We started the weekend on Friday at a Jewish cemetery in North London at the funeral of the mother of one of our dearest friends, also the Exec Producer of 'I Can't Think Straight' and 'The World Unseen'. Standing in mourning in the London rain allowed us to support our friend, think about her mother’s life and contribution, and use that time of reflection and silence that we rarely get in our daily lives to reflect on how blessed we are.
Less than 48 hours later, I was struggling somewhat to hold onto that perspective as Hanan and I sat in Pizza Express surrounded by 6 eleven year olds hyped up on excitement and Appletiser. Yes, it was birthday party time.  Look, I still remember the younger years, when we were left slack-jawed from exhaustion after 25 three-year olds and a clown who was clearly tired of life had left. So a pizza with kids who can feed themselves and take themselves to the toilet, followed by Avatar in 3D, was not so bad.
As I arrived home with the kids to cut a cake, Hanan was leaving to sit shiva for the third day in a row since the funeral. By the second day she’d been formally introduced to the rabbi (he was taken aback but recovered well), and by day three she was well versed with the Orthodox  method of seating (women upstairs, men downstairs).
‘Is Mama going to the synagogue again?’ Luca asked.
That’s something you don’t hear too often in a Palestinian home, I’ll bet.
In other news, I took Luca to yet another school entrance exam this morning. We sat in a waiting room with a hundred other little boys, most of whom had a copy of a 700 page Harry Potter book under their arms. Meanwhile, Luca looked out of the window and counted ducks:
’26, 27, 28, 29… 40 ducks, Mummy!’
I smiled and tried to ignore the sympathetic glances from other parents. Hey. The thirties are not all that great anyway.
We arrived home to find Ethan finally more talkative about his school day, but that may have been because he had his first sex education lesson, something I’d hoped he wouldn’t have till he was thirty. I know, I know, but it’s odd when your own children, those cute, chocolate-smeared, honey-scented, chubby-cheeked bundles, start sprouting hair in places other than their heads and smelling like they actually need their daily shower.
‘What did they teach you?’ I asked, narrow-eyed.
‘The boy’s thing went huge, like this,' he explained, miming something that looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
I refrained from grimacing and nodded, trying to look understanding.
‘And the girls’ boobs got huge too.’
I made like I was a yogi or a therapist and adopted an inscrutable expression. ‘And what did you think of that?’ I asked.
‘It was all gross,’ came the reply.
I breathed a sigh of relief. For now. Then he whipped out his homework which was to write about someone he’s proud of.
‘I chose you,’ Ethan said. I glanced over my shoulder, but Hanan was still mourning with the North London Jewish community, so he clearly meant me. I wiped a tear from my eye and hugged him, then he set to work on his pre-assigned questions.
‘What year were you born?’
‘Don’t you know?’ I asked.
‘1924?’
I made a mental note to stop using the lavender shower gel and corrected him.
‘Where you born in India or Africa?’ he asked next.
‘Err, England, actually,’ I said.
‘And you’ve written two books.’
‘Three.’
It was as if we’d just met. I don’t want to know how it’s going to be when Hanan gets back from synagogue duty. He won’t even recognize her…

Leyla and Tala start a new business making sex education videos...