Planes and automobiles

On Thursdays the Glammy is off and the boys and I have the day together. After the DHL crisis, the Lozenge asked: 'Why were you thad, Mummy?' So I explained the bureaucratic nuts and bolts and he replied: 'But I will collect your camera, Mummy. But I'll jutht need to go on an aiwoplane.' Ironically, if I had taken the aiwoplane back to the UK to collect the camera, it would have cost a lot less than what Jordanian customs are asking from me.

The weather was so hot that after a quick trip to the 'Souqamarket' as L calls it, we visited the Children's Museum for about the 20th time since we arrived. It's so good, that I think it beats any place for children I've ever visited in the world. It's right next door to the stunning King Hussein Mosque, and his automobile museum which has his full collection of planes, motorbikes and cars. We spent three hours in the cool air, taking the wheels off a small imitation car, filling it with oil and learning about brake fluid and engine oil; we looked at a myriad of multicoloured fish in a huge tank, including a miniature shark and a Nemo lookalike; we winched foam bricks up on a mini-winch and built an arch with a keystone; walked through a huge replica digestive system and sat in a small version of a Boeing cockpit. Then we drove back through the chaotic Thursday afternoon traffic with the Chevy's faulty air conditioning blowing more hot air in our pink faces, listening to 'Aint no stoppin' us now, we're on the move.' The boys gazed up at the blue sky with sticky necks and sweaty hair, not thinking about the heat, just escaping with the beat, and for a change, happy with a tune that I'd chosen. A simple day was a tonic after the week of complexity. That's the automatic in-house escape you can get from living with children. (On a good day).

When we got back, I got a call from The Times asking if I could do a piece on Syrian refugees here, for lunchtime the following day. Gulp. A little while since I've had a deadline like that. But there's really, nothing, like a deadline, so after a cancelled date with J I'd finished the article by 11pm and J was proof reading it from bed. The poor Lozenge was sick all night. But the fuzzy eyed Friday was fairly calm and we had the excuse to lie about and not have a fight about the ipad, since ill health means an iday is okay, I reckon.

While the Lozenge stayed in the cool near a rotating fan, and J was at his Arabic books, Rashimi and I lay sprawled on the balcony playing around. It was Jordanian Independence day, so the air was full of tooting and cheering and blaring music from throngs of people and streams of cars on the roads. 

Then suddenly the enormous roar of a jet came many times overhead. Rashimi screamed and lunged his little body at me, hiding his head under my arm. I always marvel at his strong physique - which on a normal day seems so robust at a mere 1 and a half years of age. Yet after hearing Syrian women talking about their children's terrified reactions when they hear planes overhead in the refugee camp - from memories of the bombing and shelling they've escaped - I couldn't help but imagine what I would feel if I had nothing but my bare hands and arms to protect my child's silken body and downy head.