It's Christmas, even in Dubai, and a bit o' politics, but not too much

It's that time of year again, when, just for my own entertainment, I go into my local supermarket and ask for Paxo stuffing, and have to explain in detail what it is, only to be greeted with at worst, abject horror and expressions that seem to say: "You want to do what to a roast turkey? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some kind of pervert?" Or at best, abject disinterest, and being told: "This is for Christmas? Yes? Christmas section is that way," and being sent off to the festive deals aisle, packed with such Christmassy festive treats as Doritos, obscure brand sanitary towels and washing powder, fruit juice, Halloween-themed treats and row after row of sweets and chocolates. 

DB1 with our Christmas tree. It's lucky there is no problem with Christmas here because she tells everyone we meet about our tree and how she decorated it.

I am well aware that Paxo stuffing was considered pretty naff even the best part of a decade ago when we left the UK, and I seem to remember there was some kind of discussion about stuffing poultry being a severe food poisoning risk so most people just cook the stuff separately now, but I have developed a curious nostalgic affection for it in my time living away from home.

I have been a bit facetious above, and stuffing is, of course, available in Dubai, particularly in the British-leaning supermarkets, but you have to be quick before it sells out. I have learned a lesson about not buying marzipan early enough this year which has meant, horror of horrors, that I have foregone royal icing and my annual sieving icing sugar-related Christmas cake rage for fondant icing.

Dubai is not a bad place to be for Christmas. A lot of people leave for the holidays, but that's not really an option for us, as Him Indoors is in the "Grape" business, meaning it is his busiest time of year. We could go without him, which seems a bit mean, or go on a seven-hour flight and brave the UK traffic to the East Midlands for a day or two, before setting off back again, which I think we can all agree would be a giant ballache with two small children in tow.

So we stay. There are things I miss about Christmas at home. The mad, hysterical build up to the festive season in my homeland seems somewhat endearing now, as does the cosy feeling brought about by cold weather, frost and snow, even if a white Christmas is far from the norm in Dear Old Blighty. And I miss convivial celebrations with family and old friends. I also miss the way everything shuts down for Christmas, and you have no choice but to hang around complaining about how terrible the Christmas TV is this year, eating so much leftover turkey you develop poultry-scented sweat, as well as 75 mince pies and four tins of Quality Street.

Decorations in City Centre Mirdif

I realise my version of Christmas seems a little dated with the advent of Netflix and so on, but LoveFilm.com was still a thing when we moved here. The shutting down does not really happen in Dubai, you see. The Government offices close for public holidays which are of course based around Islamic festivals, but even those festivals see Dubai slow down, but certainly not stop.

Things I don't miss are horrendous, wet, cold or icy traffic-clogged drives to visit family, getting some horrendous 'flu bug which seems far worse when you have to go out in the cold, and also the prospect of paying well over the odds for a festive season flight, and then being marooned at an airport on the way back for 24 hours or more because there has been a three flakes of snow or a puff of wind. There is also the reason I wanted to leave the UK in the first place - the short, grey skied days, when it starts to get dark at 3pm, and being chronically deprived of Vitamin D.

I know plenty of people who leave the Dubai for the festive season every year, and I think this it is a mistake to not spend at least one Christmas here, as you get the best of the weather in December. The temperature can still climb to the early 30s in the middle of the day, but you get cool mornings and evenings, and usually the mercury doesn't trouble 25C too much, which is basically a fine British summer day. We get rain, we get breezes, we get grey clouds, we go out in summer clothes with a light scarf or cardigan, rather than several layers. Although the longer we live here, the harder temperatures below 15C are to cope with.

DB1 with recycled cardboard box reindeers at school. They had a sustainable-themed Christmas this year. 

Occasionally, when I talk to people back home about what it is like living here, people assume that Christmas is harem, or forbidden, because the dominant religion is Islam. Questions about whether it's allowed are one of the things most people ask me about living here, other than, "do you have to wear a burkha?" (No) "Can you drive there?" (That's Saudi Arabia you're thinking of, and yes) And "are you allowed to drink alcohol there?" (Yes).

I thought about the perception that Christmas wouldn't be allowed when I was dropping DB1 off at school on the day of her end of term party and I saw another mum, who was wearing hijab, dropping off her two sons, who were wearing Santa hats. DB1's last week at school was packed with Christmas stuff; letters to Santa, festive games, party clothes, treats, an optional church service in the neighbouring church and so on, and she has also been to visit Santa to tell him what she wants for Christmas.  

The Wafi Mall Santa. One of the best places in Dubai to meet him.

Christmas is emphatically not forbidden in Dubai and seems to get less so every year. There is plenty of Christmas about. Trees and festive displays in the shopping malls, wreaths on doors, shops stuffed with gifts and Christmas food and blaring Christmas music, and seasonal advertising in the newspapers, on the radio, and on TV. Hotels and restaurants are full of festive offerings and cheesy festive tunes. Quite honestly, there is plenty of Christmas because Christmas is big business, and there is one thing this town loves, it is business. No one has a problem with Christmas, even the locals, who can be spotted from time to time happily putting Christmas decorations into their trolleys in various shops.  

DB1's first Christmas in 2015

I also enjoy being in the Middle East for Christmas in other respects. This is a potential barrel of vipers to open up, considering the state we are talking about here, but we are 1200 miles from Bethlehem, as opposed to the 3400 we would be, were we back in London. It is a long time since I darkened the door of a church, but being in a sand-filled desert, which although you have to drive 20 minutes to get to it from the built-up areas of the city, is a much more similar environment to the one Mary and Joseph journeyed through than the UK, which makes me feel a little bit closer to where it all began. Did I mention there is a Mary, Mother of Jesus, mosque in Abu Dhabi? And yes, there are churches, a big Roman Catholic one next to DB1's school, and various others, including several of different dominations down at Jebel Ali. 

All in all, there is no way in which I feel I have to be quiet about Christmas, or not tell people I am celebrating. Me and my quaint little winter festival ways are more than accepted here, which makes what has been happening in my dear old homeland, and the talk of growing intolerance there over the past few years, all the more sad. I'm not going to get into Brexit, except to say that I think most of us Remainers have learned our lesson about boiling the Leave vote down to the single issue of immigration by now, and believe me, this country should be the last place to throw stones about such things, as there is racism in its most virulent forms here, but what I suppose I am saying is that although I am far from home in a dusty, hot, overheated climate, I am allowed to feel at home here, and that is something I am so, so grateful for, particularly when you consider how many people are displaced in the world right now.

So, what are we doing for Christmas this year? Well, this year, after being bitten on the boobs by a baby for the substantial part of the night, and having her sit on my head from about 2-4am saying "bah", I will be woken probably around 5am by a ridiculously over-excited four year old who will open her stocking presents on our bed as Him Indoors and I blearily open some baby snacks and a tangerine (DB2's favourite food) so the baby can play with the wrapping paper and suck on tangerine segments.

Festive brunch at Emirates Golf Club pre-kids. Feels like a lifetime ago. Me (wearing red sunglasses) and Him Indoors (purple hat). Pic courtesy of the amazing Rebecca Milford-Tromans. Not sure who the strange bloke is in the foreground...

Then we will all head to the lounge where we will try and fail to convince DB1 to eat some bacon sandwiches for breakfast (yes, you can get bacon here, albeit ludicrously over priced, but it's one of my Christmas traditions) as she will have already scoffed at least one chocolate Santa and half a ton of chocolate coins while Him Indoors and I mainline coffee before ill advisedly switching to alcohol at an inappropriately early stage in the day. Then there will be an orgy of consumerism based unwrapping, as DB1 opens the several million almost entirely Disney princess-themed toys she has expressed an interest in over the past few months, and then we will spend the day playing with her and the baby in between haphazardly attempting to prepare the Christmas lunch ingredients that we have assembled over the past week, over 19 or so trips to the supermarket, as we keep forgetting things due to having basically no brains at all due to sleep deprivation. We are having a chicken as turkey seemed to be taking it a bit far since one of us is only 11 months old.

It will be a late lunch, probably around 4, as the day will be punctuated with DB1 being taken to the park outside our building to play with toys and try to burn off some of the chocolate-based energy, and then we will probably collapse in front of the Muppet Christmas Carol after dinner, and then hopefully put the kids to bed, and then I will most likely be asleep by around 8pm in front of another festive film, which I will see about the first 10 minutes of before I pass out.

Other options for Christmas Day are a festive brunch - which can be a tremendous fun, we went to a fantastic one with friends one year pre-kids, and it was the most decadent thing, eating roast turkey in the sunshine soaked in fizz and listening to the band playing Christmas music. But perhaps not so much with kids, as even the family-friendly ones tend to be super overcrowded and the food therefore somewhat less than top notch, which you don't notice when you are a bottle or two of fizz down, but seems less forgiveable when you have festive-hyped children in tow.

Or, there's that ultimate Dubai trick, getting a takeaway turkey delivered to your door, which sounds hopelessly overindulgent, but honestly, by the time you factor in the cost of all your imported ingredients, it is no more expensive than cooking for yourself.

I know it has been a rough year politically for my homeland, after three previous rough ones, so I think a lot of you will be feeling happy to say goodbye to 2019. Whatever you are doing, and where ever you are doing it, including those of you who are on the other side of what currently appears to be an unassailable divide, I wish you a Happy Winterval! I am joking, of course. Merry Christmas, you bunch of lovely b**tards.

V-Bac baby, or how things don't happen part 2

Of course, that, as most of you know, is not what happened 

Our friend, who only lives about 10 minutes away, arrived, and sat and distracted me until Him Indoors got home from the airport. We picked up our hospital bag, and got in the car, and I entered the 'transition' stage of labour, that is, if the 'transition' stage is where you 'transition into being straightforwardly abusive towards your husband'. I castigated him for driving too fast, I swore at the yellow slow-down strips on the road, told him not to automatically drive to work without thinking, even though he clearly wasn't going to do that.

The hospital is a mercifully short drive, around 15 minutes, but not exactly blessed in the parking department. And here we enter the obligatory "So Dubai" section of the blog, because the hospital has valet parking at AED 30 a time. You don't get your money back if you produce proof you have given birth there. I know. Rude.

Because they get their money anyway, unlike most valet parkers in Dubai who work for tips, they are not exactly proactive in the service department, so we got out of the car and I stood clinging to the hospital door snarling to my husband: "You have to walk to them, to give them the keys, they won't come to you...." While a nice Japanese lady who caught sight of my face, rictus with agony, asked if I was OK, to which I responded something else abusive about Him Indoors, and then clung to him as we walked slowly to the labour ward.

There we arrived, me slightly calmer now we were at the hospital and slightly less abusive towards Him Indoors, to be greeted by an empty reception desk and an eerily quiet labour ward. Private healthcare, you see, there are soundproofed rooms and doors so you can't hear the screaming. I was pretty damned irrational with pain at this point, and after a nurse was summoned and I was dispatched to the bathroom to give a urine sample, a wave of pain crashed into me at the opportune moment, so I hurled the small plastic pot across the bathroom and yelled that I would "do it later". I'm not sure what I meant by "later". When the pain got better presumably, because that's famously what happens as labour progresses, obviously.

And against all sensible "ways to make labour less s**ing agonising" advice, I lay down on the triage room bed, clinging to the metal bars around it, gritting my teeth and gurning, pausing only between contractions every two minutes to tell Him Indoors to stop sitting/standing/breathing/holding my hand/existing in such a profoundly irritating way, if he knew what was good for him.

A nurse arrived shortly afterwards, performed what I only need to refer to as "the examination" and confirmed that I was indeed in active labour, and that it seemed likely that the baby would come "quickly". So I was booked into a room, while Him Indoors was dispatched downstairs to do various bits of insurance paperwork, and a nice Sri Lankan nurse briefly rubbed my back, making me realise I was basically tensing every single muscle in my body. If I had been more in my right mind, and yes, better prepared, I would have asked Him Indoors to do the same, but I was too busy telling him everything was his fault and "for f***s sake stop standing over me looking worried. Sit down for f***s sake."

He later told me that the chair was "quite uncomfortable", hence he chose not sit down. It was probably best that he didn't tell me at the time that this was the reason he was hovering over me like he was about to deliver the last rites.

Then they brought me some gas and air. Oh, the gas and air. I nearly forgot that crashing disappointment. I had thought that there was a small chance I may manage with just gas and air.

That was, so obviously, not going to happen

You may remember, best beloveds, that I had had rather bad morning sickness, which once again left me briefly during the end of the second trimester, but returned to a degree once I was very pregnant and my stomach got squished by the baby. This is relevant because I took one puff of the gas and air, and something about it, perhaps the rubbery, plasticky scent of the mask, had me puking everywhere, leaving poor old Him Indoors to carry away said puke in one of those kidney shaped medical instrument receptacles which was the nearest thing on hand. Away it went, that kidney shaped dish, and with it, away floated any hopes of me getting through the experience without an epidural. I can't remember much else about this time, except muttering sarcastically "this is fun" in between howling and abusing Him Indoors. He was really ever so sporting about it, and he has said afterwards that he understood it was because of the pain, but it felt like I really, really meant it at the time.

And so it came to the epidural. I have always been either way on whether or not epidural is a good idea, as I know people who have had some terrible experiences with them. If you ask earnest me, I can see the benefits of not doing it as they can increase the likelihood of intervention as it can slow the labour down. But if you ask me, in full knowledge of what it's like to be in labour without one, I will launch into a diatribe about why would anyone choose to give birth without them? Give me the f***ing drugs, beyotch.

Once Him Indoors was back from doing the paperwork, I got down to some more serious swearing and yelling. I was asked if I was planning any pain relief, I repeated the closest thing I had to a birth plan, on the advice of my doctor -  I was sort of medium risk, so have the epidural, as it makes it easier to monitor the baby than if you are, and I quote, from an experienced obstetrician here, "climbing the walls with pain".  "But don't have it too soon," she said.

We waited until the point that I felt like I had had enough, which I was probably about five minutes after the nurse asked about my plans. "Yes of course dear," she said. Private medicine, see? I would have to wait for the results of my blood test before they would give it to me, which would be, I don't know, an hour or so.

So, I carried on with my yelling and abusing Him Indoors, until I uttered the inevitable phrase: "Just....... Get..... Me .... the f***ing epidural.....Don't be polite ..... to them.....Get me it ..... now!"

A nurse was summoned  and listened kindly while Him Indoors told them ever so politely that his wife was in a lot of pain, and she would quite like the epidural now. And nodded sagely, and told me that the blood test was fine, and they would get the anaesthetist to come and see me as soon as he had finished his lunch....

A very short while later, I made Him Indoors summon the nurse again. "Is he on his way? I snapped?" "Yes, he's on his way." (beatific nursey smile) "Well tell him to run, not walk." "Yes, dear."

And then the really very nice man arrived, and I've never been so pleased to see someone who was about to stab me in the spine with a needle in all my life. Having forgotten any attempts to stay calm and breathe and all that stuff up until that point, preferring to screw my eyes shut and roar, I did actually manage to breathe ...2 ....3... 4... while I was anaesthetised. The movements involved in getting into the position, which also left me actually weeping with pain, broke my waters, so that was handy.

"You should find the contractions gradually recede now," said the nurse. Recede, schmecede. They completely disappeared. It was like the sun came out after a typhoon of pain. I apologised to Him Indoors and the nurse, and sundry other people who I had been fairly abusive too up until that point, and we sat and chatted for a while, in a manner that we had not really done for four years, since DB1 was born, while I shook with cold, which is a fairly common side effect of an epidural apparently.

When you are a couple, one of whom works rather long hours, the other one works reasonably long hours and you have a lively four year old, you don't have much time awake and alone. It may be that I was strapped to an epidural drip, shaking with cold like I was in the Antarctic, with a series of beepy monitors, and he was on the uncomfortable chair, I was on the bed, but I'll take it. I think of that time fondly.

I don't quite remember, but I think Him Indoors went to get a sandwich, and it was early evening by this point, when the nurse offered me a carton of apple juice to see if the sugar in it would get the baby moving again, because the epidural drugs had indeed slowed her down her urge to vacate a little.  Not too much, though, as a few drops of whatever hormone it is they give to labouring women to get babies moving did the trick, and my abdomen soon begun to lurch alarmingly outwards as if DB2 was headbutting it to get out.

The midwife, who it turned out, trained in Southampton in the UK, and was born in Albania and grew up in Italy, gently explained what I would have to do once the doctor arrived. They do that, you see, they have to explain to you what you need to do, because when push comes to shove, if you'll pardon the phrase, in Dubai, unless you pay for some very, very expensive classes, no one actually really tells you what you need to do until you are in the labour room. And I don't mean, the obvious "you need to get the baby out" - the actual mechanics of what you need to do with your body to encourage the baby down the birth canal.

Then it must have been around 9pm, and the doctor arrived, looking only marginally annoyed to be having to work late to deliver the baby, chatted away between contractions. I could feel some movement, but no pain, and I pushed as hard as I could until I felt like my head would explode and I dripped with sweat, and there was some cutting, and a bit of tearing, and the doctor summoned an extra midwife because DB2 was supposedly going to be large, so they might need some help for the shoulders.

That did not happen

Basically DB2 fell into the world while all the extra midwife had to do was watch. DB2 screamed, screamed and screamed and wailed as loud as an air raid siren. She retains this ability to be really quite ear splittingly loud, through the challenging colic period, and afterwards, to the degree that I have never really let her cry for more than a few moments, even when I am in the car with her and there isn't much other choice, because she is really quite unbelievably deafening when she puts her mind to it. Don't know where she gets that from. They didn't call me "the silent assassin" at my run club for nothing. Anyway.

I then accidentally reenacted the Harry Enfield scene, where Wayne Slob mistakes his baby daughter's umbilical cord for male genitalia, and assumed it was a boy. Yes, I really did that. In my defence it was quite dark and I did not have my glasses on, but no, she was a girl. A very loud girl, who after her cord was cut by Him Indoors was placed on my chest, waxy and blinking and crying her super loud cry. A short time later, the doctor said, OK, it's time for the placenta, this might be a bit.... Oh... There it is... Out that came without me even noticing.

DB2's temperature after her birth was ever so slightly raised, so we had a few hours with me marooned on the bed gradually regaining feeling in my legs, Him Indoors holding the baby, until the tiny increase in temperature settled down and we got the OK from the nightshift pediatric doctor, and the midwife wheeled us up to the maternity ward around 2am.

While private hospitals prefer to keep you in for at least a couple of days if they can, to really rinse your insurance company for as much as possible, my doctor visited me after we had attempted to snatch some sleep in between various nurses checking vital signs and pointing out to me that I should probably change the baby's nappy at some point, and sent us home.

I did definitely note a little pride in my doctor's usually unflappable demeanour as she patted me on the hand as she agreed to discharge me. Here I will return to the note of cynicism I detected when I had told her that I wanted a V-Bac. She told me at some point afterwards, I can't remember when: "These women sit in my office and tell me they want a natural birth, but when it comes to it, they don't want to push, they don't even want to open their legs." It was a light-hearted, throwaway comment, but ... but ....but. What she said actually makes me a little sad, and it relates to the fact that a lot of women don't really know what to expect from giving birth or what they need to do, particularly when cultural issues among some communities in the UAE come into play. That can mean that sometimes these things are not really discussed.

I once read an article, I cannot find the link now, that said that some women in the UAE arrive at hospital to give birth, and that is the first time they have seen a doctor, no prenatal appointments, no discussions about how they will give birth, no anticipating if there any problems with their growing baby, no antenatal classes, no contemplating hypnobirthing, water births, discussion of pain relief, nothing. They are clueless, apart from what they may have been able to read or see online or glean from family members. I cannot imagine how much more terrifying that must make the experience.

During the birth, my doctor asked me if it was OK for Him Indoors to have a look at the action, to witness DB2 being born, and I said yes, obviously, and even in the state I was in, I found it rather odd that she needed to ask me. I had always joked with him that he would need to stay by my head rather than the baby's head, as I was worried he would faint because he's been known to be a bit squeamish at times, but in reality it seems very strange to deny someone the chance to watch their own child being born because you feel embarrassed. I felt particularly strongly about this because neither of us were really present for DB1's birth. I was unconscious as it was a super fast emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic as DB1's heart rate had all but disappeared, and he was left to pace the corridor with only phone calls to the Motherland to tell them what was happening to keep him company. But, if your levels of understanding on the subject are as I laid out above, you can see why it might come to that.

For me, despite the medieval torture levels of pain, I was on a complete high afterwards due to the exhilaration of actually being mentally present this time to witness DB2's birth in all its messy glory. I even suggested to Him Indoors that we should have another baby straight away, such was the hormonal banishment of the misery I experienced while pregnant. I am pretty sure when I mentioned this stonkingly brilliant idea of mine, I saw his hairline visibly recede, a la Homer Simpson's, when Marge announces she is pregnant for the third time. I think I can say, now I am at a safe distance from that post birth hormonal high, that...

that will not be happening 

V-Bac baby, or how things don't happen

It occurred to me recently that DB1, should she ever stop viewing me as an elderly, incompetent version of herself whose main job is to spoil her fun (Wait. What am I talking about? That's never going to happen), she may take an interest one day in what I have to say about the circumstances of her birth. I can remember every detail as if it were yesterday but I am aware that this may not last forever as I get increasingly decrepit and daft. And even though like many people who write, I die slightly when I read my own stuff, it's nice to have a written record of her birth here.

Since then I have had another one, DB2, and I think it's only fair to make a similar record of her birth. So here it is.

There are differences between preparing for the birth of a child in the UAE compared to the UK, which I go into a bit here but one of the more perplexing, is when you read UK-focused stuff about it, they talk about this 'birth plan' business a lot. I did not have a birth plan written down. All I had was in my head, which was 'stay at home as long as possible, give me the f***ing drugs if I say I want them but don't force them on me, and don't cut me open unless you have to'.

I have heard tell in other places of mothers having a very good idea of how it will all proceed, having a written out and printed birth plan, and they know what will play on their phone, how they will be massaged by/shout at their husband depending on how things are going, at what point they will ask for intervention and so on.

That did not happen for me

My doctor was the chatty sort, and I quite often could not get much of a word in edge ways, which is fair enough, she has delivered hundreds, probably thousands of babies, I had delivered one, so she probably had more to say on the subject.

She surmised from my various head noddings and silences during my appointments that I would prefer a V-Bac, although she raised something of a cynical eyebrow about that, for reasons I will explain later in part 2 of this blog. DB2's due date was January 29th, and I was psychologically prepared to go sailing past that, be prodded and poked some time in early February, to no avail, and end up with a caesarean section.

So, it was, on January 26th, I dragged my large self, Him Indoors and DB1 around IKEA for a few last minute bits and pieces. I cannot remember what now, but it seemed important at the time, then ate a high blood pressure/low iron/high blood sugar friendly lunch, and headed home with me preparing for some pretty serious lazing around in the run up to the birth.

That did not happen 

It turns out, trudging around IKEA is exactly the kind of gentle, distracting exercise the doctor tells you to do to get a medium-to large sized second baby to think about exiting from her uterine home.
I had had a few practice contractions in the weeks leading up to this, but nothing that would send me running for the hospital bag. So while I was noticing a few interesting sensations as I put my head down for my last sensible full night's sleep until date, there were no indications that it was about to happen.

The next morning, I dropped DB1 off to nursery, came home and then sure enough, the pains started, getting more frequent, and I fired up one of those smartphone apps that any of you who have done this will no doubt be familiar with: "agony optimiser" "child squeeze" "baby bellower", I forget what they're called now, definitely something like that, and timed the contractions. I phoned Him Indoors at work to tell him that something was definitely happening, attempting to remain calm.

Here, at this point, I will go on a little diversion about hypnobirthing. I'm told that this is a very helpful tool for many birthing mothers when it comes to getting through the early stages particularly without the need for intervention.... and yeah, that hypnobirthing, that was definitely something I was definitely going to get me some of, yep, I definitely was going to get round to learning about that before having both my babies, yep. Totes.

That did not happen

DB1 was born just before the 39th week, and hypnobirthing was still on my to do list that time. It was irrelevant anyway because the closest I got to a contraction that time was a slight bit of indigestion over a cup of hospital green tea. I did get around to watching a YouTube video prior to DB2's birth,  as I am way too mean to pay for an actual class, you see, but I got as far as "breathe in...... 1....2...3...4....5.....6.....7......breathe out 1....2....3....4.....5....6...7....." before wanting to punch the woman on the video in the face.

It was the way she said, and this woman was both a midwife, and pregnant, by the way: "ooooooh, I feel so relaxed now...." after just two or three rounds of breathing in....1.....2....3....4....5.....6....7..., breathing out....2 ....3....4......5.....6.....7...."

I may not have experienced "natural" birth at that point, but people, I can smell BS a thousand miles away, and that woman was promulgating mega quantities of the brown smelly bovine byproduct. I don't care what any of you say.... "Breathe in....1...2....3....4....5...6....7" once or twice is not going to cut it when it comes to the raw agony of childbirth, and please don't pretend it will.

The thing is, you see, I know now. I know, I know now that the pain of childbirth is some gen-u-ine industrial strength, medieval-style BS, and no amount of breathing and relaxing is going to sort that out. Feel free to reply telling me how you got through it all with whale music and hemp and a few pats on the back from your partner, I would simply love to hear from you...Actually I wouldn't, don't do that.

Anyhoo. When it came down to it, I did actual give the old breathe in.....2....3 etc a go in the early stages, but I think I did not do much else right. The little I do know about labouring has told me that being upright is often preferable to lying down in terms of managing the pain. Well, I just wanted my bed, so I lay on my side, timing my contractions, listening to BBC Radio 4 until the sound became profoundly annoying, then tried some calming BBC Radio 3 throughout that morning, until the cervix scourger app started flashing something along the lines of: "What are you doing still at home, you ridiculous prego sow? Get the heck to hospital, are you out of your mind?!"

Again, I'm pretty sure that's what it said.

At that point, my terribly calm hypnobirthing attempts had become "breathe in 1....2.....3...4...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH FER F**K'S SAKE...." I decided whether or not it was happening, it was probably time to call Him Indoors again and tell him to come home.

The thing is about Him Indoors is he works right down in the depths of Dubai International Airport, which is rather large, and it's about half an hour walk until he gets to the front of said airport and to any method of transport out of there. So I phoned him, then cut him off quickly so he wouldn't be freaked out by the sound of me yelling, and messaged our dear friend who agreed to look after DB1 while we were in hospital, and asked her to come and pick her up from nursery for us.

The fact that it would take him half an hour to get out of the airport weighed heavily on my mind as I lay there, trying not to yell my head off, as I am fairly sure I would not have been in any fit state to get there on my own without summoning an ambulance at this point. It was like one of those scenes in the movies, where you are outside yourself, watching yourself, from the ceiling - a large pregnant lady hunched over in agony clutching an iPhone that is playing some obscure classical music and making those low groans that you have never heard yourself make before.

As the pains got closer and stronger, I started to feel the kind of regret that only those of you who, like me, suffer from being perpetually stubborn and bloody minded about wanting to do things your own way, will know.

"Oh, Dubai Sand Witch, you have effing done it this time, you massive, pregnant idiot," I thought to myself. "You are a medium risk pregnancy, you have been so determined to avoid intervention and make a point that you can 'do this yourself', that despite the fact that you have private insurance and every possible medical care and intervention at your finger tips, and doctors who won't over rule you and will listen to you, despite that, you have left it to friggin' late to get to the hospital, and you are going to give birth, here, alone, on your own bed, howling in agony, except for a security guard, who will have been sent upstairs to pass along the noise complaints from your pathetic downstairs neighbours, who can't even cope with the sound of your child dropping a plastic ball on the floor, so how are they going to cope with you heafing a large baby into the world? How? How? How?

Septuagenarian homesick blues - PART 2 (things to do with a Dad in Dubai)

Welcome to part 2 of my ramblings inspired by my Dad's most recent visit to Dubai. Yes, it was eight months ago at least. See previous posts on why it is absolutely fine to take this long to get round to this. Want to make something of it?! No, I thought not.

I think Dad's last visit was only four nights in total, but considering we had an eight-week-old in tow, we packed quite a lot in to that time. Day 1's visit to the the International Cricket Council Academy towards the southern outskirts of Dubai, came about when Dad happened to mention that his friend Dave, who is basically the world authority on not just cricket, but all sports fixtures globally, had told him that he had heard that English county cricketers would be playing training matches there during his visit.

And sure enough, when I phoned them up, they said yes, Stuart Broad and colleagues would be playing that day, and no, and this is another Peak Dad moment, you do not have to pay to get in, you just turn up, and sit within yards of some of the England players of the moment in an audience of around 40 people. In this picture, those of you who do not know my Dad will see an Englishman of advancing years looking mildly pleased to have found a place to watch cricket. Those who know him well will know that for my dad, that expression of mild pleasure is the equivalent of ecstatic delight. What can I say? I get my deadpan demeanour from him. I believe the young folks call it "resting b***h face" these days.

DB2 obediently slept through this part of the outing. DB1 is not yet converted to my father's devotional following of all things cricket. Luckily, as we got in free, Dad was content to just pay his respects in the cricket cathedral, watch a small amount, and then pop off for lunch, rather than settle in for a detailed analysis of the Duckworth Lewis method with some fellow cricket anoraks. 

One thing I would say is that this is probably not for the casual watcher of cricket. Even I, who spent many a Sunday on a rural cricket field as a child, forgot my cricket know-how and committed the cardinal sin of moving while in the bowler's sight line, and I had to say three Hail Bothams at the altar of Geoffrey Boycott for that one. But if you are a committed fan it's a great chance to see some top flight players in action in a relaxed setting. And it's free! Did I mention that? If you beain't from around these parts and you're wondering why I'm so obsessed with this fact, well, there ain't much you can do for free in this part of the world, that's all I'm saying.

There is no cafe on site, but we are not a family that likes to wait long between meals, so lunch was at the handily close Dubai Polo and Equestrian Club. It sounds catastrophically non-kid-friendly, but there is a decent children's menu at the restaurant with things like salmon and mashed potato rather than the usual chicken nuggets. Either way, it is fairly quiet on week days, so no posh polo types will get irritated by your presence. Even if you are not the horsey type, it is pretty pleasant watching the polo ponies trotting about the place (on the pitches and training grounds, not generally through the restaurants).

We have been in Dubai a while now, and while I maintain there is plenty of historic significance to interest the discerning visitor if you know while to look, I find myself increasingly heading out of the emirate to its less high profile northern neighbours in search of culture. Sharjah seems to have a particularly invested in preserving its history, and its museums, for the most part, cost next to nothing to get in.

At the moment, my hands down favourite is the Al Mahatta Museum, which inspired such joy in my dad, that I think it is currently my number one place to take visitors of the older generation in the UAE. There is a little history to my family when it comes to aviation, as my paternal grandfather was in the RAF during and after World War Two. If you scroll down on this page, you will find a picture of him, complete with Biggles-style flying helmet, a very obvious clue to from where my dad and uncle inherited their distinctive noses, and a short record of his career.

Grandad died in the mid 1980s, aged 81, when I was six, so I never get to hear the stories direct from him, but since moving here, I worked out he must have passed through this part of the world on the way to his duties during World War 2. I said this to Dad - and he was, as he tends to be from time to time, somewhat dismissive, until we got there, and he saw the history of the role Imperial Airways played in the region writ large on the aircraft hangar walls.

The museum itself is a traditional building, typical of the region, with a courtyard in the centre to trap the cool air and rooms of varying sizes all around. The (obviously newer) aircraft hangar and the small air traffic control tower are attached to the side. It has now been swallowed up by the city of Sharjah, but you can quickly see from checking out the extensive information boards that in 1932, it was the first airport in the region, and those using it would have landed their aircraft in the barren desert. It later became an RAF base and was used as such until 1971. So far, so English Patient. If the pictures on the wall are to be believed, the only people around would have been a few airport personnel and some locals with rifles balanced on their shoulders.

This was the second or third time visiting this museum for DB1, and she was fairly annoyed at Grandad for not following her preferred viewing method of shouting "look at this, now let's go!" 

One of the most intriguing things, for me at least, about this gem of a museum is to think about what might have been. There is a small settlement down the road from Sharjah, you might have heard of it, called Dubai, that is somewhat proud of its airport, and there is a whole socio-economic history which obviously, I am not going to go into here, in how it was that Dubai came to be the city with the huge hub of an airport, when it was Sharjah that was the first place where aircraft landed in the region. I'm given to understand there is a place called Abu Dhabi that is not doing too badly in the airport stakes either.

DB1 cheering up again once we got to this more kid-friendly exhibit. What you see here is two people who are very used to things being done their way discussing the best way to pose for a photograph. 

It's a giant cliche, considering it's a museum, for goodness sake, but for want of a better way of describing it, going to Al Mahatta is to feel a little like you are going back in time, to before the enormous ex-pat influx brought about by oil wealth. The museum is on a back street, not too far from the Mega Mall, but surrounded by not particularly salubrious buildings. You can park inside the compound, although you would not know this until you drive right up to the not particularly welcoming looking security gate. The guard lifts the barrier for you happily enough once you tell him you are there to visit the museum.

You then drive on to what must have once been part of the air field, in front of Al Mahatta Museum itself, which was used as what passed for an airport terminal from 1932 onwards. Then it's to the ticket office, where you pay a ridiculously small amount of dirhams to get into the museum. How I internally roared with laughter when the nice local lady behind the counter asked if dad might like a wheelchair to get around. Visa laws mean there beain't many septuagenarian European ex-pats in these parts, so he must have looked impossibly ancient to her.

What does this one do, Grandad?

Then you cross the courtyard, and into the immaculately preserved aircraft hangar, and there it is, the Avro Anson, the aircraft that very nearly brought my father to tears in all its shining silver glory, taking him right back to his air cadet flights. The phrase, "I don't believe it...." was definitely uttered more than once.

If you can indulge my nostalgia as I make various giant leaps as I attempt to bring together some threads of my family history, my Grandad was someone who was not going to let something like not being able to see particularly well hamper a career in flying. Family legend has it that he sneaked into a test unit the night before he was due to take a sight test and learned the letters on the card so he was guaranteed a pass. He did pretty well for himself, though, rising to the rank of Wing Commander and instructing young pilots at the Central Flying School in Uphavon.

The Avro Anson

After dad admitted that I was probably right, Grandad did most likely pass through Sharjah at some point, most likely at the former airport in which we were standing, I felt even more affection for Al Mahatta. Grandad was quite ill from dementia and the after effects of a major stroke in most of my memories of him, but I like to think the wanderlust he must have had - shown in a desire so strong to go on adventures in flight and see the world that he cheated on a sight test to make it happen - is something he passed down to me.

In addition to the Anson of my dad's former air cadet glory days, there are the cockpits of two passenger jets, models that have historically served the region, that DB1 had a great time playing in, a vintage air field fire engine and some other models of light aircraft that have made their way to the museum in one way or another.

At Dubai Museum, Bur Dubai. Another bargain of a museum.

The buildings around the courtyard are also home to a fine collection of aviation artefacts, as well as a deliciously low-fi section on the history of flying, starting with some rather alarming examples of taxidermy, as well as some heavy promoting of Sharjah's own low-cost carrier, Air Arabia.

If you have time, watch the 1937 documentary film Air Outpost, which gives a great insight into what the tiny airport, Sharjah and the UAE were like at the time. It plays in the tiny screening room towards the left of the courtyard. Trust me, the staff will be absolutely delighted to show you where it is.

I will keep it short, but our final day trip was to Dubai Museum, which is a comprehensive gallop through Dubai history, and particularly popular with DB1 because of the life-sized depictions of local Emiratis going about the businesses of times gone by, pearl diving, date palm growing and so on. A great discovery for those with visitors is the neighbouring Arabian Courtyard, pictured above in the rain, which endeared itself to us thanks to its intriguing British theme cafe, long-serving staff and general feeling of cosyness missing from many larger, grander hotels. It does not look much from the outside, but they offer a discount to pensioners on production of a valid form of ID. Enough said.

Another favourite activity of my Dad's, although we did not have time on this visit, is to ride an abra across Dubai Creek. But that's a story for another day.

Septuagenerian homesick blues - PART 1

I have been thinking increasingly about age of late. There's a cheery way to start a blog, eh? But bear with me.

We have been in the UAE for the best part of a decade, having arrived in 2010 (him) and 2011 (me) and our current abode, in Dubai's fashionable northern suburb (ahem, Mirdif) has been our home for the longest continuous period of any of our places of residence - just over four years.

Plus, I turned 40 over the summer, and although I never got round to organising the rather low key party that I was sort of planning, (had a vague thought about it in between getting covered in baby puke and not sleeping), it has caused me to take stock a little.

A communal nap for the Septuagenarian and Desert Baby 2

Other expats have waxed lyrical about the changes that take place in your homeland while you are busy living a life extraordinary abroad. I won't go into it too much, as it's not the happiest of topics these days, but it's safe to say that Dear Old Blightie is changing beyond recognition while we are away from her, and not for the better. Change was already afoot when we left, as the Tories had just got into power after 13 years of Labour rule, but I don't think, even if we had tried our hardest, we could have imagined what was to come.

One's personal life also moves on. When you are a seven-hour plane journey away, you miss out on friends and family's weddings, births of children and christenings and other life events. Children grow, friends relocate, favourite haunts disappear, parents age, and in some cases, die.

Dad at the International Cricket Academy, Dubai. I am fairly sure it was a coincidence that he managed to time his visit to coincide with English county cricket sides playing training matches there, and so we rocked up on the day that Stuart Broad was there. Fairly sure. Note the biosphere of English weather that formed around him.

I still have my father, and I can say what I like about him without risk of causing offence to him, because he doesn't do the Internet. In the time I've been away, he's very much got into the 'old age' in old age pensioner category. He's 77 now, he'll be 78 in May. He walks slower, his doctor has said he could probably do with a new hip, but in typical Dad style he's putting it off as long as possible so he only has to have it done once before he pops his clogs. His hearing, which was terrible anyway, from a boarding school accident in which, legend has it, he was hit in the ear with an arrow from a bow and arrow, is now abominably muffled by age. And no, he won't wear a hearing aid, because apparently it makes him look like an 'old fool'. Well, quite.

His not doing the Internet means I hear from him intermittently, in letters that turn up weeks and weeks after he has written them. Or, when our landline rings, I know it is going to be him because he is the only person that calls it, apart from some people who confuse our number with a small business called Innovation.

The peakiest of the Peak Dad moments at the Al Mahatta Museum. Happening upon an Avro Anson, the same model as the plane my dad used to fly as an air cadet before the family tradition of chronic short sight put paid to even the idea of a career in flying. I think the moment he saw it might be the closest to tears I have ever seen my dad, apart from at family funerals. 

Our brief landline conversations usually consist of: "The baby's sleeping Dad, can I call you back?" "WHAT??? SHE'S TEETHING????" "No, SLEEPING!!!... Oh, she was, my having to shout out the top of my voice to make myself heard means she's now awake... So how are you, Dad? Did you win the pub quiz on Tuesday?..." And so on. Before he says: "OK, I'M GOING NOW, IT'S EXPENSIVE RINGING THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD, YOU KNOW?!'

He does text - SMSs mark you - none of that WhatsApp business, laboriously squeezing the keys of a flip phone that now looks like it dates from the stone age, but in reality is probably from 2010. Although I reply as soon as I get the usual "HI, ITS DAD HOW ARE YOU? I AM WORRIED I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM YOU" he claims to never receive it.

Grandad teaching Desert Baby 1 to fly at the Al Mahatta Museum.

Despite outward appearances of comfortably retreating into pensionerdom, wearing a groove between his home, National Trust properties and antique markets, where he finds Wisdens and obscure cricket memorabilia to add to his extensive collection, he is also one of the few people left in the world to use a travel agency office, and he goes there to book himself flights to Dubai.

I hope he will make it here again, but I am not sure we can top his last visit in terms of the levels of "peak dad" we achieved, with our activities, which were the original point of this blog, before I embarked on this quasi-affectionate sledging of him instead.

DB1 and grandad at Dubai Museum, where for a few dirhams you can swot up on the history of the Emirate in one of the older parts of Dubai. 

I am writing about his last visit months after. He was here in March, when the UAE weather was in its annual phase of being peculiarly cool and rainy before setting its course on a one way mission to steamy hot for the summer. And because rain meant we could not really go to the beach or pool (not that he had thought to bring swimming gear anyway) we embarked on Dad-friendly day trips instead.

I was inspired to finally write about his visit, thanks to spotting this blog by an author who is about to publish a comprehensive history of the UAE. Other than "crikey, someone else who still uses blogspot other than me", I have found here in an extensive resource on places in the UAE, some of which I thought only I knew about, so blissfully quiet they are when I visit. This also links back to my own rant about how, as a resident of several years standing, I find it particularly irritating when people level the 'no culture' accusation about Dubai and the UAE. If you get away from the shiny skyscrapers, the super cars and "sparkling"-soaked brunches, you will find a rich history.

I will write more about our actual adventures in part 2, but I think the pictures already give you an idea about Dad's most recent visit. We packed a lot into a few days, and although just a  couple of our outings were to sites of historic interest in the vicinity, I really cannot emphasise enough just how good the Fake Plastic Souks blog is if you want to know more about the country's fascinating history.

Things not to say to a pregnant woman - UAE style

A pearl of wisdom I often bore my fellow UAE baby mamas with is that, in some ways, this country is the best place on earth to have a baby. Parenthood, particularly of tiny babies is revered - everyone wants to know your baby's age, gender, marvel at their cuteness and cuddle them if you'll let them.  Babies are welcome in most places, no one tuts when they cry and no one makes you feel like a nuisance. If you have decent insurance, you get to give birth in a beautiful private hospital and it's very unlikely that during the antenatal and postnatal stage that you will experience long waits in clinics for a brief appointment with an over-worked and under resourced midwife or doctor.

However, it can be pretty hair-raising - navigating private health insurance for prenatal and maternal care can be intimidating if you're used to a comprehensive public health service, as can weeding out providers who are more interested in your insurance money than your welfare. Obviously it can be a stressful and financially ruinous experience for the uninsured, particularly if you experience complications such as premature birth. And then during pregnancy and after the baby's born - the advice, oh the advice, the unsolicited advice, from seemingly every quarter. It would try the patience of a saint.

This blog has been bubbling away in my brain ever since I started puking my face off last year, but was too busy puking, then giving birth, then looking after an actual baby and baby's big sister to do much about it. I think it's really arisen from the fact that I felt appalling for most of my two pregnancies and pretty much anyone who spoke to me annoyed the hell out of me. So, here are the top five annoying things people see fit to say to you when you're pregnant, and why they're so very, very irritating.

1. "Madam is very big now" (coupled with mime of a massively distended stomach).

Thinking about commenting on the size of a woman's bump or lack thereof during pregnancy? Whether you think she's truly massive and can't possibly be less than 10 months pregnant, or, you think her bump is tiny and neat and you feel like congratulating her on (vomits) holding on to her figure. Please don't.

I had my second baby at the age of 39, and it's fair to say I didn't exactly hit the gym hard after the birth of the first, so my stomach muscles gave up the ghost with zero resistance when I got pregnant with Desert Baby 2. While I wasn't exactly small with Desert Baby 1 due to her being a reasonably large baby, I was MASSIVE this time, at least, I believe I must have been, because literally everyone I met saw fit to comment on it.

I started saying from around month four, when it was becoming obvious that I was pregnant and not just had a big lunch, that "yes, it's a big bump, yes, it's a big baby, yes, it's my second, the first was a big baby, no, there's definitely only one". Good defensive measure, yes, but five months of being basically told what a great big biffer I was every time I was out in public got old pretty quick.

Just think, non-pregos, how you would feel if someone felt the need to comment on your size every time you went out in public (and yes I'm aware this happens to very thin and very fat people, and that is appalling too. If you do it, you should seriously have a word with yourself). Think about what that does to your ego, on top of whatever grim symptoms or side effects a pregnant lady may be dealing with.

However, the weekend before DB2 was born, for some peculiar reason I cannot remember now, we felt it necessary to go to IKEA, and a nice lady went out of her way to come up to me and tell me I had a beautiful belly. That cheered me up on a day when I had reached the delightful pelvic pain stage, and walking felt like swinging two large painful hams below a watermelon made of solid lead. I'm not usually the kind of person that needs such validation, but, after months of "gosh, are you sure there's only one in there?" a compliment had me weeping with gratitude.

2. "Is it a boy or a girl? You don't know? What do you have already? Well, I hope it will be a boy/girl/pumpkin/sweet transvestite from Transylvaniaaaaah/kitten (delete as appropriate)"

I'm sorry to be a party pooper, but it's really none of your business, particularly if the person you're accosting about their pregnancy is someone you don't know that well, or even a total stranger. I had various people telling me with DB2 that I was DEFINITELY having a boy, they could tell by the size/shape of my bump the way I was "carrying" and my symptoms, and it was all nonsense.

People like to think that they can tell what you're having through a variety of old wives' tosh and most people, knowing I had a girl already, assumed I MUST want to have a boy, because I must want the "perfect" Peter and Jane family of one boy one girl, or because, boys are still considered the preferred gender among certain cultures in the UAE, or, because, you know, having another girl would be "boring".

Well, fiddlesticks to all those people. I'm grateful for and happy beyond measure with my two girls. They're both magical and brilliant in their own individual ways, and considering what a grim time I had during both pregnancies, I was pretty damned pleased with what I'd achieved by having them at all. What I certainly didn't need after 18 combined months of vomiting, social isolation due to illness and awful dietary restrictions, was someone telling me it would be nicer if I could just manage to achieve a bit more variety.

So, next time you're thinking of probing into the sex of someone's baby and commiserating or congratulating them depending on what you perceive they will want to have, don't. You don't know what they've gone through to get where they are. They could have previously lost a child of the sex you've just told them they're definitely not having, they could have longed for the sex they're not having and be dealing with it in their own way. Seriously, just don't go there.

3. "What kind of birth are you having? Oh, I had a 10lbs baby with only whale song for pain relief because women who opt for elective cesareans or epidurals are WEAK... WEAK I TELL YOU!"

Seriously, person I've only just met, get your head out of my downstairs department, what is WRONG with you? Would you demand such intimate detail about any other kind of medical event and profess expertise? Did you want to know the kind of pain relief your uncle received when he had his kidney stones removed? Or your best friend's husband when he went off for the snip? Oh, so you had a baby yourself? I'm all for women bonding over shared experiences, but you are not an expert on every kind of birth ever, thanks.

DB1's birth was what they call traumatic, and it took me a long time to mentally process what had happened to us both, and my main coping mechanism, was to laugh about it, and recount it in amusing fashion for the entertainment of others. But, the physical scars healed from the emergency cesarean under general anesthetic, a long time before the mental ones. And it would all come rushing back when more than three years down the line, in the early stages of pregnancy with DB2, when my unflappable Scandinavian doctor stopped taking notes, put down her pen, and said; "You know, I would describe your first child's birth as 'very traumatic, rather than simply traumatic'.

It's true that the cesarean rate in our part of the world is reputedly among the highest, so you are statistically more likely to end up with one here than if you have your baby elsewhere. I have pondered the reasons for that, chief among them is, I suspect, a revenue-fueled, private insurance system means c sections = more money for hospitals, so of course they are going to push patients towards them if they can get away with it.

There are other reasons too, and that's a post for another day, but I know from experience that it can feel like a struggle to find a doctor who isn't going to lead you in that direction. I'm not knocking those who choose cesarean by the way, it was just that having done it once, I was keen to avoid doing it again, as I found the circumstances under which it happened hard to get over, and the recovery a lot harder than I was prepared for, and certainly a lot harder than I was prepared to go through again having an active four year old to look after already.

As it happened, DB2 was born "naturally" or had a physiological birth, as I understand the Royal College of Midwives in the UK now refers to it, but to birth "naturally" or not, to epidural or not, to water birth or not, to have a doula or not, to get an elective c section or not, are all deeply personal decisions that I would say most women put a great deal of time, effort and thought into weighing up, and so, random stranger who has realised I'm pregnant and for some reason has started interrogating me about how I'm going to give birth, the chances are I have a better idea about what is best for me and my baby birthwise than you do. Thanks for your interest and everything, but get lost.

4. "Oh, you don't feel well? You look really well, you're blooming in fact". 

Controversial one this, as I am sure many would think it churlish to be churlish about a compliment, but this would be my reply had I had the nerve to honest when people said that to me: "Well, I feel awful, unmentionable parts of me hurt, my ankles are the size my thighs used to be before I got pregnant, my thighs are the circumference of the earth, my feet feel like they're going to burst, I can't put my own shoes on, I have been sick every day for at least four months, and there's no sign of it abating, so stop ignoring the fact that I feel like I am dying because it's made my hair and skin look nice."

You know what? In the highly unlikely event that I get pregnant again, it's probably best not to speak to me at all until the baby is born. 

5. "You're pregnant, your're eating for two, you can eat what you want."

No, no you can't, unless you are one of those unicorns I am assured exist who experience no problematic side effects of pregnancy and gain weight at exactly the right rate that their doctor recommends and internally serve on a silver platter all the burgers, cakes, sweets, glasses of full fat milk that people proffer to them to their gestating offspring with no ill effects to them or their child.

That most respected of organs, the Khaleej Times, reckons that as many as one in three pregnant women in the UAE experience a degree of gestational diabetes. Other conditions frequently experienced by pregnant women here are gestational hypertension (high blood pressure) and low hemoglobin levels, or anemia. If, like me, you've experienced two out of three of those in both pregnancies (blood pressure and blood sugar with DB1, blood sugar and low hemoglobin with DB2) then you can eat what you want, provided it's low sugar, low salt, low carb, high iron and not too many calories because extra weight gain could exacerbate gestational diabetes. In other words, eggs, spinach, lean red meat, that's about it.

And for the record, yes pregnant woman can and do drink non-decaff coffee, because funnily enough, they've researched it, and found out that they would have to drink a large amount of coffee every day for it to have any effect on their baby, so the odd latte now and then is unlikely to be a problem. So leave them alone to marginally elevate their blood pressure with caffeine once in a while rather than by annoying the heck out of them with your unsolicited advice and interfering.

OK, I feel better now.

Next week, I'll deal with all those people who stick their big heads into the pram of a slightly grizzling baby and shout "what happen baby, why you crrrrrying?!" causing said baby to start screaming their head off from fright. I say next week, it will probably be in six months, if I'm lucky.