We are going to be just fine.
Maybe even better than fine, with a combination of our native instincts ($1.75) and un peu more Frenchification. Mac and I are currently cooking up a scheme to live in Paris for a year. Joie de vivre, and handwriting, and croissants! I think I may be ready. The other night when we were out to dinner—sans kids—we found ourselves talking to a young couple at the table next to us. Eventually, Oona and Daphne came up in the conversation. I almost knocked over our table with happy laughter when the woman said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like a mom to me.” Oh, how delightfully French I felt.
And not negligent. Or guilty.
To be honest, I did discover that French mothers experience some guilt. In discussing my findings with Camille, a thirty-two-year-old mother of a toddler named Rose, I asked if she ever wished she could be a stay-at-home mom: “Sometimes I think that would be nice, but I would never not work—at least while my own mother is still alive. I would feel too guilty and I know she would not approve. Our mothers worked very hard so that we, their daughters, could be in the workforce along with the men. I could not do that to her.”
There are those who will try to argue that French children might be well behaved but, in a sort of quid pro quo situation, they turn into antipathetic older French people. To that I say, “Baloney!” or “Balivernes!” French parents, for the most part, are certainly much more strict, but they are able to be that way while simultaneously fostering an undeniable closeness with their children. One of the greatest benefits I saw to this method is that, after putting in the early work, the French relax more around their kids—not only because their offspring aren’t acting like jackasses but because they believe that there is little they can do after a child reaches a certain age. While we struggle to rein in our kids when they hit the tweens, French children are given more freedom. I’m told this leads to less family drama—but I suppose that’s the next book.
There will always be a jillion different ideas about parenting, and there is doubtless more than one valuable method out there. I went French in response to an unhealthy dynamic that had taken hold of my home life. The main thing I take away from all of this Frenchy stuff—besides becoming a real scarf-wearer—is a hybrid approach that has led to order in the house yet still allows us to all be ourselves. I’ll never do things exactly as they are done in the land of Victor Hugo and escargot, but I don’t need to. For one thing, I can’t stand the taste of snails. No matter how much butter and garlic is involved.
This past Thanksgiving, feeling too daunted by the thought of hosting yet again, Mac and I decided to play the restaurant card, as many Americans do. After just over a year of attempting to Frenchify, I experienced, in two and a half hours, the perfect distillation of our achievement. Two and a half hours. That’s how long Oona and Daphne were able to sit civilly at the French bistro (natch) we had chosen for Thanksgiving dinner. They even did a little tsk-ing, as most of the other kids in the joint, fidgety and impatient with the lengthy feast, ran around and flagrantly fussed. It wasn’t as though our kids didn’t require attention—and a bit of equipage—to keep it together: We did many Mad Libs with Oona at the table, and Daphne kept herself busy building a small cardboard castle with numbered mosaic stickers I had stashed in my purse for her. But we also had great conversations, martinis (Mac and I), compliments from the waitstaff on manners (Oona and Daphne), and a long, luxurious meal. Bon appétit indeed.
After dinner, we wandered through Koreatown on our way back to the F train bound for Brooklyn. In one sprawling store, we all browsed aisle after aisle packed with books, CDs, DVDs, lipsticks, touristy tchotchkes, and small porcelain figurines of princesses and elves. I braced myself for a full-on Mach-3 attack of the gimmies, but it never came. Oona asked once about the chances of us buying one of the elf figures, but when we saw that it was close to fifty bucks, she stopped asking (bless her penny-pinching heart). Daphne quietly inspected the goods. Let me say that one more time: Daphne quietly shopped. Daphne. You’ve come a long way, bébé.
The family at Thanksgiving dinner at Artisanal Fromagerie and Bistro
Five Things the French Could Learn from Us
Peanut butter is delicious (and not that bad for you!).
Children love it when their parents spend a day in their classroom.
On a gorgeous night, it’s not a crime to rush through a meal to get in an evening bike ride before bed.
Living room forts rule.
It’s fun to blow your kid’s mind by occasionally playing soccer in platform shoes at a five-year-old’s birthday party. (Or so I’ve heard.)
BUT … YOU SHOULD PROBABLY CONSIDER SOME FRENCHIFICATION RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE IF …
There’s been a threesome every night in your bed for the past two weeks but you haven’t had sex once.
You believe that chicken fingers are totally gourmet with enough Grey Poupon.
You own both “good” and “bad” sweatpants.
The tune stuck in your head is the Yo Gabba Gabba! theme song.
Your two-year-old knows the word “negotiate.”
You spend more time reading parenting blogs than everything else combined.
You think MOMA is an association for moms.
You finally have a “date night” with your husband and you make a reservation at Chuck E. Cheese’s.
You can’t remember your last “date night” with your husband (and not because you pounded too many beers at Chuck E. Cheese’s).
All the American Girl dolls in the house have better wardrobes than you.
You know what a wipe warmer is.
For my surprisingly French parents,
Bill and Dorothy Crawford
Acknowledgments
Many, many mercis to all the moms and dads who shared parenting stories with me, from their troubles to their triumphs. I’m keeping most of you anonymous, as promised, but you know who you are!
Special thanks go out to: Savannah Ashour, Lise Schreier, Josh Schreier, Jessica Lee Rami, Liana Fructman, Deirdre Veillon, Heather Chaplin, Joanna Ebenstein, Nancy Dillion, Naomi Scott, Aaron Ruby, Dawn O’Leary, Oliver Burkeman, Matt Haber, Amber Hoover, Jeremy Kasten, Richard Faulk, Caroline Trujillo, Lisa Degliantoni, Jena Brook, Linda Phillips, French people everywhere, Google Translate, John Cook, Jenni and Jofie Ferrari-Adler, April Peveteaux, Haleh Stahl, Vickey Finney, Karl Monge, Matt Murphy, Proteus Gowanus, Priyanka Krishnan, Barbara, Michele, Lance and Pedro, my parents and all of my magnifique siblings and their standout spouses—especially Margie, Billy, Pinn, and Patsy—Janis Donnaud and Marnie Cochran, everyone who tended to Oona and Daphne while I was in France (Blanchflower, Eli and Kelly, Ginny, Eileen), Oona and Daphne and—most of all—thanks to Mac Montandon.
About the Author
CATHERINE CRAWFORD has written about parenting for Babble, CafeMom, and The Huffington Post. She edited the book If You Really Want to Hear About It: Writers on J. D. Salinger and His Work. Crawford lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two daughters.
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