Turkey bourbon was to help our resolve. I think I got down only about a thimbleful on the first night, because I was so focused on and horrified by the shrieks of my infant. (Mac didn’t have the same problem.) By the third night, however, the whiskey was going down smoothly—well, as smoothly as Wild Turkey can go down—and Oona slept for eleven hours straight. (Note: I didn’t touch the whiskey until after she had nursed, so don’t get any ideas.) Oona has maintained her sleeping talent ever since.
Daphne, as is often the case, was a different story. Maybe it was because I knew that she was most likely my last baby and thus didn’t even try to start the process until she was more than six months old (by the way, Dr. Cohenadvocates starting at two months, and the Wild Turkey was our idea, not his), or maybe it was because I was so exhausted from holding her all day that I didn’t have the energy to resist or endure Daphne’s nighttime wails, but I was not very French in trying to get her out of my bed. And, man, did I suffer. If I could have had that kid sleeping in her own bed by a respectable age (even before she was four), I might have had a chance at a decent bedtime routine. As it was, it took years and years before my husband and I could reclaim our California king mattress.
Thinking back to a dinner party I went to in France, I realize how much I could have gained from drawing a few lines. When I first arrived at the dinner, I was somewhat disheartened to see that my hosts’ children were still awake. These kids are quite adorable and, of course, well behaved. But, since they were two and five years old, I assumed there would be some serious surrender in the adult ranks. In my brain, their little pajamaed presence translated to the eventual loss of at least one of their parents—relegated to a protracted “bedtime routine.” There’s no other kind, right?
Wrong. At bedtime in this
maison française
, the kids were assisted with brushing their teeth, and after that they obediently took to their beds. I swear, both parents were in and out in less than ten minutes. It was like witchcraft, and I so wanted into the coven. During dinner parties at our place, more than once I have disappeared to put the kids down and not emerged for more than two hours—just as the gathering was breaking up. Talk about depressing.
Trying to be more French, I recently put my foot down and cut the nightly song roster from eight lullabies—eight!—to two (one pick per kid). Oh, and we now have a twelve-minute limit on books, which must be started by 8:00 P.M. or book time is forfeited. I thought I was truly learning, and I have managed to cut our routine down considerably, but our nightly ritual is merely French-flavored and not the real deal. Then again, I’m doing better than my friend who admitted that she and her husband both bring their phones into their children’s room at bedtime so they can talk via text—as the kids refuse to fall asleep without them in the room.
Back in France, after the safe, swift, and utterly seamless return of my friends to the table, I pumped these two magicians for information. The reply: “The baby is in her crib, but she knows that even if she cries it will not do any good, so why should she bother?”
Gulp of wine.
“Sometimes, not very often, she does anyway, but we cannot get her. Then she would do it all the time. And the older one understands that this is not his time. This is the moment, every night, for grown-ups to be alone—even without guests he knows he is not welcome.”
Gulp.
“Not welcome” may seem a bit callous. Perhaps something was lost in translation. But, no, I don’t think so. From a French viewpoint, it is not harsh at all. In fact, I wish I’d heard about putting out the “not welcome” mat quite a while ago. In France, this is simply the arrangementthat everyone has been taught. Had I only introduced a similar concept early on, Mac and I wouldn’t
Daphne, as is often the case, was a different story. Maybe it was because I knew that she was most likely my last baby and thus didn’t even try to start the process until she was more than six months old (by the way, Dr. Cohenadvocates starting at two months, and the Wild Turkey was our idea, not his), or maybe it was because I was so exhausted from holding her all day that I didn’t have the energy to resist or endure Daphne’s nighttime wails, but I was not very French in trying to get her out of my bed. And, man, did I suffer. If I could have had that kid sleeping in her own bed by a respectable age (even before she was four), I might have had a chance at a decent bedtime routine. As it was, it took years and years before my husband and I could reclaim our California king mattress.
Thinking back to a dinner party I went to in France, I realize how much I could have gained from drawing a few lines. When I first arrived at the dinner, I was somewhat disheartened to see that my hosts’ children were still awake. These kids are quite adorable and, of course, well behaved. But, since they were two and five years old, I assumed there would be some serious surrender in the adult ranks. In my brain, their little pajamaed presence translated to the eventual loss of at least one of their parents—relegated to a protracted “bedtime routine.” There’s no other kind, right?
Wrong. At bedtime in this
maison française
, the kids were assisted with brushing their teeth, and after that they obediently took to their beds. I swear, both parents were in and out in less than ten minutes. It was like witchcraft, and I so wanted into the coven. During dinner parties at our place, more than once I have disappeared to put the kids down and not emerged for more than two hours—just as the gathering was breaking up. Talk about depressing.
Trying to be more French, I recently put my foot down and cut the nightly song roster from eight lullabies—eight!—to two (one pick per kid). Oh, and we now have a twelve-minute limit on books, which must be started by 8:00 P.M. or book time is forfeited. I thought I was truly learning, and I have managed to cut our routine down considerably, but our nightly ritual is merely French-flavored and not the real deal. Then again, I’m doing better than my friend who admitted that she and her husband both bring their phones into their children’s room at bedtime so they can talk via text—as the kids refuse to fall asleep without them in the room.
Back in France, after the safe, swift, and utterly seamless return of my friends to the table, I pumped these two magicians for information. The reply: “The baby is in her crib, but she knows that even if she cries it will not do any good, so why should she bother?”
Gulp of wine.
“Sometimes, not very often, she does anyway, but we cannot get her. Then she would do it all the time. And the older one understands that this is not his time. This is the moment, every night, for grown-ups to be alone—even without guests he knows he is not welcome.”
Gulp.
“Not welcome” may seem a bit callous. Perhaps something was lost in translation. But, no, I don’t think so. From a French viewpoint, it is not harsh at all. In fact, I wish I’d heard about putting out the “not welcome” mat quite a while ago. In France, this is simply the arrangementthat everyone has been taught. Had I only introduced a similar concept early on, Mac and I wouldn’t
Similar Books
