Bringing Up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting

by Pamela Druckerman

  What makes “Is It Safe?” so compulsive is that it creates new anxieties (Is it safe to make photocopies? Is it safe to swallow semen?) but then refuses to allay them with a simple “yes” or “no.” Instead, expert respondents disagree with each other and equivocate. “Is it safe to get a manicure while I’m pregnant?” Well, yes, but chronic exposure to the solvents used in salons isn’t good for you. Is it safe to go bowling? Well, yes and no.

  The Americans I know also believe that pregnancy—and then motherhood—comes with homework. The first assignment is choosing from among myriad parenting styles. Everyone I speak to swears by different books. I buy many of them. But instead of making me feel more prepared, having so much conflicting advice makes babies themselves seem enigmatic and unknowable. Who they are, and what they need, seems to depend on which book you read.

  We also become experts in everything that can go wrong. A pregnant New Yorker who’s visiting Paris declares, over lunch, that there’s a five-in-one-thousand chance her baby will be stillborn. She says she knows that saying this is gruesome and pointless, but she can’t help herself. Another friend, who unfortunately has a doctorate in public health, spends much of her first trimester cataloging the baby’s risks of contracting every possible malady.

  I realize this anxiety is in the British ether, too, when we visit Simon’s family in London. (I’ve decided to believe that his parents adore me.) I’m sitting in a café when a well-dressed woman interrupts me to describe a new study showing that consuming a lot of caffeine increases the risk of miscarriage. To emphasize how credible she is, she says that she’s “married to a doctor.” I couldn’t care less who her husband is. I’m just irritated by her assumption that I haven’t read that study. Of course I have; I’m trying to live on one cup a week.

  With so much studying and worrying to do, being pregnant increasingly feels like a full-time job. I spend less and less time working on my book, which I’m sup Cichdo,posed to hand in before the baby comes. Instead, I commune with other pregnant Americans in due-date-cohort chat rooms. Like me, these women are used to customizing their environments, even if it’s just to get soy milk in their coffee. And like me, they find the primitive, mammalian event happening inside their bodies to be uncomfortably out of their control. Worrying—like clutching the armrest during airplane turbulence—at least makes us feel like it’s not.

  The American pregnancy press, which I can easily access from Paris, seems to be lying in wait to channel this anxiety. It focuses on the one thing that pregnant women can definitely control: food. “As you raise fork to mouth, consider: ‘Is this a bite that will benefit my baby?’ If it is, chew away . . . ,” explain the authors of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, the famously worrying—and bestselling—American pregnancy manual.

  I’m aware that the prohibitions in my books aren’t all equally important. Cigarettes and alcohol are definitely bad, whereas shellfish, cold cuts, raw eggs, and unpasteurized cheese are dangerous only if they’ve been contaminated with something rare like listeria or salmonella. To be safe, I take every prohibition literally. It’s easy enough to avoid oysters and foie gras. But—since I’m in France—I’m panicked about cheese. “Is the Parmesan on my pasta pasteurized?” I ask flabbergasted waiters. Simon bears the brunt of my angst. Did he scrub the cutting board after chopping that raw chicken? Does he really love our unborn child?

  What to Expect contains something called The Pregnancy Diet, which its creators claim can “improve fetal brain development,” “reduce the risk of certain birth defects,” and “may even make it more likely that your child will grow to be a healthier adult.” Every morsel seems to represent potential SAT points. Never mind hunger: if I find myself short a protein portion at the end of the day, The Pregnancy Diet says I should cram in a final serving of egg salad before bedtime.

  They had me at “diet.” After years of dieting to slim down, it’s thrilling to be “dieting” to gain weight. It feels like a reward for having spent years thin enough to nab a husband. My online forums are filled with women who’ve put on forty or fifty pounds over the recommended limits. Of course we’d all rather resemble those compactly pregnant celebrities in designer gowns or the models on the cover of FitPregnancy. A few women I know actually do. But a competing American message says that we should give ourselves a free pass. “Go ahead and EAT,” says the chummy author of the Best Friends’ Guide to Pregnancy, which I’ve been cuddling up with in bed. “What other joys are there for pregnant women?”

  Tellingly, The Pregnancy Diet says that I can “cheat” with the occasional fast-food cheeseburger or glazed donut. In fact, American pregnancy can seem like one big cheat. Lists of pregnancy cravings seem like a catalog of foods that women have been denying themselves since adolescence: cheesecake, milkshakes, macaroni and cheese, and Carvel ice-cream cake. I crave lemon on everything, and entire loaves of bread.

  Someone tells me that Jane Birkin, the British actress and model who built a career in Paris and married the legendary French singer Serge Gainsbourg, could never remember whether it was Ceth MT “un baguette” or “une baguette,” so she would just order “deux baguettes” (two baguettes). I can’t find the quote. But whenever I go to the bakery, I follow this strategy. Then—surely unlike the twiggy Birkin—I eat them both.

  I’m not just losing my figure. I’m also losing a sense of myself as someone who once went on dinner dates and worried about the Palestinians. I now spend my free time studying late-model strollers and memorizing the possible causes of colic. This evolution from “woman” to “mom” feels inevitable. A fashion spread in an American pregnancy magazine, which I pick up on a trip back home, shows big-bellied women in floppy shirts and men’s pajama bottoms, and says that these outfits are worthy of wearing all day. Perhaps to get out of ever finishing my book, I fantasize about ditching journalism and training as a midwife.

  Actual sex is the final, symbolic domino to fall. Although it’s technically permitted, books like What to Expect presume that sex during pregnancy is inherently fraught. “What got you into this situation in the first place may now have become one of your biggest problems,” the authors warn. They go on to describe eighteen factors that may inhibit your sex life, including “fear that the introduction of the penis into the vagina will cause infection.” If a woman does find herself having sex, they recommend a new low in multitasking: using the moment to do Kegel exercises, which tone your birth canal in preparation for childbirth.

  I’m not sure that anyone follows all this advice. Like me, they probably just absorb a certain worried tone and state of mind. Even from abroad, it’s contagious. Given how susceptible I am, it’s probably better that I’m far from the source. Maybe the distance will give me some perspective on parenting.

  I’m already starting to suspect that raising a child will be quite different in France. When I sit in cafés in Paris, with my belly pushing up against the table, no one jumps in to warn me about the hazards of caffeine. To the contrary, they light cigarettes right next to me. The only question strangers ask when they notice my belly is “Are you waiting for a child?” It takes me a while to realize that they don’t think I have a lunch date with a truant six-year-old. It’s French for “Are you pregnant?”

  I am waiting for a child. It’s probably the most important thing I’ve ever done. Despite my qualms about Paris, there’s something nice about being pregnant in a place where I’m practically immune to other people’s judgments. Though Paris is one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth, I feel like I’m off the grid. In French I don’t understand name dropping, school histories, and other little hints that, to a French person, signal someone’s social rank and importance. And since I’m a foreigner, they don’t know my status either.

  When I packed up and moved to Paris, I never imagined that the move would be permanent. Now I’m starting to worry that Simon likes being a foreigner a bit too much. After living in all those countries growing up, it’s his natural state. He conf
esses that he feels connected to lots of people and cities and doesn’t need one place to be his official home. He calls this style “semidetached,” like a London town house.

  Already, several of our Anglophone friends have left France, usually when their jobs changed. But our jobs don’t require us to be here. The cheese plate aside, we’re really here for no reason. And “no reason”—plus a baby—is starting to look like th

  e strongest reason of all.

  Chapter 2

  paris is burping

  Our new apartment isn’t in the Paris of postcards. It’s off a narrow sidewalk in a Chinese garment district, where we’re constantly jostled by men hauling trash bags full of clothes. There’s no sign that we’re in the same city as the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, or the elegantly winding river Seine.

  Yet somehow this new neighborhood works for us. Simon and I each stake out our respective cafés nearby and retreat each morning for some convivial solitude. Here, too, socializing follows unfamiliar rules. It’s okay to banter with the servers, but generally not with the other patrons (unless they’re at the bar and talking to the server, too). Though I’m off the grid, I do need human contact. One morning I try to strike up a conversation with another regular—a man I’ve seen every day for months. I tell him, honestly, that he looks like an American I know.

  “Who, George Clooney?” he asks snidely. We never speak again.

  I make more headway with our new neighbors. The crowded sidewalk outside our house opens onto a cobblestone courtyard, where low-slung houses and apartments face each other. The residents are a mix of artists, young professionals, mysteriously underemployed people, and elderly women who hobble precariously on the uneven stones. We all live so close together that they have to acknowledge our presence, though a few still manage not to.

  It helps that my next-door neighbor, an architect named Anne, is due a few months before me. Though I’m caught up in my Anglophone whirlwind of eating and worrying, I can’t help but notice that Anne and the other pregnant Frenchwomen I come to know handle their pregnancies very differently.

  For starters, they don’t treat pregnancy like an independent research project. There are plenty of French parenting books, magazines, and Web sites. But these aren’t required reading, and nobody seems to consume them in bulk. Certainly no one I meet is comparison shopping for a parenting philosophy or can refer to different techniques by name. There’s no new, must-read book, nor do the experts have quite the same hold on parents.

  “These books can be useful to people who lack confidence, but I don’t think you can raise a child while reading a book. You have to go with your feeling,” one Parisian mother says.

  The Frenchwomen I meet aren’t at all blasé about motherhood, or about their babies’ well-being. They’re awed, concerned, and aware of the immense life transformati Fy Oket mon that they’re about to undergo. But they signal this differently. American women typically demonstrate our commitment by worrying and by showing how much we’re willing to sacrifice, even while pregnant; whereas Frenchwomen signal their commitment by projecting calm and flaunting the fact that they haven’t renounced pleasure.

  A photo spread in Neuf Mois (Nine Months) magazine shows a heavily pregnant brunette in lacy ensembles, biting into pastries and licking jam off her finger. “During pregnancy, it’s important to pamper your inner woman,” another article says. “Above all, resist the urge to borrow your partner’s shirts.” A list of aphrodisiacs for moms-to-be includes chocolate, ginger, cinnamon, and—this being France—mustard.

  I realize that ordinary Frenchwomen take these calls to arms seriously when Samia, a mother who lives in my neighborhood, offers me a tour of her apartment. She’s the daughter of Algerian immigrants and grew up in Chartres. I’m admiring her soaring ceilings and chandeliers, when she picks up a stack of photographs from the mantel.

  “In this one I was pregnant, and here I was pregnant. Et voilà, the big belly!” she says, handing me several pictures. It’s true, she’s extremely pregnant in the photographs. She’s also extremely topless.

  I’m shocked, first of all because we’ve been using the formal vous with each other, and now she’s casually handed me naked pictures of herself. But I’m also surprised that the pictures are so glamorous. Samia looks like one of those lingerie models from the magazines, sans most of the lingerie.

  Granted, Samia is always a bit dramatic. Most days she drops off her two-year-old at day care looking like she just stepped out of a film noir: a beige trench coat cinched tightly at the waist, black eyeliner, and a fresh coat of shiny red lipstick. She’s the only French person I know who actually wears a beret.

  Nevertheless, Samia has merely embraced the conventional French wisdom that the forty-week metamorphosis into mother shouldn’t make you any less of a woman. French pregnancy magazines don’t just say that pregnant women can have sex; they explain exactly how to do it. Neuf Mois maps out ten different sexual positions, including “horseback rider,” “reverse horseback rider,” “the greyhound” (which it calls “un grand classique”), and “the chair.” “The oarsman” has six steps, concluding with, “In rocking her torso back and forth, Madame provokes delicious frictions . . .”

  Neuf Mois also weighs in on the merits of various sex toys for pregnant women (yes to “geisha balls,” no to vibrators and anything electric). “Don’t hesitate! Everyone wins, even the baby. During an orgasm, he feels the ‘Jacuzzi effect’ as if he were massaged in the water,” the text explains. A father in Paris warns my husband not to stand at the “business end” during the birth, to preserve my feminine mystique.

  French parents-to-be aren’t just calmer about sex. They’re also calmer about food. Samia makes a conversation with her obstetrician sound like a Vaudeville routine:

  < K="0foop height="0" width="2em">“I said, ‘Doctor, I’m pregnant, but I adore oysters. What do I do?’ “He said, ‘Eat oysters!’” she recalls. “He explained to me, ‘You seem like a fairly reasonable person. Wash things well. If you eat sushi, eat it in a good place.’”

  The stereotype that Frenchwomen smoke and drink through their pregnancies is very outdated. Most women I meet say that they had either the occasional glass of champagne or no alcohol at all. I see a pregnant woman smoking exactly once, on the street. It could have been her once-a-month cigarette.

  The point in France isn’t that anything goes. It’s that women should be calm and sensible. Unlike me, the French mothers I meet distinguish between the things that are almost definitely damaging and those that are dangerous only if they’re contaminated. Another woman I meet in the neighborhood is Caroline, a physical therapist who’s seven months pregnant. She says her doctor never mentioned any food restrictions, and she never asked. “It’s better not to know!” she says. She tells me that she eats steak tartare, and of course joined the family for foie gras over Christmas. She just makes sure to eat it in good restaurants or at home. Her one concession is that when she eats unpasteurized cheese, she cuts off the rind.

  I don’t actually witness any pregnant women eating oysters. If I did, I might have to throw my enormous body over the table to stop them. They’d certainly be surprised. It’s clear why French waiters are baffled when I interrogate them about the ingredients in each dish. Frenchwomen generally don’t make a fuss about this.

  The French pregnancy press doesn’t dwell on unlikely worst-case scenarios. Au contraire, it suggests that what mothers-to-be need most is serenity. “9 Months of Spa” is the headline in one French magazine. The Guide for New Mothers, a free booklet prepared with support from the French health ministry, says its eating guidelines favor the baby’s “harmonious growth,” and that women should find “inspiration” from different flavors. “Pregnancy should be a time of great happiness!” it declares.

  Is all this safe? It sure seems like it. France trumps the United States on nearly every measure of maternal and infant health. The infant mortality rate is 57 percent lower in France than it is in America
. According to Unicef, about 6.6 percent of French babies have a low birth weight, compared with about 8 percent of American babies. An American woman’s risk of dying during pregnancy or delivery is 1 in 4,800; in France it’s 1 in 6,900.1

  What really drives home the French message that pregnancy should be savored isn’t the statistics or the pregnant women I meet, it’s the pregnant cat. She’s a slender, gray-eyed cat who lives in our courtyard and is about to deliver. Her owner, a pretty painter in her forties, tells me that she plans to have the cat spayed after the kittens are born. But she couldn’t bear to do it before the cat had gone through a pregnancy. “I wanted her to have that experience,” she says.

  Of course Fr K>Ofmothers-to-be aren’t just calmer than we are. Like the cat, they’re also skinnier. Some pregnant Frenchwomen do get fat. In general, body-fat ratios seem to increase the farther you get from central Paris. But the middle-class Parisians I see all around me look alarmingly like those American celebrities on the red carpet. They have basketball-sized baby bumps pasted onto skinny legs, arms, and hips. Viewed from the back, you usually can’t tell they’re expecting.

  Enough pregnant women have these proportions that I stop gawking when I pass one on the sidewalk or in the supermarket. This French norm is strictly codified. American pregnancy calculators tell me that with my height and build I should gain up to thirty-five pounds during my pregnancy. But French calculators tell me to gain no more than twenty-six and a half pounds. (By the time I see this, it’s too late.)

  How do Frenchwomen stay within these limits? Social pressure helps. Friends, sisters, and mothers-in-law openly transmit the message that pregnancy isn’t a free pass to gorge. (I’m spared the worst of this because I don’t have French in-laws.) Audrey, a French journalist with three kids, tells me that she confronted her German sister-in-law, who had started out tall and svelte.