We can co-exist

In the lead up to Christmas I started to question our decision to stay. I love Doha, it has become my home and we have slowly made our own little extended family here, a community. But there was something going on. I can't tell you exactly what happened, I don't really know myself, but there was a string of events and a feeling that maybe Christmas just wasn't welcome this year. A hotel was asked to remove its tree. Decorations were taken down from a shopping centre and a visit by a Dutch Saint Nick, to a well known Doha landmark was criticized and written about.

I wondered if we should have just gone away. Gone somewhere where Christmas was more acceptable.

I've thought a lot this year about how we co-exist. Earlier in the year I took part in a writing course with three young Palestinians. I was immediately struck by the two girls. With rhyming names and matching grins their introductions involved giggles and shy smiles, but the moment we began to share our writing I realized my first impressions of shyness were askew, I'd got it wrong. They were women not girls. They were strong, they weren't shy, just polite. They were there to write and more than happy to share. Every word had a bite, a sting, sentences pieced together in to stories of displacement, racism and loss. In a 'personal essays' writing course there's no holding back, it comes out raw, often unpalatable but always uniquely honest. Work has to be done quickly, there's not time to gloss over the ugly bits.

On day two we interviewed each other in an exercise geared towards character writing. She was 20 and asked "what kind of music do you like?" I was immediately stumped. I download new music every week but I hadn't been asked that question in about 20 years. I thought back to parties in share houses, sitting in front of stereos with boys. I giggled and explained that I hadn't thought about "what type" in a long time. She looked me in the eye and said "you know, when we first arrived here I thought you were just a group of bored housewives, I was wrong". I thought about my fellow participants, a recognized and award winning designer from New York, a well traveled American writer, a Dean at the University who also owns her own yoga studio, really interesting women, but yes, women who were married and 40 something.

I loved her honesty. I still do. Everything she wrote stayed with me. I went home at night and thought about the words she'd shared that day. "This is not about religion, don't believe for a moment it's about religion".  If she was that powerful at 20, who would she be at 30? We took photos, became Facebook friends and said our goodbyes.

I try and read everything that she writes. Last month I watched video footage of her and her sister standing nose to nose with Israeli soldiers.

"We can co-exist" her sister says to two Israeli soldiers.

We can co-exist.

On Christmas Day as we checked in to our hotel for lunch I stood looking at the enormous tree in the foyer. Families entered the room, I saw familiar faces from school, the supermarket, our compound - some of them had their parents who had flown in from around the world. Everyone was smiling, wishing each other a Merry Christmas. A man in a Thobe walked past me and said "Merry Christmas" and my voice wavered a little when I said "thank you" because I really meant it.

We can co-exist.

It's just bloody marvelous

How was it? Did you do it? You know. Christmas? Did you partake?

If you didn't. Congratulations, you're definitely about 5 kilos lighter than me right now and I imagine your bank balance is looking a little healthier than mine. If you did, Merry Christmas, well done, take a deep breath, it's over.

We went to the Four Seasons in Doha this year and it was absolutely gorgeous. It wasn't just the food, the location and the people, it was the whole deal. Going to a hotel for Christmas can be dodgy, you're missing the "home cooked" thing, the coziness of it all. There's nothing quite as sterile as sitting in a vacuous room looking at hundreds of other families doing exactly what you're doing - it's like Valentines day for families, without the bonking.

I don't usually mention our locations and please don't think this is any way a sponsored post, but I wanted to give the Four Seasons credit, because they made my day. The Little Travelers bounced between the buffet and the bouncy castle. There was Santa, toys, activities, beach, pools and grass to run on - and the fourth traveler tells me he visited the chocolate fountain roughly 23 times. I know how he feels, I lost count with the champagne after the 124th glass.

We spent the morning at home, watching the Little Travelers open their presents and speaking to family on Skype, but it all felt a little empty. Presents were opened too quickly, the Skype went in and out and I could feel an attack of the mopes coming. From the moment we arrived at the hotel the world was good again. It felt like, well, it felt like Christmas. I watched peoples faces as they wished each other a Merry Christmas, I saw friends introduce their parents who had traveled across the world to be with them, I met sisters and Grandparents. I marveled over ice carvings, parmesan blocks and chocolate snowflakes. It was seriously posh, seriously special and seriously good fun. It was so far from normal it became an event. Someone said "it feels like a wedding, but without the speeches" a fellow Aussie said "it feels like cup day" and a girlfriend's father said "it's just bloody marvelous" and I looked out over the Arabian Gulf as the sun was setting and agreed.

In the lead up to Christmas I got a bit lost in the madness. I wanted to say thank you, I wanted to wish you a Happy Holiday, I wanted to find Polly Pockets - none of these things eventuated.

I'll be back again tomorrow, I've got lots of news (I'm going away, on my own, without a husband - I KNOW!) but until tomorrow - thank you. Thank you for coming back and seeing me here, thank you for voting for the blog and thank you for making me feel like you're here with me on my travels.

Christmas in the Middle East.

So what's it like to spend Christmas in the Middle East?

Earlier this week I wrote something for the Telegraph observing that "Christmas in Doha can be a little bit like looking for the lid to a tupperware container in the back of your cupboard, you know it's there - you just have to search for it".

It's possible if you're living in the west, Christmas is just starting to drive you a little crazy. As you're weaving your way around the supermarket car park looking for a space, you realize Mariah has told you all she wants for Christmas at least four times today. Carols are on high rotation in every department store and every defunct television series from Charles in Charge to Gilmore Girls is currently running their "Merry Little Christmas" special.

That's not happening in my neck of the woods.

Christmas travelers fall in to two groups, those who went home and those who didn't. Those who are home are currently surrounded by family and are lavishing themselves in local produce and Christmas tradition. Those who stayed are dealing with ghosts of Christmas past and maybe hoping to begin a few new Christmas traditions of their own.

We've tinseled the tree, stocked the advent calendar and put the Merry Christmas sign at the front door, but there's still something missing. We've decorated gingerbread houses, written our lists and checked them twice while talking turkey and trimmings, but still, I feel like I'm searching for something.

So what is it? What's missing? Do I need a mall lined with Christmas trees and window decorations? Do I need to be constantly reminded of how many shopping days I have left? Do I need the office Christmas party, the influx of breathalyzers and the weather man pointing out exactly where Santa is at each point of the globe?

I don't think that's it. Although it might help, it's not what's missing. It's what's about to be missed.

I want to open a Christmas cracker with my Dad and see him take out the paper hat and try and it put on his head, it'll rip for sure, it always does. When he does it I'll remember my Grandfather who did exactly the same thing, we're a family of fat heads.  I want to see my mother rush to Woolies on Christmas eve for the kilo of prawns and the cream for the seafood sauce. I want to a have a glass of champagne with my sister, while we plot our escape from the kitchen for a quick drink at the pub. I want to watch the Little Travelers accost my brother in law, making him put together the lego/scalelectric/remote control car in his hungover state. And when it's all over and we've fought and been our best passive aggressive selves we'll nibble on cold cuts while the television floats between the boxing day test and the Sydney to Hobart.

This year, we'll be spending Christmas Day with a group of about 25 friends in Doha. They'll be giggles, secret santas and hopefully a few too many glasses of champagne while the Little Travelers play with friends on the beach. And although there will be no boxing day, no homemade seafood sauce and no ham for breakfast, they'll be Skype with Grandmas and texts with friends all over the world. It will feel like Christmas because they'll be Little Travelers and presents under the tree, it will just be a different Christmas. It will be Christmas in the Middle East.

One crowded hour

G and I met and then married, in the space of about 14 weeks.

I'd known G for about 3 weeks and thought he was a "really nice guy" but "not my type" when we were both invited to a dinner party at a friends house. We were seated across from each other at the table and as the night went on, I became more and more enamored by him. I remember 3 distinct things about G that night.

1. He asked if I was going to finish my lamb shanks and then proceeded to swap plates. Thirteen years later and he's still doing this.
2. When I asked where he thought he'd end up living, he said "I don't mind, I think I'd like to travel for awhile. I know it sounds corny, but wouldn't it be great to just be an ordinary person living an extraordinary life"
3. I left the dinner party somehow knowing I would end up married to G. I just wasn't sure how it was going to happen as he didn't have my telephone number. 

Within a week I'd managed to organize running in to him again, once we were together that was it, we were inseparable. Three weeks later we were engaged. He got down on his knees in a nightclub and said "I've just realized I'm going to dance with you for the rest of my life".

He had to go away on business and wrote me a 12 page letter from the airport terminal. He quoted Mordaunt.

"Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, Throughout the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life, Is worth an age without a name."

And then he wrote "I would take one glorious hour with you, rather than live without you".

Quotes, dinners, presents, flowers - he was like something out of a movie. I was completely swept up in the whirlwind of G. One morning as I was showering for work he knocked on the door and said "you better hurry up, we have to be at the airport in 45 minutes, we're going to Byron Bay". I was mid shampoo.

"I can't - I have to go to work"

There was a grin.

"I've spoken to them, it's organized, c'mon hurry up!"

We stayed in a beautiful balinese style bed and breakfast across from the water, it was divine. It was all divine, the wedding, the tropical sex fest honeymoon, our first Christmas, deciding to move to Jakarta, finding out we were pregnant.

It was all shiny and new and then slowly the gloss started to fade. Reality didn't just bite, it snapped ferociously. In a game of how much can you handle, we doubled up and bet high. The first baby, the second move, the second baby, the third move, the third baby, the fourth move and we'd just made it to our 5th wedding anniversary.

We were tired, I was pregnant for 196 years. G was working his arse off and at one stage traveling for about 70% of the year. We didn't seem to be saving any money, we talked about budgets and fought over excel spreadsheets. We spent our weekends shopping in discount supermarkets. We drove the Little Travelers to the airport to watch the planes take off for entertainment, while we drank coffee from a thermos from home. It was not sexy.

I was driving with three little travelers in the snow, they were screaming in the car and G was in Paris. I stared at the ringing phone in the passengers seat and thought - I can't pick it up because I hate your guts so much at the moment, if I talk to you, I might just tell you.

Two weeks later moments after I reversed our uninsured car in to a truck, I rang G at the office. I didn't want to tell him. How do you explain a $3000 mishap when you're living week to week?

When he began laughing, for a split second I thought this may have been the end. Maybe he'd actually started to go nuts. He couldn't stop laughing, and then finally when he could speak he said "You have to laugh right? I mean it's funny - no one's hurt, it's okay."

He told me a story about his mother. How she'd driven through the garage door on the day that they were selling their home. I began to smile as he told me about the auctioneer having to explain it to all prospective buyers. And in that moment we were both laughing.

This morning I woke up to an empty bed. G had been up since 4 working on a presentation, he'd walked the dog and talked to a neighbour in Australia. "Happy Anniversary" he said as he passed me a familiar little pale green bag. And for about five minutes it was us - and then the Little Travelers arrived. Someone felt sick, someone wanted breakfast, someone couldn't find their homework, someone wanted to wear their Christmas dress to school. "I have to go, I have to be in early this morning" and he was gone.

As I drove home from school I admired my new earrings in the rear view mirror and thought about a childless dinner tonight. I thought about the past 13 years, the times we've had to stand by each others side, listen to the same old stories and ignore the embellishments. The times where G has held my hand, the babies, the job interviews, the school concerts, the death of a friend.

An email came though, 4748 was the subject title. "Incase you were wondering, this is how many days we've been married".

And this is why I'm still married to G.

Happy Anniversary - it's been far from ordinary.

Thank you.

"Did you say thank you for that? No? Please go back and say thank you". It's the universal language of parenting, from the moment a toddler can utter a stumbled "ta" we're constantly prompting them.

"Say thank you"

"Honey, say thank you"

"I'm going to have to take that away if you can't say thank you"

At times I'm horrified by the insincerities of a forced thank you from a child. Particularly when it's my child. It must be one of the more excruciating moments of working with children in the service industry. That awkward moment while the waiter is made to endure the thank you process, hanging about for Little Jimmy to express some gratitude for his chicken nuggets. "What do you say Jimmy?"

Can you give a sincere thank you when you're three?  Or is it all about trying to form a habit. And if so, is it a habit of insincere and fast thank you fob offs?

Annie wants to say thank you.

I didn't tell her that I posted her video pleading for votes. She wanted it on the blog but I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do - but she was so cute (and it may well be the only piece of video I have of her with her hair brushed and a clean face). Her last words before she went to bed the other evening were "you're number 30" and her first words in the morning were "where's your iPad, so I can vote".

It's been the same every morning. She wanders straight in to our bedroom from hers, with her morning hair and sleepy eyes. She slowly scrolls down the list, carefully counting where I am and then it's on to find her Aunty Bianca so she can vote for her. My very favourite part though, is when she scrolls to the very last person on the list and gives them a vote - because that is exactly how Annie's sense of justice works. Annie will spend her life cheering for the underdog.

I also wanted to say thank you. Voting has closed and I've made it in to the top 25. As an expat blogger I don't get to partake in a lot of blogging competitions, the majority of blog comps in Australia are limited to people living in Australia (it's hard to test drive a Ford Territory in Qatar) and PR companies aren't really sure how they'll send products my way or exactly where I fit in the blogosphere.

So, thank you. Thank you especially for this face, have a look at her reaction.




"How did we get all of those votes?"

If I were a Mummy Blogger in Afghanistan...

If I were a Mummy Blogger in Afghanistan, it's possible I'd like to write about the same issues women all over the world write about each day. Perhaps, like many other bloggers, I'd talk about the daily grind of finding the balance of motherhood and career. I'd write about vaccinations, schooling, control underwear and whether we could afford the new bathroom renovation.


Or maybe not.

Maybe I'd take a few pictures of the garden and throw the roses I'd proudly picked in to my Grandmother's vase for a fantastic instagram shot. I could list my top 10 Etsy online purchases and my 5 favourite pizza toppings. Maybe they'd be a shot of a badly iced birthday cake with a child's toothless grin and a handful of candles.

Or maybe not.

Perhaps I'd write about my friend who was tied up and raped by her cousin's husband. I could write about how she was thrown in jail for adultery after reporting it to the police. And how after assessing her options she'd decided the only hope for survival was to marry him.

Maybe I'd write about a sister or a cousin who was running away from my abusive husband. Perhaps I could show photographs of her face after her nose and ears were cut off, I would zoom in on her feet to show you exactly where he poured the boiling water.

It's possible if I were a mother blogging in Afghanistan, that today may have been my last post. Today as I am walking to a religious festival with my family a suicide bomber will blow himself up - and I will be left lifeless on the ground with my children's bodies draped over me.

But this would never happen.

If I was a mother in Afghanistan, I would never be able to blog.

I kept my children a secret

I was 31 when I had my first child. We'd been living in Jakarta for 5 months when she was born. I was a long way from family but I had an amazing support network of friends and fellow new mothers to talk to. When I think about how we got together for coffee while talking about nappy rash, boobs and bottles - I also remember a lot of conversations about careers, future study, travel and the current rate of the rupiah against the dollar.

The group was like any group of women, amongst them was a chef, a nurse, a lawyer, a teacher and a few of the woman had already began studying either for a career change or just to improve their chances when returning to work. I just assumed I'd take a year off and then return to the world of HR and recruitment - I loved the industry and I'd watched other woman take time off for children and return to work. No big deal, right?

Except it didn't quite work that way. To say my career faced some obstacles would be an understatement. We moved, I became pregnant again, I was told "we don't do part-time" by the office in KL (the same company I had worked for in Australia) and then we moved again, and again, and again. In each location I would find the same thing, a network of displaced women. Women who'd all assumed and hoped that finding work in their new country would just fall in to place.

Eventually though, it did all work out. We moved to Canada and after getting the house set up and the children in school, I investigated hiring someone who I could trust to look after the Little Travelers (Hello Rona - we miss you so much!) and I went and got myself a job back in the industry I loved.

In those first few weeks back at work I came home exhilarated. People asked my advice, I went to meetings, I found people jobs, jobs that they really needed and wanted - people thanked me. I spoke to different companies about their recruitment needs. I went on sales calls. All of the things I had taken for granted before children, I now lived for. It was as if my brain exploded, words I'd forgotten returned to my vocabulary.

I just never mentioned my children.

For the first month my desk was bare. There were no pictures of Travelers 1, 2, 3 and 4 - I didn't bring them up in conversation. At the time, the guy who sat in the cubicle behind me was about 25, I'd listen as he explained his woes of tiredness to me. He was so busy. "You should've come last night!  The DJ was awesome - he didn't come on until 1 though" and I'd smile to myself thinking that it was about the same time that the youngest little traveler woke up and wouldn't go back to sleep. For that entire first month I went to work dressed as one woman and came home and became another.

Why?

Tell me which one of these terms sounds appealing to you?

School Mum
Soccer Mum
Mompreneur
Stay at Home Mum
Class Mum
Stage Mum
Tiger Mum

Or, if you really want to make a woman feel good, try calling her "Mumsy", as in, her hair/jeans are a little "mumsy". Why thank you very much!

Being called a "Mum" still has an undertone. We all know it, we've all talked about it, there's been films, books, articles, it's all been said before, but we still haven't quite worked out how to change the perception. If we choose to have a few years at home with our children, how do we deal with the image change. How do you deal with the person at the dinner party who has assumed your days have been spent painting your nails in front of Oprah while reading about Kim Kardashian and a desperate Housewife. If only Stay at Home Mums really got to stay at home.

After I'd been at work for a month there were a few changes. The area that I was working in experienced some growth. My role changed and expanded. As time moved on we hired another person, then another and another and then we moved to our own office because we'd outgrown the one we were in. In my new office my desk was littered with pictures of The Little Travelers, I spoke about them daily and it's highly likely I bored my colleagues with stories of their conversations. The Little Travelers had people in the office that they adored and looked forward to those trips to the office where there was a possibility of a sneaky Mars Bar from one of Mums work friends.

When I look back at that time in my life I realize I needed to compartmentalize those two women. I was nervous about returning to work and feeling very insecure about my time away. I felt tremendous guilt about leaving a baby at home and not being able to have the same presence in my the little travelers lives. I wanted to be able to just put my head down and get on with the job.

That's what all us "Mumsy" folk want. We just want to get on with the job, wherever that may be.





Have you ever kept your children a secret?