year old or a 50 year old, because no matter what, it's really irrelevant. In a world where we struggle with the sexualization of children. Why would be discussing a child's sexuality?

Do you think he's gay? Pollutes a conversation with undertones and stereotypes. Bad stereotypes, old stereotypes.

Do you think he's gay? Makes me want to ask you if you think your child will be in to nipple rings, ribbed vibrators and fetishes. Do you? Have you thought about your toddler having sex? Or who'll they'll have sex with? No? Me neither.

Henry rarely wears a dress anymore. The rainbow fairy dress now lives at the beach house, I watched Henry help one of his cousins put it on when were home last time and my heart melted a little bit. What made me sadder though was he didn't grow out of it. He was pushed. Not by his own family, but by the stereotypes of others.

"Why's your brother wearing a dress?" our little visitor asked. The third traveler shrugged it off "that's what he always wears". I saw Henry's face change - in that instant I watched him register what was happening. His cheeks blushed, his eyes dropped to the ground. I did my usual speech about wearing whatever he wanted, that there were no rules, but I knew the damage was done.

When I filled out his introduction form for kindergarten this year he whispered to me at the table "tell them I like robots and cars - I don't want them to know what I really like". The words stung. I felt like I'd failed. How could he feel this way? When did this happen? I'd spent so many hours preaching about there being no such thing as girls stuff and boys stuff and why there were no girl's colours and boy's colours. "Mummy, everyone else calls it girl's stuff, they say 'Why are you playing with the girl's stuff' - that's what they say".

He is 5.

No. You don't grow out of it. You just catch on. You hear the comments and assumptions and you conform because it's easier.

Yesterday the lovely Mrs Woog, wrote yet another beautiful post about her little Jack. A comment was made and there was almost a public lynching. I actually felt sorry for the woman who made it, I don't think she meant it to be cruel or hurtful but unfortunately she made an assumption.

I haven't written about this before, mainly because others have and they've done it so beautifully that I didn't want to appear to jumping on the bandwagon. This story is for Henry and for anyone you know that reminds you of Henry. Just let them be. Scoop them up, tell them they look fabulous, give them permission to be whoever they want.

Just don't assume to know who they're going to become.

Party Rockers in the Band Tonight.

Remember the Trombone Suicide post?

There was a lot of discussion about who played what, where and when. 

My favourite comment on the blog post was from the mother of one of the boys in the clip "my son is the one in the video...and I am the proudest Mom in the world". 

Is there anything better than watching your child from the bleachers? Whether it's the trombone suicide or the very first dive in the deep end. Watching your child take part in something, watching them learn, grow and improve and maybe eventually master - it has to be one of the most underrated free gifts that comes with parenting.

My favourite comment on Facebook (about the Trombone Suicide) was from my girlfriend Clare who was/is a musician and spent a lot of time in the band - "the trumpet players, well the trumpet players they were the sex gods of the band". 

My girlfriend Carolyn tells me it was the saxophone players "everyone LOVED the Sax players"

I thought back to the band in my home town.

No. Sex. Gods.

The band has had a serious image change. Bands are cool. Show me a guy with a Saxophone and I'll show you a girl with a dress just waiting to be dry cleaned.*

I've just discovered this clip and I can't wait to show it to The Little Travellers in the morning. "Party Rockers" is a daily pick on the ipod on the school run, the travellers became addicted to it after watching The Renovators in Australia over the break (theme song).

Yep, bands are cool. Take a look at this.

What was band like when you were at school? Any sex gods?

*that was a terrible Clinton/Lewinsky reference

Is there more WE in your ME?

The second traveller had homework. She had a big blank yellow ME that she then had to cover with pictures of herself. I noticed when she was telling me about her "ME" there seemed to be a lot of "WE".

Her "ME" meant that "I" had to scroll through our library of digital pictures while under heavy scrutiny and instruction from the Second Little Traveller. She had suddenly switched into Anna Wintour editing the September issue. She slowly perused each photo, discussing what was going to make it on to the page.

"I like the one of me in the rabbit suit", we scrolled back to our days in Libya to find her on the sofa with long pink fluffy ears. As we made our way past Libya and in to Canada she said "Don't print the one of me being a grumpy cowgirl in Calgary." she knew me too well, I love that photo.

When WE had enough to cover her "ME" she asked which pictures I would have picked if I had a ME. I scrolled back to the beginning of our digital library which coincidentally begins a month before the birth of the First Little Traveller. I had confirmed my children's suspicions, that I didn't really exist until they came along. There I was, standing on Orchard Road in Singapore, wearing comfortable shoes and bad maternity pants.  My one and only digital "ME" before we all became "WE".

There's a box of previous "ME's" in dusty photo albums stored in a cupboard in Australia. The non digital ME, the child ME, the school ME, the single ME, the drunken ME, the sporty ME. The old ME before WE.

As the Second Little Traveller and I looked through the digital photos she said "there's not a lot of photos of just you? How come?" I had to think about it. When did I stop having pictures of "just me". I had a few logical explanations - I was the one taking the photos, or maybe I was just so busy with babies and toddlers there just wasn't time, but when I really thought about it, they were poor excuses. Why were all my ME's now WE's? Should I have been having an identity crisis?

There's a lot of "WE" in my "ME". It doesn't matter how much I work on my "ME" whether it's writing, spending time with friends or failing dismally through a downward dog at Yoga class. The "WE" always seems to be there, right in the front of my brain. I can't tuck it away to the back, it's always right there - up the front. What will they eat for dinner? Did he take the vaccination form to school today? She needs a new retainer, I need to make an appointment at the Orthodontist. She'll need new sneakers for basketball. When is the Rugby trip? Was the school bowling trip today? I need to find a black jacket for her Michael Jackson Halloween dress up. Questions like these work on high rotation.

If life has a pattern of "ME's" and "WE's". I'm making my way through a strong phase of the "WE".

This will change.

As the Little Travellers grow, there will be less pictures of bunny suits and bowling parties. In the meantime though, I'm making the most of my life of "WE". There's no identity crises, just the predictable angst that comes with balancing the WE and the ME. Realizing that I like the WE and want to hang on to it for as long as I can, knowing that it wont last forever and I'll miss it terribly when it's gone.





Do you have more ME's than WE's in your photo collection? Or is your ME a distant memory?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Doha begins to tease us in October, the sun loses some of it's fierceness and we begin choose to sit alfresco in the evenings. It's amazing what a few "moderate" days of weather can do, suddenly the scorching summer is forgotten and we begin to talk about the spectacular weather that lay ahead.

Last October may have been my best October yet. There was a lot going on, an approach from a book publisher, a bit of Twitter action with John Cusack, but perhaps the most exciting experience was writing about the Doha Tribeca Film Festival.

Why?

Doha was buzzing. And Katara (home of the Doha Film Institute and the Festival) was just such a cool place to be. The program was cutting edge, the talent arriving in town was huge, names like DeNiro, Spacey and Hayek, all available and ready to teach and talk. There were Family Days, open air screenings in world class venues, TED events, I only saw about 25% of what I was hoping to (I thought about leaving The Little Travelers home with a tin of beans and a can opener) but even then, there was just too much to see.

The really annoying thing though.

Some of you missed it. "I didn't realize it was on" and "I wasn't sure where to get tickets".

Those of you from out of town- you're excused (although you really should think about hopping on a plane. I'll pick you up at the airport).

Those of you that are here.

Don't do it again.

Why?

This year. It's better.

How do I know?

I've just had a cheeky look at the program. And this time, it's not just the Films, it's not just the talent coming to town, it's not just the breathtaking documentaries, this time there's more.

This year there's music, REALLY good music - but I'll tell you more about that soon.

In the meantime, have a look at the clip below, it tells you how to get your tickets both online and in person and gives you a quick run down on some of your options.

If you're new in town or not sure who else to go with let me know, maybe we could get a group together? We might even be able to find a few free passes. Leave a comment on the blog and let me know if you're planning to come along.

You can't miss it this year.

Bracket Explanations

My phone list is full of bracket explanation contacts, bracket explanation contacts look like this, Lucy  (Mathew's Mum) and Susan  (Lauren's Mum). There is the occasional smattering of Dave - (Sarah's Dad) but mostly it's Mums. They're women I've met through my children. People who I've sat at a swimming lesson or a school gate with and they've suggested a play date or car pooling for a school event and we've exchanged numbers.

Most of these women are parents of children my children go to school with. Which would make them fall in to the category of "Mums from School" or the much dreaded "School Mums". Sounds sexy doesn't it? School Mums. I can't recall ever saying "When I grow up I want to be a School Mum". I remember I wanted to be part of the Kiss Army and one of Charlie's Angels but I never a School Mum.

Last week I received a message from Whitney - (Daisy's Mum). We met about 18 months ago at the Fourth Little Travelers Nursery School.  About once a week we'd meet by chance outside the classroom or in the playground and we'd have one of those conversations you have with someone you're just getting to know. I remember asking Whitney what she did before moving to Doha "I'm a Lawyer" she said.

Whitney and I ran in to each other a few times last year, we were both sucked in volunteers for various things at the school, I'd usually be lost or late, Whitney would smile and tell me where the meeting was or giggle at my perpetual complaining of having to decorate the freaking classroom door. So last week, when she sent me a message asking for the 4th Travelers classroom number, because she had something to drop off, I presumed it was a party invitation.

It was so much better than a party invitation.

When I picked up Henry Hotdog from school his teacher was holding a large white envelope. "This is from Whitney - Daisy's Mum" she said.

Attached to the envelope was a post-it note  "I saw this on Facebook, I hope you don't mind but I painted it"

Whitney is a Lawyer.
Whitney is a Painter.
Whitney is a Mother.
Whitney is a Wife.
Whitney is a sucker for volunteering at School.
Whitney gave me one of the most wonderful surprises I've ever received.
Whitney is so much more than a "School Mum".

If only I could fit all of that in to my "contacts" in my phone.

Lunch Monitors

The Second Little Traveller wandered in to the bustling School Cafeteria yesterday and immediately noticed that something was terribly wrong. An injustice was happening right in front of her. There in the line, the line for the much coveted "hot lunch" was her brother, the Third Little Traveller. She quickly turned to her friend and asked "it's Monday right? it's not Wednesday is it?" Upon confirmation she marched towards him.

"It's not hot lunch day, we only have hot lunch on Wednesdays - you know you're not allowed to be here" she said with authority. The Third Little Traveller knew he'd been caught but immediately took the defensive role.  "Well, I had money left over from the book fair, my book was only 20 so I had 10 in change". She knew she had him, they'd been no mention in the car that morning of change or being able to buy hot lunch. "I'm telling Mum -  you're going to be in so much trouble."

The reason I can recite this conversation verbatim is because I endured an episode of he said/she said on the way home from school yesterday. Anyone with more than one child has experienced he said/she said. It fits in to the sibling injustice program of "how come he got..." and "why did she get to..." and my all time favourite "Why do I always have to..."  In all of these conversations Mum becomes a three syllable word "Muuu uuuuuu uuuuum".

Hot lunch may well be the biggest excitement of the Little Travellers school week. The rest of the week is filled with sandwiches, carrot sticks and youghurt drinks, but on Wednesday, standing in the line for a possible Fajita or plate of spaghetti is, I'm told, "super awesome". Watching your sibling stand in line for hot lunch while you nibble on your soggy cucumber, not so super awesome.

However, by the end of our trip home from school, we'd moved on. Deals were made, future rules decided and everyone was happy. The conversation moved on to the Third Little Travellers impending birthday. We talked about cake, chocolate or vanilla, swimming and presents.

This morning as we all crowded in bed together watching the The Third Little Traveller open his presents he was then presented with a bag from his sister. "I made you a present" she said with genuine affection. In the bag was a collection of items she had gathered from around the house, a second hand Qatar Airways eye mask, a 2 year old pencil sharpener, an eraser, her math facts from last year and a pink hairband.

The Third Little Traveller was overjoyed with his gifts - he didn't seem to notice that the pencil eraser had someone else's name on it or that he didn't really have enough hair for a ponytail. I didn't tell him that I'd found the youngest little traveller, naked in his room, using the eye mask as underwear yesterday.

With the bag was a hand written note from the second little traveller to the third, he read the note out loud and the room went quiet.

"We all love you very much. You are awesome (spelt asome) cool and handsome - yes, you are a BIG BOY now. All of us love you".

I was surprised she held herself back and didn't feel the need to add "but you really shouldn't have had hot lunch yesterday"

He put the note down and shuffled across the bed for a very awkward if I touch you, promise you wont you bite me hug.

That's the thing with siblings, we can be so ready to pounce and so quick to judge. Sometimes we just care a little bit too much. But sometimes we care more than anyone else in the world.

Happy Birthday my little man, I think possibly the best present we gave you were the siblings who not only act as lunch monitors, but think you're asome as well.