‘fat,’” she says.
I’d like to write off this story as a stereotype. Obviously not all American kids behave this way. And French kids do plenty of
n’importequoi,
too. (Bean will later say sternly to her eight-month-old brother, in imitation of her own teachers, “
Tu ne peux pas faire n’importe quoi
”—you can’t do whatever.)
But the truth is, in my own home, I’ve witnessed American kids doing quite a lot of
n’importe quoi
. .<">Bu=0000801809 > 7 When American families come over, the grown-ups spend much of the time chasing after or otherwise tending to their kids. “Maybe in about five years we’ll be able to have a conversation,” jokes a friend from California, who’s visiting Paris with her husband and two daughters, ages seven and four. We’ve been trying for an hour just to finish our cups of tea.
She and her family arrived at our house after spending the day touring Paris, during which the younger daughter, Rachel, threw a series of spectacular tantrums. When the dinner I’m preparing isn’t ready, both parents come into the kitchen and say that their girls probably can’t wait much longer. When we finally sit down, they let Rachel crawl under the table while the rest of us (Bean included) eat dinner. The parents explain that Rachel is tired, so she can’t control herself. Then they wax about her prodigious reading skills and her possible admission to a gifted kindergarten.
During the meal, I feel something stroking my foot.
“Rachel is tickling me,” I tell her parents, nervously. A moment later, I yelp. The gifted child has bitten me.
Setting limits
for kids isn’t a French invention, of course. Plenty of American parents and experts also think limits are very important. But in the United States, this runs up against the competing idea that kids need to express themselves. I sometimes feel that the things Bean wants—to have apple juice instead of water, to wear a princess dress to the park, to be carried instead of pushed in a stroller—are immutable and primordial. I don’t concede to everything. But repeatedly blocking her urges feels wrong and possibly even damaging.
It’s also just hard for me to conceive of Bean as someone who can sit through a four-course meal or play quietly when I’m on the phone. I’m not even sure I want her to do those things. Will it crush her spirit? Would I be stifling her self-expression and her possibility of starting the next Facebook? With all these doubts, I often capitulate.
I’m not the only one. At Bean’s fourth birthday party, one of her English-speaking friends walks in carrying a wrapped present for Bean and another one for himself. His mother says he got upset at the shop because he wasn’t getting a present, too. My friend Nancy tells me about a new parenting philosophy that’s meant to eliminate this battle of wills: you never let your child hear the word “no,” so that he can’t say it back to you.
In France, there’s no such ambivalence about “
non.
” “You must teach your child frustration” is a French parenting maxim. In my favorite series of French kids’ books, Princesse Parfaite (Perfect Princess), the heroine, Zoé, is pictured pulling her mother toward a crêpe stand. The text explains, “While walking past the
crêperie
, Zoé made a scene. She wanted a crêpe with blackberry jam. Her mother refused, because it was just after lunch.”
On the next page, Zoé is back in the bakery, dressed as the Perfect Princess of the title. This time she’s covering her eyes so she won’t see the piles of fresh brioche. She’s being
sage
. “As [Zoé] knows, to avoid [owscov being tempted, she turns her head to the other side,” the text says.
It’s worth noting that in the first scene, where Zoé isn’t getting what she wants, she’s crying. But in the second one, where she’s distracting herself, she’s smiling. The message is that children will always have the impulse to give in to their vices.
I’d like to write off this story as a stereotype. Obviously not all American kids behave this way. And French kids do plenty of
n’importequoi,
too. (Bean will later say sternly to her eight-month-old brother, in imitation of her own teachers, “
Tu ne peux pas faire n’importe quoi
”—you can’t do whatever.)
But the truth is, in my own home, I’ve witnessed American kids doing quite a lot of
n’importe quoi
. .<">Bu=0000801809 > 7 When American families come over, the grown-ups spend much of the time chasing after or otherwise tending to their kids. “Maybe in about five years we’ll be able to have a conversation,” jokes a friend from California, who’s visiting Paris with her husband and two daughters, ages seven and four. We’ve been trying for an hour just to finish our cups of tea.
She and her family arrived at our house after spending the day touring Paris, during which the younger daughter, Rachel, threw a series of spectacular tantrums. When the dinner I’m preparing isn’t ready, both parents come into the kitchen and say that their girls probably can’t wait much longer. When we finally sit down, they let Rachel crawl under the table while the rest of us (Bean included) eat dinner. The parents explain that Rachel is tired, so she can’t control herself. Then they wax about her prodigious reading skills and her possible admission to a gifted kindergarten.
During the meal, I feel something stroking my foot.
“Rachel is tickling me,” I tell her parents, nervously. A moment later, I yelp. The gifted child has bitten me.
Setting limits
for kids isn’t a French invention, of course. Plenty of American parents and experts also think limits are very important. But in the United States, this runs up against the competing idea that kids need to express themselves. I sometimes feel that the things Bean wants—to have apple juice instead of water, to wear a princess dress to the park, to be carried instead of pushed in a stroller—are immutable and primordial. I don’t concede to everything. But repeatedly blocking her urges feels wrong and possibly even damaging.
It’s also just hard for me to conceive of Bean as someone who can sit through a four-course meal or play quietly when I’m on the phone. I’m not even sure I want her to do those things. Will it crush her spirit? Would I be stifling her self-expression and her possibility of starting the next Facebook? With all these doubts, I often capitulate.
I’m not the only one. At Bean’s fourth birthday party, one of her English-speaking friends walks in carrying a wrapped present for Bean and another one for himself. His mother says he got upset at the shop because he wasn’t getting a present, too. My friend Nancy tells me about a new parenting philosophy that’s meant to eliminate this battle of wills: you never let your child hear the word “no,” so that he can’t say it back to you.
In France, there’s no such ambivalence about “
non.
” “You must teach your child frustration” is a French parenting maxim. In my favorite series of French kids’ books, Princesse Parfaite (Perfect Princess), the heroine, Zoé, is pictured pulling her mother toward a crêpe stand. The text explains, “While walking past the
crêperie
, Zoé made a scene. She wanted a crêpe with blackberry jam. Her mother refused, because it was just after lunch.”
On the next page, Zoé is back in the bakery, dressed as the Perfect Princess of the title. This time she’s covering her eyes so she won’t see the piles of fresh brioche. She’s being
sage
. “As [Zoé] knows, to avoid [owscov being tempted, she turns her head to the other side,” the text says.
It’s worth noting that in the first scene, where Zoé isn’t getting what she wants, she’s crying. But in the second one, where she’s distracting herself, she’s smiling. The message is that children will always have the impulse to give in to their vices.
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