French Twist

by Catherine Crawford

  Instead, in The New Basics introduction, Cohen writes, “I hope that reading this book will help you relax as a parent.” The book came out just one month before my first child was born, but it took me nearly seven years to really pay attention. Relax! Such a simple idea, and yet one I’d completely overlooked whenever my baby developed even a low-grade fever or a hint of diarrhea or, heaven forbid, dropped her pacifier out of reach of a sterilizer.

  Now, as I am going back through all of the literature I consumed in the early years, trying to figure out how my generation of American parents arrived in our current state of tumult with our kids, I see some of what I missed. The directive gleaned in entry after entry from the good French doctor suggests that we all chill out a little. For instance, here is what he has to allow for parents who worry about bowed legs: “I don’t know of any babies with straight legs. They all have slight bowing, and some have a little more than others. But their legs always straighten with age, although some adults keep a slight residual bowing, which is of no concern, especially if you’re a cowboy.” This is the tone of his book, and, good God, I love it. And Cohen’s book, written for Americans, is like an inflamed polemic compared to the baby manuals most French parents-to-be consult.

  I well remember when my sister called me in tears toward the end of her second pregnancy. She was worried sick about her two-year-old, who would be deprived of so much of her time and devotion when the new baby arrived. I spewed out everything I had read about helping an older sibling adjust to a new baby, like having special items on hand so big brother doesn’t feel left out, or planning alone time after the baby is born, and instructing visitors bringing gifts to the newborn to pick up something for the older kid as well. My sister was so hysterical about the pain she might cause her beloved firstborn that she had me in tears too. Then I read what Cohen had to say on the matter: He advises not to do any of the things I had told my sister to do, not to excuse any bad behavior on the part of the older child when baby enters the picture, and certainly not to feel sorry for anyone involved. Siblings are great. The firstborn should—and will—be psyched. Cohen is so right … and so French.

  For me, the moment I learned I was pregnant was, not at all coincidentally, the moment I added a new manic energy to my personality. This was no trifling matter: Ask anyone who’s seen me do the worm on a barroom floor. But now I had so many new things to worry me. Well-intended citizens from all corners of my life cautioned me about everything from tap water to eggs to nail polish to emotional stressors. War movies might be too much to handle. I was afraid to open my mouth for a bite, or even a breath, without first consulting an expert. One friend had me fearful that the subway’s screeches at my Manhattan transfer would detrimentally affect my poor little zygote’s developing eardrums. I am not, by nature, a neurotic person, but the onslaught of angst was impossible to deflect. “Woman,” this Chorus of Agita sang in a dreadful loop, “the world is no place for little people.” I prefer the more reasonable line by Nicolas Cage’s character, H. I. McDunnough, in Raising Arizona: “Sometimes it’s a hard world for small things.” (Yes, that character is not exactly a paragon of parenting—he did, after all, end up in a high-speed car chase after stealing some Huggies—but there is a certain pragmatism I admire in that line. The world is not always hard on small things—just sometimes.)

  While for the most part I wouldn’t say that the French are careless with their little in-utero visitors, they sure are a lot less anxious than what I’ve seen from expectant moms on this side of the pond. Over and over, when I spoke with pregnant French women, I noted a distinct lack of that ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, breathe! feeling that is so familiar in my social circle.

  Okay, not all French women breeze through pregnancy—one woman from Brittany confessed to me, “I do think I should probably eat less of the steak tartare.”

  Less steak tartare? When I last checked, steak tartare is raw meat. Raw meat, I should point out, that once had me hurling all over Montparnasse years before the kids were born. As a preggers person, meanwhile, I was instructed, by way of the What to Expect “Best Odds” diet, not to eat rice. Rice. Since the diet was supposed to give me the best odds on having a healthy baby, I was brought to tears when I couldn’t comply. White rice represented one of three or four things that wouldn’t make me spew. What a cretin I felt like for indulging … in rice.

  From what my foreign confidants revealed, the average French obstetrician makes the earlier-mentioned Dr. Cohen seem like an alarmist. While it is true that these days even most pregnancy manuals en français warn against any with-child alcohol or cigarette consumption, advice being offered in the more comfy confines of the doctor’s office is less strict. This is what a few carrying French women told me when I asked after their imbibing habits:

  My doctor asked me to limit to one glass of wine with meals, only two cups of coffee every day, and only three cigarettes each day if I have to—although he doesn’t want me to smoke. So I don’t—except once in a while.

  My French doctor said I could eat whatever I wanted but only one glass of wine each day.

  My obstetrician is very strict about drinking and not eating. Wine only with food.

  Over and over, French women told me about these “restrictions.” It could be a fluke, but I’ve not found one American with a doctor who sanctioned a daily drink. When my obstetrician said I could have three drinks, I made her repeat herself. On the second go-around, I realized that she meant I could have three drinks throughout my entire pregnancy. She relented: “Have a glass of champagne on your anniversary, or maybe a glass of wine on your birthday, something during the holidays. That will be okay.” Gee, thanks.

  On paper, the French are not so different from us, and in 2007 it was even mandated that all alcoholic beverages sold in France come with a label stating that the consumption thereof could be harmful to the health of the unborn child. In practice, though, things are still a bit different. Maybe it’s because, as many people have pointed out, those French warning labels are teeny tiny.

  In any event, the occasional glass of wine would have seriously changed my attitude toward pregnancy. It sure would’ve helped to know there was one at the end of another long day that started with extreme morning sickness; it would also have taken the sting off the pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel that had me in wrist braces with both kids. I may even have kicked fewer puppies had a daily, or even weekly, glass of vino been on the table. (Note to my kids: I’ve never actually kicked a puppy.)

  I am no physician or even scientifically minded, so I am not going to pick sides here. I do know firsthand that the Irish are a little closer to the French attitude (shocker, I know). When I was seven or eight months pregnant, some pals visited me from Dublin. As happens, my visiting Irish friends called their New York Irish friends, and I found myself in a bar brimming with Irish. At least six times, I heard some version of this: “Ah, Catrin! Nice ter meet yer. Let me buy yer a draink.” Since I was sitting down, I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and decline the kind offer while pointing to my extended abs. The inevitable response: “Ah, den let me git yer a beer.” Then again, I am not sure if anyone should let an Irish attitude toward the drink inform decisions while pregnant. Still, the fact remains, if you are pregnant in the United States (even if you Skype with a French ob/gyn), one of the best reasons to avoid drinking is that someone might see you with a baby on board and a drink in hand and physically assault you.

  I recently heard of an American doctor who, upon seeing one of her pregnant patients indulge in a small glass of wine, proclaimed: “Well, I hope you’re happy. You just gave your baby fetal alcohol syndrome. You now have to live with that for the rest of your life.”

  This American doc might need a shot of pinot herself. She probably did more damage to the psyche of her patient than any harm this expecting mother did to her child. I am not saying that moms-to-be should get tanked to the point that they wake up in some stranger’s bed off the coast of Naples (althou
gh that does sound sort of sweet) but, rather, reconsider the bone-dry approach. Or, even better, just try to avoid turning into a complete basket case about everything.

  I have even come across the argument that a little womb service red wine (it’s always red) advantageously affects the brain development of a baby. I don’t know if I buy that, but I like to read about it nonetheless.

  In speaking with French mothers about the medical advice they received and the books they consulted while pregnant, I found that a common difference between the French and the American approach is the distribution of focus. Here, we are pretty zeroed in on the fetus. It is understandable to want to grow a healthy baby, but our whole industry is so wrought with anxiety that it can be a bit staggering. Early in my first pregnancy, my husband and I went straight into defense mode: Test the tap water! Test the paint! Remove all plastic serving-ware from the house! Interview nannies! Interview vitamins! Avoid shellfish! Avoid shelves! And on and on.

  It is not that the French don’t make adjustments, but they also don’t seem as completely consumed by the miracle within. Probably the most famous French author on the subject of maternity is Madame Laurence Pernoud, whose books J’attends un enfant (I Am Expecting a Child) and J’élève mon enfant (I Bring Up My Child) have sold tens of millions of copies, and that is not counting any of the translated versions. The wife of Georges Pernoud, an editor with Paris Match, Madame Pernoud initially decided to write an advice book about pregnancy and motherhood when she found herself expecting for the first time at the age of thirty-five and could not find a book that answered her questions. It seems she was not alone, and French women have turned to her ever since J’attends un enfant was first published in 1956. In fact, neither of Pernoud’s two most prominent books has ever gone out of print. There have been many editions, additions, and revisions to the books over the years, but the basis of her advice has held strong, including her instruction in areas such as staying beautiful, eating fresh butter, and keeping the boobs perky. Well, all right: priorities!

  Pernoud’s publishers are perpetually releasing new versions of her books, so you can imagine that the bookstores in France are saturated with her wisdom. The story is not the same in the United States, where copies of her books are almost impossible to find. I did, however, get my hands on the 2002 edition of J’élève mon enfant, in which she still encourages expectant mothers to remain the “coquette” and insists that regular beauty rituals are essential to good morale.

  And what was that advice about keeping boobs perky? Laurence Pernoud reminds her audience how important it is to keep them très fermes. After weaning my own kids, I developed the notion that the federal government should offer any woman who has breastfed two or more children the automatic right to a boob lift. Even fiscal conservatives must see how this would help keep married couples together, thus providing a long-term, trickling-down financial benefit to the country. If Pernoud were president, we might even have a chance. (Sadly, she was not born in the USA and thus could never hold the high office. Also, she died in 2009. RIP.) My fantasy bill will probably never reach Capitol Hill. I just wish I could go back in time and heed Pernoud’s advice. It is obvious stuff, but when I was pregnant I was so focused on what was going on inside my body, it never occurred to me to worry about what might happen to my exterior. In her chapter on “Taking Care of Your Breasts,” Pernoud explains how the pectoral muscles, when properly exercised, can help to keep your bosom aloft, or at least in check. I well remember advice, seemingly coming from every direction, to keep up with the dreaded Kegels. (According to urbandictionary.com: “The name of a pelvic floor muscle and exercise, named after Dr. Kegel who discovered the exercise. These muscles are attached to the pelvic bone and act like a hammock, holding in your pelvic organs. A common function of these muscles is stopping and starting the flow of urine. In men, the benefits of Kegel exercises include increased ejaculatory control. In women, a strong Kegel muscle can aid in efficient child birth and gives the vagina a better ‘grip.’ ”) Meanwhile, no one suggested I work out the upper deck. As it was, since I had C-sections with both of my deliveries, all of that Kegel advice was for naught. In addition to offering actual breast-perkiness exercises, and sounding very motherly indeed, Pernoud reminds her readers to simply “stand up straight, with your shoulders slightly back … emphasizing your breasts.” This will help keep the ta tas looking lively, and it will also reduce back pain. My husband and I, and, yes, the ta tas too, thank you, Madame Pernoud.

  I find Pernoud’s shared focus between mother and baby rather refreshing, and it probably has a lot to do with why new French mothers tend to look less stressed and befogged than the ones I see haunting my neighborhood. If I have learned anything else in my Frenchification research, it is that the French are experts at self-preservation, even as their precious bundles grow and develop the ability to demand more from their moms.

  But I am getting ahead of myself, because Pernoud does not stop with perky breasts. She devotes impressive space in her book to “staying pretty.” The American-authored pregnancy books I read practically screamed at me for having the temerity to wear nail polish, which is why I look completely distressed and undone (in every sense of the word) in all but two of my pregnancy photos. Meanwhile, pregnant French women get makeup lessons and coaching on how to dress.

  Pregnant or not, I’m not sure I’d want to take the fashion advice of anyone born before the invention of shortwave radio, but that’s not really the point here. The fact that she includes these issues is a welcome change from all of the worry and pressure (and lack of style advice) that comes along with being preggers in the States.

  I’ve discovered that being pregnant in France has other advantages: One of my favorite dinner-party facts is that, post-childbirth, French women are entitled to ten free sessions of “pelvic-floor rehabilitation” as well as follow-up on-the-house abdominal therapy—to get the tummy back in couture shape.

  Yes, they take their pregnant citizens very seriously in France. To wit: An American friend of mine, Ramona, had the good fortune of moving to France just before she got knocked up. When she began showing, Ramona often found herself scolded by French women for not taking advantage of the liberties that came along with pregnancy. That is, they thought she should be more comfortable “playing the pregnant card.” The first time she got reamed was for lining up for the fitting rooms at a Parisian department store. An older woman demanded of her, “Why are you waiting in the queue? You are pregnant! You go to the front! It is your right! It is the law!” It was then that Ramona realized that the French really wanted her to cut the line, and that by waiting like a ordinary citizen she was somehow messing up the rules for everyone else. After that, Ramona was more than happy to comply. She wrote enthusiastically: “THIS ROCKS. I have four months left of this card, and goddammit, I am using every last one. Move over, biatches, I got twelve items on a seven item limit and I got a giant dressing room and I will happily push past your size 0 ass BECAUSE I CAN.”

  Meanwhile, as a massively pregnant woman I found myself crying on a crowded New York City subway because no one offered me a seat. I remember denouncing all of humanity one day on my commute home from the office, when the only thing that I wanted in the world was to sit down and survive (i.e., not vomit). I was clearly very pregnant and I must have looked green around the gills, yet no one even looked me in the eyes to notice that the tears were welling up, not to mention offer me a seat. I thought maybe this was a behavioral problem unique to the Big Apple, but I’ve had friends from El Paso, Texas, to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, lament the fact that they received no special treatment with pounds and pounds of fetus and fluid attached to their midsections.

  For many Americans, the big pregnancy perk is a baby shower. Finally you get some props! And presents! And virgin punch. Oy. Yet, this is something that the French do not enjoy. Take it from my friend Jessie. She was born in France, spent her formative years in California, and then moved back to France as an
adult. When Jessie was pregnant with her first child, she inquired among her French friends about a baby shower—and was instead given “the evil eye.” She discovered that the French find it in very bad taste and highly tacky to expect gifts for a baby that isn’t even born. Maybe this lack of baby showers accounts for the fact that the list of suggested items for a new baby in France is considerably shorter, and ultimately less exasperating, than what’s customary in the States. The French list includes fewer entries than my midweek grocery list.

  The first time I looked at a list of suggested items to register for while pregnant, I felt as if I was alone on the receiving end of a full-court press. I remember having to leave Babies“R”Us before I had a panic attack.

  To go with my new baby, I would apparently need no less than an additional apartment to house the gear. I told myself that I would not succumb to the pressure, but somehow I ended up with three strollers (one high-quality, one fold-up job for travel, and a jogger, of course), a bassinet, Moses basket, Pack ’N Play, Co-Sleeper, crib, freestanding swing, ExerSaucer, play mat, doorway swing, both regular audio and closed-circuit baby monitors (I live in a stairless apartment!), a BabyBjörn, a sling, a Maya Wrap (which should have come with a distinguished PhD candidate to help decipher the instructions), at least seventeen baby blankets, and, sadly, shamefully, a wipe warmer. A wipe warmer, for those lucky enough not to know, is just what it sounds like: a brick-sized device whose sole purpose is to heat baby wipes to a temperature that will not upset, alarm, or disturb your infant’s back section in even the slightest way. This creation may be the best proof yet that untethered innovation is not always the answer.

  Maybe it is from all of the processed foods in this country, or maybe it is hormones, but something odd happens to the American brain when we start to breed, and our weakness for stuff, stuff, and more stuff gets further inflated. Take my youngest brother, one of the thriftiest people I know. Ben and his wife shared a cell-phone for almost five years! They weren’t short on funds, mind you; it’s just that my brother does not like waste—be it water, money, or the latest in telecommunications. (I think he still owns only two pairs of shoes, and one pair is flip-flops.) That is, he was miserly with any and everything—until his wife was with child. I screamed out loud at my computer monitor when I first read that my tightfisted little frère had registered for a six-hundred-dollar carriage. Even the strongest among us go soft in the head prepartum. And postpartum too, of course (much more on that later).