French Twist (2 page)

We didn’t know what to do with her. Time-out? Stern warning? Daph was just shy of three years old, so taking away privileges or toys wouldn’t really register much with her. When I asked Lucie what they might do in France with this type of toddler misdemeanor, she didn’t hesitate: “You go to the kitchen and get a sponge with soap and water. Sit her on a stool and have her scrub.” I was incredulous. Scrub it all off? My husband had tried and couldn’t erase so much as a single scrawl. Then Lucie assured me that I only needed to make Daphne wash the wall for a minute so that she had a chance to understand the consequences of her action—and to see how damn hard it is to get crayon off a wall.

It seemed so obvious. Yet somehow, in the hyperattentive, must-do-the-right-thing parenting environment in which I’d been marinating, nothing was obvious anymore. For her part, Lucie was always flattered and happy to help, but she was also a bit baffled by my lack of know-how. An expert parent she is, yes, but Lucie is not a parenting expert. Her approach to child-rearing is, in her mind, neither groundbreaking nor new; it’s simply the way things are done in her homeland. Often Lucie has a strategy or phrase that does wonders for any given standoff between my kids and me, but, more than that, she has a refreshing attitude: There shouldn’t be any standoffs. “After all, Catherine,” she often reminds me, “you are the chief.”

The chief—has a nice ring to it, no?

For me, Lucie is a gold mine of great advice, but she’s made it very clear that her way of parenting is natural for practically everyone in France. Here in the States, we’ve been talking and talking and talking about our kids’ feelings. Meanwhile, over there,
French children don’t talk back!

It was around this time that I had a major Frenchified epiphany: I could become the chief of my family, with my husband as able-bodied second in command, and together we could reclaim from the children control of the household, the playground, the supermarket, and more. Our lives! We could have our pre-kid lives back to some extent. Actually, this would be an improved version of that past life. Because, to paraphrase that surprisingly French, filthily hilarious comedian Louis C.K., I love my children more than anything in the world, and sometimes I wish they were never born. Most parents I know, if they were being completely honest, would say the same thing. Put another, more French way, we all very much want to spend time with our children and do everything we can—within reason—to help them have happy, successful lives. But, man oh man, sometimes we just want to be left alone for five minutes—or five days.

More than that, we need this time. The paradox I’ve observed on the playgrounds of several U.S. cities is that even as we work ourselves to dust to ensure that our kids are thrilled beyond a shadow of a sliver of a doubt, we the parents are suffering in the process. Exhausted, dissatisfied parents can’t be good for the kids. I’ve certainly felt
myself get sucked into this nasty cycle—contorting every which way to please the kids, only to resent them for making my life so hard. That is why, with the help of many a wise French parent, I finally decided to do something about all that.

So I brought my whole family on a bit of an adventure.

And, no, I didn’t consult Oona and Daphne for their thoughts on the matter. Let me now say to my two sweet, unbelievably wonderful and interesting girls, who will one day read this book: I’m sorry. Am I sorry for trying to make all our lives easier, simpler, more satisfying, and more deeply felt? Not at all. But I am sorry you didn’t have a say in being part of this great and ambitious effort. (The truth is that, even early on, it was not uncommon for one or both kids to plead with me as I slipped into chief mode, “But, Mooooooom. We. Are. Not. French!”) I am sorry for making you main characters in a narrative you had no chance to approve. Luckily, you are both great kids, so I don’t think you will ever be too embarrassed by your portrayal.

Whew, glad that’s done. Now, here goes: Like most children, our kids were very young when the personalities we saw solidifying several years on began to form. They were both still babies, really, when my husband, Mac, developed shorthand for describing the girls to friends and family members who asked after them: Oona was Edith Wharton; Daphne was John Belushi. What this means is that Oona has always been contemplative about life—a keen observer, a big feeler, a bigger thinker, and, dare I
say, oddly introspective for a child. She wrote her first book at three. She started her first blog—reviewing books she liked—at seven. Oona is the kind of kid who will hang out with teachers at school dances. There was even a period when she wrote stories in bed. Hence: Wharton.

Daphers is another, wilder story. For clarification, Daphne’s McEnroe moments were only when she excelled in the tantrum-throwing arts. The kid, bless her spazzy heart, has one speed—and it is not slow. She falls asleep twitching with energy—for many years she did not fall asleep for hours—and wakes up barreling into our bed. At 7:00
A.M.
Or earlier. No matter when she goes to bed. There is a chance that Daphne is a marvel of science: She can crash out at midnight and rise at 6:30 ready for a pro-wrestling cage match, or at least a round of not-very-delicate grappling with her dad. She is bouncy and grabby and loud—and always has been. She will start her share of food fights in life. She’s a Belushi.

That wrestling match with her dad, by the way, is one she wins, because my husband is more Wharton than Belushi. Mac is a slow waker, who can pound a double espresso after dinner and sleep like a baby that night (provided the baby in question is not Daphne).

So where does Daph get it? Well, lessee—if Oona is like Mac, then … yep, Daphne is me. As a kid I fought back with limb-flailing freak-outs as my nine—nine!—brothers routinely held me down and farted in my face while calling me “Cat Urine.” In my youth-soccer pictures,
I was the kid with scabs on my chin. As a preteen, I preferred roller skates to sneakers.

Being a Belushi means, of course, much more than operating at a one-speed frenzy. It also means Daphne is hilarious. Daphne might, in fact, just be a comic genius. From a very early age, she was capable of cracking us up with her physical comedy—is it possible a two-year-old knows what a pratfall is?

As befitting her nickname, Oona’s humor is more cerebral than Daph’s. Recently she’s taken to telling a “joke of the day.” An example: “Why did the elephant paint her nails red? So she could hide in a cherry tree.”

As the girls have grown older, the Wharton–Belushi dynamic has blurred a little, but it remains mostly intact. For a parent, each type presents unique challenges.

Edith Wharton children think they are smarter than their parents (and while this may be true, that is beside the point), so eye-rolling insolence begins at a shockingly early age. As sharp observers of humanity, Whartons may see much that is unsavory—the world is, naturally, populated with smokers and litterers—and be tempted to correct, or at least call out, such behavior. It can be challenging to remind Whartons that adults must be respected if possible and that they will likely not respond well to receiving admonishments from a waist-high whistle-blower.

The John Belushi child, as we’ve seen, is prone to unhesitatingly prostrate performances of unhappiness. (When Belushis morph into McEnroes.) Their indoor voices are a
fine volume, so long as the indoors you are talking about is a mall or a domed stadium. Belushis can have a tenuous relationship with truth. Part of this is because they like to see how much they can get away with. I don’t mean this in the piles-of-cocaine sense of the inspiration of this taxonomy, but, still, a parent can’t help wondering if a sneaked second slice of cake is a gateway dessert.

And so: Oona and Daphne—Wharton and Belushi—thank you for being my favorite two kids in the whole world and for helping me Frenchify our existence. Counting Mac, I could not have asked for three better partners on this very important project to see if French parenting techniques can translate to my life and my hood.

Even the littlest among us—Daphers—ultimately took to the new style with surprising dedication, if not great enthusiasm. One morning she woke up—at 7:00 on the dot—and, still bleary-eyed, said, “I wonder what French throw-up looks like.”

Yes, it seems we’d all become fairly obsessed with how things are done over there. That’s not to say all French kids are perfectly behaved master oil painters and, conversely, all American kids are materialistic brats or can be represented by those holy terrors on the show
Toddlers & Tiaras
. I am only saying that we Yanks could stand to reconsider our parenting approach and the French moms I know sure provide an excellent example of how we might improve our lives—and, by extension, our kids’ lives.

Curiously, it was not only Oona and Daphne’s responses that surprised me as I set out to Frenchify our
lives, but I was also thrown a curve by the reactions of fellow parents in my same situation. In the “Raw Nerves Hall of Fame,” there should be a special wing for parents. Everywhere I turned, from within my own family to the benches on the playground, I encountered serious resistance to my ideas and undertaking—even when I counted myself among the most needy of a parenting tune-up. Moms don’t like to be wrong or second-guessed. Now that I think back on my own mother’s child-rearing style, I suppose that should not have been much of a surprise. When it comes to feelings about their children, people are very sensitive. Rightly so. We love those little maniacs to pieces. Believe me when I say that this is not an attack on American parents. I am after a bit of relief in my life, along with the reversal of a few bad habits we have fallen into—such as when Daphne says, “If you just give me a candy cane, then I’ll stop yelling,” and I seriously consider her offer.

So, to cut down on hurt feelings and destroyed familial relationships, I’ve given everyone a new name and tweaked a few settings to protect the innocent. In fact, the only real names used in the book are those of Oona, Daphne, and Mac. I have a feeling this book may disfigure a few of my friendships—I sure hope I am wrong, as I love and admire and definitely empathize with all my friends with kids—and using real names would’ve done more damage still. I rely on enormous generalizations in this book as a sort of shorthand, but I know that every country has its range of personalities.

Now, back to that giant landing pad for helicopter
parenting: Park Slope, Brooklyn. As it turns out, this part of the borough, and really most of Brooklyn, New York, provides an excellent environment for my undertaking. For starters, the French population is robust. The French and their well-behaved offspring are everywhere for me to behold and study, interview and emulate. That’s lucky because time is precious—and when our kids are young, every second counts even more.

So why pack their days with playdates and performances? When I was growing up, young children rarely took classes other than the Big Three: swimming, dance, and piano. The swimming, by the way, was about waterproofing and not winning medals, dance was generally only for girls, and piano was related to discipline as much as anything else. Specialties like violin or soccer were offered to school-age kids. Karate was truly exotic. Throw a rock in my neighborhood today—though for the record I am not suggesting you do—and it would likely hit an infant currently enrolled in yoga classes (baby yoga pants!), ricochet off him, tag a toddler who, thanks to rigorous instruction, can already communicate in sign language though maybe not yet talk, and finally wallop the head of a five-year-old psychoanalysis patient with a Mandarin language tutor. Poll the parents of these busy creatures about raising children in the twenty-first century, and the responses would likely refer to the confusing amount of choices, theories, and products out there. Like parents of every generation, we love our children intensely, but we also have an unprecedented quantity of resources and information
at our fingertips, and we knock ourselves out trying to give our children
everything
.

Wading through all of the studies and expert theories, it is difficult to know what is best for our kids. One well-respected book says that the way to ensure a sense of independence in children is to keep them attached, literally
attached
, to a parent (usually the mother) as much as their tiny hearts desire, until they feel completely ready and confident to face the world alone. Another leading contemporary theorist, meanwhile, insists that if children aren’t taught to play, soothe themselves, and go to sleep independently, they will never have enough backbone to make it in this world. Both camps are convincing enough to confound any new parent.

As Americans, we are accustomed to endless choices. With so many new ideas and opinions bouncing around the country every day, it is no wonder that we race through parenting fads like diapers on a newborn. However, I’ve discovered that trying on a new parenting style when the first one fails can result in rather calamitous fallout; I am surrounded by parents practically groveling for approval from their children. It’s painful to watch and excruciating to be party to. It’s not happening only in my home or in the smug urban confines of my much-written-about Brooklyn neighborhood—parenting across the country is being dismantled. Evidence of an epidemic of confusion and misbehavior can be seen in the malls, airports, and gas stations of every state of our great nation. Never mind our restaurants!

Ever since I had children, I’ve struggled with this double-edged enlightenment. I found myself just wishing that someone, besides my mother, thank you very much, would tell me what really
worked
. My parents are religious Catholics, and most of their parenting decisions (like the one to have thirteen kids) are inspired by their faith. Which means that much of Mom’s advice isn’t going to work on me, an acutely fallen disciple.

For all of the reading and talking and Web surfing I’ve done to try to figure out the best, most effective, yet loving and self-esteem-building approach to child-rearing, you’d think that I would have cracked the case by now. Instead, the results have been pointedly mixed.