When we moved to Abu Dhabi, I carried a lot of stuff with me. Yes, we put just about everything we owned in storage or in the dustbin. The stuff I'm referring to, the stuff I brought here, was emotional rather than tangible.
I carried my mother's death, my father's death, and my uncle's death to Abu Dhabi. Of course those events happen to everyone - I only mean to say that they influenced me to be less carefree. I also brought years of putting myself second to my family. I do not regret that - but I knew it had taken its toll on me.
I look back at who I was when I came to Abu Dhabi: I remember myself as a bundle of resignation, guardedness and fatigue. It was M's idea to come here; I merely cooperated. I read everything I could about living in the UAE and about Arab cultural awareness. I was neutral on the plan: life had taught me to expect disappointment, because being surprised by it was very hard to swallow.
As I look ahead to moving back to New Hampshire (United States) this summer, I know I am more whole now. I am stronger and softer at the same time. Abu Dhabi is an expensive place to live but some things here are quite affordable: having a maid, riding lessons, and sunshine. Friendship, too, has been easy.
To be fair, I had begun to emerge from the tidal wave of early motherhood before our 2006 move to Abu Dhabi. In 2004, I'd started a novel, I'd started to exercise, and I'd started doing things with my children rather than only for them.
But it was here in Abu Dhabi that I could catch my breath, rest a bit, and dive in to interests that were purely mine. Riding clears my head. The English-language conversation class is rewarding. Making friends with Muslims and Arabs confirms my hope that we are all the same, worried about our loved ones and the future. Writing I just have to do.
Living here has helped me get back to me, which in turn helped me get back to my family. (If you're still reading, you deserve a medal. I apologize for the record-breaking self-indulgence of this post.)
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, November 5, 2007
A Night Culture
Abu Dhabi is gradually becoming cooler, and we are spending more time outdoors. Daily temperatures hover between the low 70s and the low 90s. This weekend we had a barbeque with our neighbors and we dined by candlelight in our backyard. Except for an occasional moth flittering around someone's head, it was blissful.
Throughout metropolitan Abu Dhabi, armies of workers in green jumpsuits are edging lawns with foot-wide borders of red, white, pink and purple petunias - a sure sign the beautiful winter weather is coming. Palm trees are being trimmed, the dead clippings piled and removed later.
Yesterday an Emirati friend (I'll call her Amina) and I planned a picnic in a nearby park. We haven't seen each other since the start of Ramadan; I haven't phoned Amina for a while as I knew she was busy praying, fasting, and then enjoying the nightly Iftars.
"Oooh, a picnic, and not a shopping mall," she said on the phone. As beautiful as they are, the shopping malls cannot compare to a day outside in November here. We'd bring Amina's two-year-old with us.
When I arrived at her home, Amina - slim and graceful in her black abaya, sheyla, and high heels - approached my car with her young daughter. Her maid trailed behind with a large bag for the picnic.
"Do you have a carseat?" I asked.
"It is in storage," Amina said. I hesitated, thinking of the dangerous driving in Abu Dhabi. Amina does not drive.
"It is okay. She will sit with me," Amina smiled, opening her arms as if to say that was all the protection her child needed.
Car seats are not required by law here. I'm not sure seatbelts are either. While driving in Abu Dhabi, it's not unusual to see children jumping between the front and back rows of a moving car. This is drastically different from New Hampshire, where I'd get a $350 ticket if the police caught me driving with a young child not in a car seat. When my 10-year-old hit 80 pounds recently, he said "I'd just be getting out of a carseat back home!"
Amina, her daughter and I arrived at the park around noon. To my surprise it was closed. The guard said it opens at 4 p.m. on weekdays.
I was visibly disappointed, not only for Amina and me but for our young companion.
"The hot weather makes us lazy," Amina said as we walked back to the car.
"You have to slow down in the heat," I offered.
I looked at Amina's little girl, who sat calmly on her mother's lap as I drove away from the park.
"But what about the mothers and children who might like to play here? What do they do?" I asked.
"They go at night."
I'd forgotten that Abu Dhabians live by a different schedule. The weather has shaped their routines and habits, just as it has shaped mine back home.
In both the UAE and the northeastern US, the temperatures drop at night. This makes the night the perfect time to go out in Abu Dhabi, while in New Hampshire the frosty evenings make many want to stay home and curl up in bed with a good book.
Throughout metropolitan Abu Dhabi, armies of workers in green jumpsuits are edging lawns with foot-wide borders of red, white, pink and purple petunias - a sure sign the beautiful winter weather is coming. Palm trees are being trimmed, the dead clippings piled and removed later.
Yesterday an Emirati friend (I'll call her Amina) and I planned a picnic in a nearby park. We haven't seen each other since the start of Ramadan; I haven't phoned Amina for a while as I knew she was busy praying, fasting, and then enjoying the nightly Iftars.
"Oooh, a picnic, and not a shopping mall," she said on the phone. As beautiful as they are, the shopping malls cannot compare to a day outside in November here. We'd bring Amina's two-year-old with us.
When I arrived at her home, Amina - slim and graceful in her black abaya, sheyla, and high heels - approached my car with her young daughter. Her maid trailed behind with a large bag for the picnic.
"Do you have a carseat?" I asked.
"It is in storage," Amina said. I hesitated, thinking of the dangerous driving in Abu Dhabi. Amina does not drive.
"It is okay. She will sit with me," Amina smiled, opening her arms as if to say that was all the protection her child needed.
Car seats are not required by law here. I'm not sure seatbelts are either. While driving in Abu Dhabi, it's not unusual to see children jumping between the front and back rows of a moving car. This is drastically different from New Hampshire, where I'd get a $350 ticket if the police caught me driving with a young child not in a car seat. When my 10-year-old hit 80 pounds recently, he said "I'd just be getting out of a carseat back home!"
Amina, her daughter and I arrived at the park around noon. To my surprise it was closed. The guard said it opens at 4 p.m. on weekdays.
I was visibly disappointed, not only for Amina and me but for our young companion.
"The hot weather makes us lazy," Amina said as we walked back to the car.
"You have to slow down in the heat," I offered.
I looked at Amina's little girl, who sat calmly on her mother's lap as I drove away from the park.
"But what about the mothers and children who might like to play here? What do they do?" I asked.
"They go at night."
I'd forgotten that Abu Dhabians live by a different schedule. The weather has shaped their routines and habits, just as it has shaped mine back home.
In both the UAE and the northeastern US, the temperatures drop at night. This makes the night the perfect time to go out in Abu Dhabi, while in New Hampshire the frosty evenings make many want to stay home and curl up in bed with a good book.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Back to School
The other morning, as I stepped onto the treadmill, the phone rang. It was my children's school.
Could I substitute for an absent teacher? Yes, I could.
"I don't know anything about history," I said to M as I raced around our villa getting ready.
"You know more than you think you do," he replied.
"What do I wear with teenagers?" I asked. Jeans? A conservative skirt?
Thankfully M had already gone to refill his tea. He would have said, "what you usually wear."
Of course I was nervous, I hadn't worked in nearly 18 years.
But the day went well. The students and staff were polite and friendly. My own children didn't mind that I was in their "world" for the day. My 14-year-old was unfazed by my presence in his class, my 16-year-old held the door for me, and my 18-year-old helped me with a computer question.
By the end of the day I was reminded of how much one learns in school that has nothing to do with school.
"How do you pronouce your name?" an American student asked a Lebanese student as they walked into US History and settled in to their chairs.
"Abdullah, not Ab-DOO-lah," the second fellow said, pronouncing the second syllable like "dull," as in unsharpened.
"In the States people call me Uh-LEE-a, but my name's Alia," a female student said, putting emphasis on the beginning "ah" sound.
These students seemed disappointed but resigned to the fact that their names are often mispronounced. Two other boys, Zaid (rhymes with maid) and Zayed (pronounced zye-edd), are frequently both called Zaid though their names are actually very different.
I don't speak Arabic, except for a few phrases. But I was glad, in this international school setting, that children have the chance to understand each other better - even if it starts with something as small as pronouncing someone's name correctly.
Could I substitute for an absent teacher? Yes, I could.
"I don't know anything about history," I said to M as I raced around our villa getting ready.
"You know more than you think you do," he replied.
"What do I wear with teenagers?" I asked. Jeans? A conservative skirt?
Thankfully M had already gone to refill his tea. He would have said, "what you usually wear."
Of course I was nervous, I hadn't worked in nearly 18 years.
But the day went well. The students and staff were polite and friendly. My own children didn't mind that I was in their "world" for the day. My 14-year-old was unfazed by my presence in his class, my 16-year-old held the door for me, and my 18-year-old helped me with a computer question.
By the end of the day I was reminded of how much one learns in school that has nothing to do with school.
"How do you pronouce your name?" an American student asked a Lebanese student as they walked into US History and settled in to their chairs.
"Abdullah, not Ab-DOO-lah," the second fellow said, pronouncing the second syllable like "dull," as in unsharpened.
"In the States people call me Uh-LEE-a, but my name's Alia," a female student said, putting emphasis on the beginning "ah" sound.
These students seemed disappointed but resigned to the fact that their names are often mispronounced. Two other boys, Zaid (rhymes with maid) and Zayed (pronounced zye-edd), are frequently both called Zaid though their names are actually very different.
I don't speak Arabic, except for a few phrases. But I was glad, in this international school setting, that children have the chance to understand each other better - even if it starts with something as small as pronouncing someone's name correctly.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Creativity in Maine
Andrew Wyeth, who did some of his most famous paintings near where we are in Maine, said his father believed children need ample amounts of boredom in order to develop their own creativity. I think he was right.
We've had mostly beautiful weather during our vacation in Maine, but we've also had our share of rain.
Rain, fog, no television, no friends, and no phone. M deserves a medal for playing a record number of "Monopoly" games. There are other children around - we see them at nearby tennis courts for lessons - but they don't surface when our children play baseball or soccer on the big lawn below our house.
I think the lack of anything to do, the boredom that my children are experiencing, is bearing fruit. Fruit in the way of collaborative creativity.
The other day my oldest son, who is 17, started writing a play.
In the evening, as I read Babar and Zephir (by Jean de Brunhoff) to my youngest two boys in their bedroom, my eldest came in to sell the roles he'd created for his youngest brothers.
It rained this afternoon, beginning on the way home from our family's less-than-scintillating visit to a nearby town. Tonight all six of my children are at the dining room table reading the new script.
Even if they never spend another minute on this play of theirs, I love the fact that for a little while they are doing something creative, something with their minds and hearts, something that has nothing to do with computer games or movies or other technology that is served up to them for their entertainment.
This morning I tried to draw a picture of the incredible view out the living room window. I already respected artistic abilities, but my meager drawing made me put artists somewhere close to God.
We've had mostly beautiful weather during our vacation in Maine, but we've also had our share of rain.
Rain, fog, no television, no friends, and no phone. M deserves a medal for playing a record number of "Monopoly" games. There are other children around - we see them at nearby tennis courts for lessons - but they don't surface when our children play baseball or soccer on the big lawn below our house.
I think the lack of anything to do, the boredom that my children are experiencing, is bearing fruit. Fruit in the way of collaborative creativity.
The other day my oldest son, who is 17, started writing a play.
In the evening, as I read Babar and Zephir (by Jean de Brunhoff) to my youngest two boys in their bedroom, my eldest came in to sell the roles he'd created for his youngest brothers.
It rained this afternoon, beginning on the way home from our family's less-than-scintillating visit to a nearby town. Tonight all six of my children are at the dining room table reading the new script.
Even if they never spend another minute on this play of theirs, I love the fact that for a little while they are doing something creative, something with their minds and hearts, something that has nothing to do with computer games or movies or other technology that is served up to them for their entertainment.
This morning I tried to draw a picture of the incredible view out the living room window. I already respected artistic abilities, but my meager drawing made me put artists somewhere close to God.
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