French Twist

by Catherine Crawford

  So true. In the short time I’ve upped my hard-assery quotient, I’ve seen real results. I was so proud when my girls each had a friend over recently. I had given each of the kids half an ice cream sandwich, and there was one left in the box. Oona had the bright idea of cutting the last confection into fourths. It was reasonable, I guess, but I’d already set the limit at a half, because I knew we were attending a party later in the day, which was certain to add to the treat tally. I crushed her tiny dream. You know what? It felt good. One of the wee visitors, however, had clearly not been exposed to the French. “Oh, come on! It’s just another bite. I know my mom wouldn’t mind. Please! I am the guest, after all.” There were so many things wrong with her behavior that I had to take a deep breath, but before I could begin to explain things to her, I heard my own chérie answer for me, “Don’t even try it. Begging doesn’t work on my mom. Let’s go play.” Score one for the chief!

  This chief does not always win so decisively, though, so don’t be discouraged if change is not instantaneous once you have gone French with your charges (case in point: Daphne and her tantrums). I’ve found it very helpful to keep such French wisdom at the ready, but mine has been a deep hole to dig out of, so, at least at first, I developed my own spin on things. Also, transforming my lovable urchins to resemble the little saints I saw in France will take time. Meanwhile, I find comfort in the small victories. For instance, take the advice I’ve been given from more than a few French parents: Que le châtiment conviène au crime. Or: “Let the punishment fit the crime.”

  On the first day of my kids’ new summer camp, I succeeded in this—but perhaps the voltage of the punishment was not up to French standards. I arose already nervous about the transition, and then I had the added concern that Daphne had gone to sleep late the night before—quelle horreur, I know. So I spent my morning fretting over how she would do at camp. Of course, she woke up on the grumpy side. The kid needs her sleep, and if she doesn’t get it she tends to resemble a miniature Don Rickles: funny, sure, but mostly just mean. As she does every morning, Daphne immediately inspected what I had put in her lunch (very un-French of me to allow this and even to open up her packed lunch for discussion, by the way). Turns out, a Baggie with five chocolate crackers was an unacceptable sweet. I was already on eggshells with the kid (again, un-French), so I took Daphne into the kitchen to procure a more suitable lunchtime treat. That went fine, and I thought we were in great shape. About ten minutes later, Oona sought me out, clearly miffed. She bellowed, “Why does Daphne get a bag of chocolate cookies for breakfast?”

  More than usual, I was wary of handling the tinderbox of Daphne’s emotions, and I was also trying to get out of the house in time for the kids to catch the camp bus. The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was give her the French treatment for such a transgression. And yet she ate cookies for breakfast! I had to do something. Deep down, I knew that the answer was to take the other, previously approved treat out of her lunch. But I could not face it. She had been so happy with her choice, and I knew taking it away would result in a major meltdown. Given all of these circumstances (especially the fact that if they missed the bus, I would have to bring the girls to my work for the day), the old me would have blown it off with a “Daphne, that was wrong. Never do it again! Now let’s go.” But I’m in recovery. On the fly, I came up with a punishment that (almost) fit the crime.

  Three Tic Tacs. I took away three Tic Tacs. It might not seem like much, but it was all that was left in the coveted pack her aunt had given her a couple of weeks before. Her freak-out was minimal, we made the bus, and—perhaps most important—I had done something! Next time I’ll go full French on her, provided we aren’t running against the clock.

  The whole dessert-for-breakfast fiasco brings up another area where we American parents might be straying far from the mark. We are a land of free spirits and original thinkers. This is great, but let’s be reasonable. I see kids at my local playground tripping all the time because they insist on wearing their shoes on the opposite feet or, even worse, wearing shoes that are multiple sizes too big: “Oh, he just has a mind of his own and loves to wear his big sister’s Vans.” The subtext: “We don’t want to stifle his creativity.” I grew up with Punky Brewster, so I can get behind some zany footwear, but I’ve got to take a page out of the French playbook when it comes to kids: Don’t be afraid of right and wrong.

  I know parents here so worried about suffocating their children’s budding inner artists that their kids are living in a bizarro world where anything goes. It is important to remember that kids are, until about the age of seven, relatively irrational. As parents, our job is not only to give them a good sense of morals but also to teach them how to do things correctly—from getting dressed, to eating properly, to respecting adults, and everything in between. My cousin’s son used to like to pretend he was a dog. It was in this role that his mother had the most luck getting him to eat any vegetables, so she would often feed him the more “challenging” dinners via a bowl on the ground. She rationalized further by telling us how “imaginative” he was. Now, however, at five and a half, he’s still not big on the ol’ knife and fork. I like to imagine him at his first power lunch, howling at the moon, rib eye remains splattered on his face. For now, the family can’t eat out in a restaurant without some kind of shame, given the manners displayed at the table.

  French table manners will get their due ink soon enough, but let me explain a bit about what is expected of French children in other areas of etiquette. I was floored when I went to France and was repeatedly greeted by the children of friends, acquaintances, even interview subjects I’d just met, with immediate alternate-side cheek kisses. Never was a child allowed to look past me or, God forbid, scowl at the American stranger. And nine times out of ten, they didn’t need a reminder from their vigilant parents to carry out these warm salutations.

  The whole of French society is very polite, and it is considered very rude for a person of any age to enter (Bonjour!) or leave (Bonne journée!) a store in France without hailing the shopkeeper. The amount of mercis and pardonnez-mois going down at a given time is staggering as well. It is gorgeous to behold.

  Witnessing this, of course, conjured up images of my own kids back in the States. For instance, they have both lived in the same apartment since birth, yet they still habitually shrink from or, at best, ignore certain older neighbors. It is always humiliating—and we can do better. When I began this adventure, I simply insisted on a change with this speech (or one very similar): “Guys, children must always show respect for grown-ups—especially those they know, like our neighbors or Mommy and Daddy’s friends. We have a new rule, which is that you are required to say hello to a grown-up you know, especially when they greet you first. It will make you, me, and the grown-ups happy. If I see that you are not doing this, there will be a punishment.”

  What happens when they don’t comply? So far I haven’t had to invent the punishment, but I’ll never forget the long faces of a couple of French kids I know here in the United States when I saw them in the neighborhood one fall afternoon. When I asked why they looked soooo sad, I learned that their mother had taken away their Halloween candy for three weeks because they failed to say hello to an elderly woman from the neighborhood. Dang, that’s harsh. But I can only assume that they didn’t do it again.

  Manners and respect are consummately linked for the French, so I tried to go deep with the respect at the same time—especially with Oona, who has a habit of condescending to adults. Two words, darling: not French. But it can be tricky, like when she informed the cigarette-wielding grandfather of one of her friends, “You know, smoking is very bad. It will make you die. You should not do it anymore.” I was caught somewhere between horror that my kid was attempting to reprimand a human at least twelve times her age and relief that I had got the message across. Still, it is not her place to speak like this to a grown-up, especially an elderly one. This has also come out in Oona’s blossoming environmental
ism. When she sees someone leave trash behind, her instinct is to yell, “Don’t litter!” I do not want to squelch her green streak or give her the impression that it is, indeed, okay to trash the planet, so I have instructed her—especially if the offender is old enough to be her parent—to temper her criticisms. Lately her favored response is, “Excuse me. You left something on the floor. I’ll pick it up if you won’t.” It still seems a little cheeky to me—but she’s right, people shouldn’t litter.

  With all this theoretical respect flying around for other grown-ups, it was time that Mac and I got in on the action as well. Being treated like a servant and a doormat had become very tiresome. In our brave new Frenchified world, Oona and Daphne are sent to their room if they criticize Mac or me. Same goes if they denounce something we have done for them—like prepared a dish that is not to their liking or combed their hair in a detestable (in their estimation) manner. They can express an aversion—as they both did for tonight’s chicken and dumplings—but it must be done with courtesy. In the place of previous reactions like “This is gross! I won’t eat it!” I hear more civil rejections, such as, “I’m sorry. I tasted it and I really don’t like it.” Tonight, Oona even threw in, “Poor Mommy. You worked so hard.…” Is Eddie Haskell from a French family?

  French parents are also very creative in their insistence on good manners. To a child who dared slouch at the table, I heard one French mother explain, via severe snap, “You act as though you don’t appreciate your vertebral column. You are not a worm—don’t sit like one, or your bones will soften and you will have to slide your way around town.” They are firm in their ways, but not without humor.

  Being a chief with unbendable rules helps enormously with getting kids to behave, and there is another thing that I’ve learned from my international pals: More stuff is not the answer. I’d fallen into a habit with my own kids that involved a lot of rewards. Somewhere I had read something about always focusing on the positive and not constantly pointing out bad behavior. Quaint in theory, but kids are smart and, in practice, I had put a huge target on myself that read, “Manipulate me.” We got to the point where my girls thought that if they made it through a long subway ride or a dinner out without causing some sort of havoc, they were entitled to a prize. I’ll never forget when Oona and Daphne sat through Horton Hears a Who! (a KIDS’ MOVIE—not my first choice, if you catch my drift) and asked me what they could pick out for being so good in the theater. This was one of those pivotal moments when I knew things had to change.

  In France, the children are civil because they have been taught, from the earliest age, that this is the only option. It’s so refreshing to be with French families, wherein children can come into a room of conversing adults and not have to disrupt the scene. They often just sit down and listen. If they have something to contribute, they do, but most often with respect for the communal conversation. In the few instances I have witnessed children trying to stir things up and demand attention without a worthy contribution, they either have been told to leave the room (and they did) or they were simply picked up and removed. Each time, the parent returned moments later as if nothing had happened. No long negotiations on the other side of the curtain. No excuses or apologies upon reentry. Just back to the business of hanging out. But where did the offending child go? Usually to their bedroom, although I’ve seen kids put in a bathroom, a small closet, and, of course, le coin (the corner) for such outbursts. French parents manage to cultivate a healthy dose of fear in their children, which I am sure is why I never once saw a French kid go bananas when sent away for acting inappropriately. Not long ago, you could not have convinced me that any amount of fear instilled in children by their parents could be healthy, but that was then. I am not advocating that we want kids who tremble in our wakes, but a little bit of consternation is not just a good thing, it’s necessary to achieving respect.

  I will admit, this is sometimes accomplished in France through a little technique called corporal punishment. It is not uncommon over there to see a child receive a smack for acting up. Not all French parents spank their kids, of course. In fact, of all the folks I interviewed formally, only two admitted to ever thwacking their children to keep them in line, and both claimed it was a onetime thing. However, the eyes do not deceive. I saw kids in France thumped (never too hard, by the way) on the metro, on a merry-go-round, on the streets, in stores … you name it. For the record, this is one instance where I disagree with the French style. Not only does hitting take terror too far, but it is also a bad policy for other reasons in this country. Spanking is taboo in the States, and any kid who gets a swat is going to feel really, really, really bad about it. They will likely believe their parent had to resort to that because they are so beyond redemption. In France, it’s normal enough not to carry the same psychological weight. American kids are practically born with the number to Child Protective Services imprinted on their fontanels. Corporal punishment is just not cool. Command respect with your voice and attitude, but leave the paddle overseas, s’il vous plaît.

  Now, back to Daphne’s progress under the tutelage of my French pals. Did I mention the size of the ditch we had to dig ourselves out of? I’ve a hunch that the tips mentioned earlier for avoiding tantrums are a great deal easier when applied to a subject who has not grown accustomed to daily conniptions through years of practice. In other words, Daphne is a tough case. Again, I would like to suggest to anyone with very small children: Get French sooner rather than later! For the rest of us, I am happy to report that, although it’s been no cakewalk, we are on the mend. For the past two months I’ve been nothing but French with Daphne—the days of wimpy Tic Tac corrections are over. I wanted to do this right, but I also wanted to avoid humiliation, so I timed the beginning of tantrum boot camp with the beginning of summer, when many of our friends and neighbors would be out of town and thus not around to witness the inevitable carnage. The most difficult yet also rewarding concept has been teaching my daughter to wait. I see her little body trembling, wanting so badly to erupt. These days, as often as not, there is no detonation—which is indeed major progress for all concerned. I’ve found it so effective in diminishing freak-outs that sometimes I’ll have my kids wait just to bulk up their waiting muscles. Where a year ago I might have thought this sounded cruel and unnecessary, now I truly believe that it’s good for them.

  In these parts, helicopter parents are being replaced with lawn-mower parents (look it up, it’s a real condition), equally at the ready to remove any impediment to their child’s joy. Sadly, their omnipresence is an obstacle in itself, as we’ll see a bit later.

  Just as my kids do with their dinners—miserably swallowing down every last green bean before getting to the grilled cheese and frozen mango—here I’ve saved my best discoveries for last. Recall that my introduction to the world of French parenting was the adage “If there is no blood, don’t get up.” When I first heard it I thought it was funny, and at the time I was thrilled because I really didn’t want to leave my friends and attend to Daphne’s demands for me. Now, as I get deeper into the mind of a French parent, I see that there is much more to it. Teaching children to be proficient in waiting is good for everyone—even the neighbors, especially the ones who live near the elevator.

  I have had many talks with my girls recently about the new, unbreakable quality of my rules as well. For instance, crying when an Internet connection is lost, and with it the show in progress, now results in the computer being put away. It was hard on all of us at first—believe me, once you’ve tasted freedom doled out in delicious twenty-five-minute intervals, it is tough to give that up. However, now they know this dictum, and they have learned to look at me pleadingly when the signal fails (like there’s anything I can do?), sometimes fighting tears. But the point is that they are fighting their emotions and not me. It is not wise to pick a fight with the chief.

  The beauty of the French approach, of course, is that you do not find French parents screaming at their kids across the pa
rk, restaurant, department store, or wherever to keep them in line. Their emphasis on the good of society is not only their inspiration in raising well-mannered kids, it’s also the reason they don’t allow themselves to get riled up in public. It’s like double discipline. One French mom, Helene, let me in on her secret when she wants to yell at her son in a public setting. “You whisper. Bring your child very close to you, and whisper in his ear quietly and calmly what he is doing wrong and why he must behave. I even do this at home sometimes, because the whispering seems to really get his attention.”

  On the other hand, I’ve seen French parents pull out the ever-effective (though so cruel) weapon of humiliation to combat unruly behavior, when things get even a little out of hand. For the French parent, this comes with the added “benefit” of proving to everyone that they are doing their job as a good parent and teaching proper behavior. But, ugh—I could never say, “You are acting the imbecile,” to my girls, especially in front of a playground full of kids (the offense of the “imbecile” was interrupting his mom, by the way). Publicly disgracing a kid is a tad too sadistic for my taste, and I’ll leave that one in France.

  Still, I love a good tip. Another one Helene gave me was her “no-eye-contact secret.” With American in-laws from Iowa, Helene has spent more than a few summer hours in playgrounds in the Midwest, and she will “never get used to the way the moms there rush to comfort their kids, sometimes before the kids are even having trouble. If I see my child fall down or have a problem on the playground, my way is to not look him in the eye right after. If he knows I saw him fall, he might cry just for the comfort. If he comes to me crying, he’s usually truly hurt. And that really does not happen very much. But some of these kids in Des Moines are always crying, and I don’t even know why.”

  With so much laying down of the law, I was struck by the response received when I asked French parents what they do—and what was done to them—for issues of lesser offense (though American obsessions), such as thumb-sucking, bed-wetting, and even nail-biting. The prevailing attitude that I detected was to let it be. This is the land of laissez-faire, after all. “These things will work themselves out, Catherine,” I was told. As the mother of a very dedicated thumb-sucker, I have, with the help of the World Wide Web, worked myself into heart palpitations trying to figure out what to do about her habit. Visions of misshapen jawbones, thumb sores, untamed tongues, collapsing nostrils, low SAT scores, and other related horrors haunt my brain. When I expressed these fears to a Parisian mother of two thumb-suckers, she replied, “You worry about her test scores? We will have to fix some teeth, this is true. But we cannot cut off their little thumbs. I do not worry about these things. They are just children, after all.” Just children—isn’t that what we often use to excuse sweeping tantrums, finicky eating, and straight-up brattiness? Interesting, yes, but also ironic. My child was chastised by her dentist, her teachers … sigh … even me, for doing something she’s unable to help; yet when she deliberately acted like a twit, I often looked the other way and rationalized that it was all part of being a kid. This French attitude also goes a long way to explain why I saw so many children in France over the age of two using pacifiers. It’s not a high-caliber battle for French parents—not nearly as important as their children controlling themselves in public.