Dear mum. I get it now.

Happy Mother’s Day, to anyone that is celebrating, or being celebrated, from breakfast in bed, to a hastily typed WhatsApp with a heart emoticon.

This is my second – my first year as a mum I was six weeks in, still so raw with emotion and trying to leave the house. But this year I get why my mum often reminded us to buy a card, or pick some snowdrops from the garden.

This is why I want to say a real sorry for The Great Mother’s Day Incident of 1995. I was 13, my brother was 10, and my dad should have known better. We forgot – in spectacular style. I recall making a card and (I’m cringing just writing this) going around the house trying to find items that my mum didn’t know about to put into a box and present to her. What was I thinking? Mums. Know. Everything. She predictably went apeshit, slamming the front door and taking the dog for a four-hour walk, leaving the three of us open-mouthed and truly baffled how we could begin to make amends.

This was back in the day when no shops were open AT ALL on a Sunday – apart from the local garden centre. Off we went, and bought a chocolate slab from the Thornton’s concession, and had the teenage shopworker shakily pipe the word ‘sorry’ on it. Yeah, it didn’t do the job.

So mum, I am sorry – before I was sorry for provoking that reaction, but now I get it, and I’m sorry for our thoughtlessness. We were inconsiderate, and missed the chance to show you just how much we appreciate you. 

Cynics may say that these occasions are over-commercialised, that they're a good way to sell cards and have lost all meaning – and we should be showing our love and appreciation all year. But isn’t being celebrated and thanked a lovely thing? And shouldn’t we want our mums to be delighted by a card, share photos of beautiful flowers with their friends, and feel proud that they raised children who value their feelings?

So while your mum might protest, or your husband be dismissive, or your kids need cajoling, let’s all make an effort. Take the opportunity to say something heartfelt, to make her feel special, and valued – it’s only now that I’m a mum myself that I understand just how much it means.

A love letter to our nanny

Loreta came into our lives when I was six months pregnant. The sister of a friend's nanny, she wasn't happy with her current family for reasons too awful to go into (but needless to say she was paid badly, treated worse and hadn't seen her passport in two years) so was looking for a new job.

I had no experience of home help, but knew that I planned to go back to work, and we felt that a live-in nanny best suited our needs, but when we first met her for a preliminary 'interview' my mind went blank. It almost felt too big of a role to ask the small questions, and instead we had a general chat. What I liked - and still like, of course - about Loreta is that she doesn't take any nonsense, and loves to laugh. She's confident and cheerful, and has decades of experience, which is essential in a household where the two so-called grown ups haven't really been around babies much at all.

We left that first meeting keen to have her join the family, but there was the small matter of extricating her from her job. Again, it was pretty awful but involved attempted extortion, refusing to hand over her passport and threatening the police - all on the day we were moving house. Ace.

Loreta moved into our new villa the day after we did, three months before Phoebe was born. Her passport was waiting on her pillow. That day she took charge; an absolute godsend for a tired pregnant mess. She took to our to dogs, and they adore her in spite of forced weekly baths, and with her at home the puppy stopped eating our shoes, and the old girl stopped pining for us.

She was as excited about the birth as we were, waiting impatiently for 'our angel' to arrive and before I went to the hospital she said 'I pray she has hair'. Which she did.

Her help in those first few weeks was invaluable - I didn't need to worry about laundry, cleaning or washing up, I was free to spend as much time as possible with the baby (namely crying over breastfeeding and trying to sleep). I even managed to overlook some not to helpful, oh so honest comments about my low milk supply as she mimed filling up pint glasses with her bountiful breastmilk when she fed her own five children.

While I've struggled (a lot) with the emotional side of being at work and leaving my baby with someone else, a few things have helped; knowing that I'm Phoebe's mum, while Loreta is her friend, and the fact that her help has allowed me to have balance in my life.

A few months after Phoebe was born, my husband and I went out to dinner (thank you Loreta for babysitting) and he said 'Having a nanny makes everything so easy and uncomplicated', which I disagreed with. While her day to day help makes our lives easy on a practical front, it's a complicated emotional relationship. Seeing Phoebe upset and Loreta being the one she wants to comfort her is bittersweet; we're so lucky to have found someone that our daughter adores, but it's tough when your baby sometimes reaches out to someone else.

The most important thing I want to stress is that I couldn't lead the life I am without her. I couldn't have returned back to work with confidence if I didn't trust that Phoebe was going to be safe and happy. We couldn't have all important baby-free evenings and the odd afternoon cinema trip. The house would be a disaster (and the dog would have eaten all our shoes). She is, in truth, at the core of our family life, and we're very lucky.

I think Loreta is happy too. She lives five minutes from her sister, I (hope) we're a vast improvement on the last family, and we support her whenever and however we can.

My husband jokes about getting t-shirts made saying 'Life is better with Loreta'. And he's right.

If she wanted to leave Dubai to spend time back home with her children and grandchildren before we were ready to go back to the UK it would be tough. I hear more struggles than success stories when it comes to finding good help, but above that the five of us would just really, really miss her.

How did we get here?

Do you ever, out of nowhere have one of those ‘how did I get here?’ moments where, suddenly, you take a step back, disappear into your head and try to make sense of that exact second in time? It happened to me today, as I was driving. It was almost like a realisation - I am a woman who drives a Volvo estate with a ‘baby on board’ sticker, my husband is next to me (I’m married!!!), and my daughter is in the back. A Volvo. A husband. A baby. How?

During my early 20s (AKA The Wilderness/Party Years) the thought of settling down into the kind of life that I now have - and love - was tantalising yet incomprehensible. 

 - How on earth would I find a lovely man who would be kind, and clever, and a great father, and only bitch for a new moments before making me an orange squash? 

- Why would I ever get rid of my ancient, almost certainly unsafe 4x4 (nicknamed The Vaginero by my boss)? 

- Could I bear to live with someone else after blissful years of living alone in the perfect (admittedly minuscule) apartment? 

- Would they have invented a way of having a baby without actually giving birth by the time I wanted a child? C’mon science… 

- Am I too selfish to be a mother? Would that ever change? What if I think the child I bring into the world is, frankly, a bit of a dick when he/she grows up? What if I have a child that’s a he/she?! And what if the worst happens and… I can’t bring myself to write it.

- It it possible to have a baby and a career? Or a relaxing holiday and a baby? And money and a baby? 

And yet here I am. In another part of the world. Behind the wheel of a large automobile. Baffled. Singing Talking Heads. And I wouldn’t change a thing (apart from getting more wear out of those pre-preggo dresses and the occasional lie-in).

Four generations of love

I’ve been very fortunate to have known three loving grandparents in my life, with Grandma Jean (age 94) still going fairly strong. Well, her legs bother her, the doctors can’t get her heart medication right and she’s finally stopped fighting against the inevitable stair-lift to help her continue to live in her own house, but her spirit is strong. She has been saying for about 20 years that this Christmas could be her last, but we all suspect that she’ll outlive every one of us. 

In the cruel way life can be sometimes, my mum’s mum died three days before Phoebe was born, my husband delivering the news, unable to hug me properly due to my enormous bump and us attempting an odd sideways cuddle.

Grandma was widowed in her 40s and, to my knowledge, never entered into another romantic relationship. As I hurtle towards that age myself I’m struck by the searing truth that 50 years is a long time to be alone. She does, of course, have a sense of humour about it, joking during a recent examination when she needed a catheter fitted that the nurse ‘should watch out for bats down there’. 

She gave my idyllic childhood even more adventures; picking blackberries in the woods and making jam together, staying up later than my younger brother so we could play Rummy with cards sticky from decades-old G&Ts, allowing us to eat dinner from trays on our laps as we watched the best/worst of 1990s British television on a Saturday night, hours spent looking through her jewellery box asking about each piece one by one, again and again. 

Since having Phoebe I’ve been acutely aware that we should be in the UK so she can spend as much time as possible with her great grandma.

They met in July when we went home for Phoebe’s christening, and Grandma’s delight was clear; she had secretly bought her little presents (despite our insistence to keep her pension money for herself). We talk on the phone using the speaker in the hope that she’ll hear the occasional giggle or baby chatter, and when she does the conversation stops and I silently will Phoebe to say more. 

Christmas is coming, and the whole family will be together. The highlight for me will be seeing Grandma and Phoebe together, two sets of brown eyes twinkling, and I know this reunion is keeping my favourite nonagenarian going too. 

Why you should adopt an older dog

A puppy's smushed up face and cartoon eyes might make your ovaries explode, but an older dog can truly make a house a home. As we found out. 

November is Senior Dogs Month, but that’s every month at our house, where 10-year-old cocker spaniel Lizzie reigns supreme. And rightly so. 

She joined our family almost three years ago, the result of a boring evening, a rainy day and a guilty husband. At the time we were living in a tumbledown villa, complete with leaky roof and unscrupulous landlady (who still owes us Dhs20,000, not that I’m bitter…) but it also had a dog flap, which was begging for a purpose.

One Friday night I was browsing Dubizzle, and saw a post about a cocker spaniel needing a home – she had been taken to a ‘doggie resort’ for boarding, but her owner had called to say he wasn’t coming back for her. Unforgivable.

I called but there was no reply, and woke up thinking about this poor dog, abandoned in a strange place during a thunderstorm. I rang again, and was told that she was called Lizzie, was five years old, and in good health – and that lots of people were interested in her.

Jeans, jumper and boots on, I drove to Ajman in the lashing rain. Lizzie was there with a boisterous bulldog, and was cowering behind a tree, shy and very overweight. She immediately came to me, nuzzling around my knees, and it felt like she chose me.

Lizzie on the day we adopted her, complete with blonde quiff.

Next, I had to call my husband, who was working on a Saturday and feeling suitably sheepish about it, which I quickly turned to my advantage. The kennels said they needed half an hour to give her a bath and get her ready, so I headed to a local mall to get cash out for the donation (her owner hadn’t even paid her boarding fees) and call Mr Farmer. I distinctly remember him saying, “If you think we can give her a good home and a better life then go for it”.

Permission granted, I returned to pick her up and buy everything we needed. The kennels passed on her previous owner’s contact details so I could ask him about paperwork and vaccinations (he even delivered her passport to our house – I couldn’t even look at him).

That journey home was tough. She shook as I lifted her into the back of the car, and was silent all the way to the vets, despite my constant chattering and singing. Once there, he said she was closer to eight years old, which her passport confirmed, but was in good health – nothing some eye drops and a diet couldn’t sort. Then it was time to get her settled, and it all fell into place. 

As I write this, Lizzie’s whiskery chin is resting on my leg, sweet little snores coming from her soft mouth, stubby tail twitching as she sleeps. And as soon she came home it was like she had relaxed. She gleefully trotted out of the dog flap to the garden, snoozed on her oversized cushion and helped herself to leftovers from the bin (naughty) and loved, and still loves, long walks and swimming in the sea.

As she approaches 11 years old, it’s fair to say Lizzie’s best days are behind her – her eyes are getting cloudy, her back legs are weakening and we’re spending a small fortune on arthritis medication. But I don’t for a day regret adopting an older dog. When I look into those brown eyes it’s pure love that shines back. 

There are a huge number of senior dogs needing good homes in Dubai because expats often don’t want the expense of transporting an older animal when they relocate (how you can abandon a family pet is truly beyond me).

Here’s why you should consider a senior…

1. They (usually) don’t need training, so you won’t spend your days wiping up wee, or mourning chewed flip-flops. And they can be taught new tricks. Lizzie can high-five. Oh yes.

2. There’s life in the old dog yet. A senior dog is technically seven years or older, and with many breeds this is relatively young, so you could have years of love and fun with your new addition ahead of you.

3. They don’t require as much exercise. Sure, puppies are adorable, but good grief they have energy. A more mature pooch, however, makes the perfect snuggle buddy on the sofa.

4. You know what you’re getting. With puppies, especially cross-breeds, there’s no guarantees in terms of size or temperament when fully grown, while you get what you see with a senior dog. And if you’re searching for a pedigree chum, then you’re more likely to find a purebreed older dog – without the eye watering price tag of a puppy.

5. It’s your chance to offer an animal happiness in its last few years. No dog deserves to spend his or her last days on the street or in a shelter.  

According to her paperwork, we’re Lizzie’s third (and final) family. And, when the time comes to say goodbye, we’ll make sure she has the best day of her life – lots of tummy scratching, a whole cooked chicken to herself and a lovely long sleep on our bed.

For more information, visit Dubai Senior Dogs Project and K9 Friends.