A.M. to 4:00 P.M. An American friend of mine living in Paris alleges that you can find kids in the seventh arrondissement during these hours, but I wasn’t able to confirm her claim. It is rather ritzy over there in seven, so perhaps it’s the nanny nerve center. I kept thinking about the town of Vulgaria in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
, eerily absent of children, who are all captive in a drippy undergroundcave, and found myself half-looking for a special French version of the child-catcher, with his creepy mustache and a beret in place of the top hat. Not to worry though: All the French kids are just safely tucked away at school,
maternelles
(early school for young students), or government-subsidized day cares known as
crèches
for the babies. A huge number of women go back to work after having kids in France. The French government makes it so flippin’ easy. I know of many American moms who quit their jobs to stay home with their kids, not because they necessarily wanted to but because it made more financial sense than paying the high price of child care. But there’s nothing to be gained from wallowing in things we can’t change.
When it comes to thinking about how individuals fit into society, Americans couldn’t be more different from the French. The reason it is okay to reprimand someone else’s kid in France (unless, God help you, it is a wee American tourist) is that the French truly believe it takes a village to raise a child, whereas in the United States we are all about rejoicing in the individual. I’ll never forget being on a train out in Bonneville, France, when I discovered—two and a half hours into the ride—a two-year-old and a six-year-old seated three rows behind me. I had just awoken from a delightful afternoon nap when I saw them carefully and quietly making their way down the aisle with a man who I presume was their father. The trio was whispering in deference to the many sleeping passengers (again,
sleep is a huge priority
for the French), even though it wasabout 3:00 P.M. As they passed me, I was momentarily returned to the dream I’d been immersed in. Most of it had vanished, but I distinctly remembered a lot of whispering. Could it have been that these kids were able to speak softly for two and a half hours and their cute whispers had infiltrated my dream? I am a very light sleeper. This was a revelation, and I’ve since been trying to engender the same kind of regard for the needs of society in my kids. As it is, I can barely keep them quiet on Saturday morning to let their father “sleep in” until 8:00 A.M. , so this is no small chore.
“It’s not all about you.” That’s a new phrase in my repertoire, which I would not have dared use a year ago. Raymonde Carroll tackles what this means, as far as raising children, in
Cultural Misunderstandings: The French–American Experience:
“When I raise my child in the French style, in a sense what I am doing is clearing a patch of ground, pulling out the weeds, cutting, planting, and so on, in order to make a beautiful garden which will be in perfect harmony with the other gardens. This means that I have in mind a clear idea of the results I want to obtain, and of what I must do to obtain them. My only difficulty will lie in the nature of the soil, given that I apply myself regularly to the task, that is. But when I raise my child American-style, it is almost as if I were planting a seed in the ground without knowing for sure what type of seed it was. I must devote myself to giving it food, air, space, light, a supporting stake if necessary, care, water—in short, all that the seed needs to develop as best it can.”
This is a fantastic analogy, and it has really stuck with me. Poignantly, one of my favorite spots for child-watching is Les Jardins du Luxembourg on the Left Bank of Paris (also great for crêpe-eating, and then crêpe regret—but that’s another story). There is a beautiful, old, rather rickety and soulful carousel in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
, eerily absent of children, who are all captive in a drippy undergroundcave, and found myself half-looking for a special French version of the child-catcher, with his creepy mustache and a beret in place of the top hat. Not to worry though: All the French kids are just safely tucked away at school,
maternelles
(early school for young students), or government-subsidized day cares known as
crèches
for the babies. A huge number of women go back to work after having kids in France. The French government makes it so flippin’ easy. I know of many American moms who quit their jobs to stay home with their kids, not because they necessarily wanted to but because it made more financial sense than paying the high price of child care. But there’s nothing to be gained from wallowing in things we can’t change.
When it comes to thinking about how individuals fit into society, Americans couldn’t be more different from the French. The reason it is okay to reprimand someone else’s kid in France (unless, God help you, it is a wee American tourist) is that the French truly believe it takes a village to raise a child, whereas in the United States we are all about rejoicing in the individual. I’ll never forget being on a train out in Bonneville, France, when I discovered—two and a half hours into the ride—a two-year-old and a six-year-old seated three rows behind me. I had just awoken from a delightful afternoon nap when I saw them carefully and quietly making their way down the aisle with a man who I presume was their father. The trio was whispering in deference to the many sleeping passengers (again,
sleep is a huge priority
for the French), even though it wasabout 3:00 P.M. As they passed me, I was momentarily returned to the dream I’d been immersed in. Most of it had vanished, but I distinctly remembered a lot of whispering. Could it have been that these kids were able to speak softly for two and a half hours and their cute whispers had infiltrated my dream? I am a very light sleeper. This was a revelation, and I’ve since been trying to engender the same kind of regard for the needs of society in my kids. As it is, I can barely keep them quiet on Saturday morning to let their father “sleep in” until 8:00 A.M. , so this is no small chore.
“It’s not all about you.” That’s a new phrase in my repertoire, which I would not have dared use a year ago. Raymonde Carroll tackles what this means, as far as raising children, in
Cultural Misunderstandings: The French–American Experience:
“When I raise my child in the French style, in a sense what I am doing is clearing a patch of ground, pulling out the weeds, cutting, planting, and so on, in order to make a beautiful garden which will be in perfect harmony with the other gardens. This means that I have in mind a clear idea of the results I want to obtain, and of what I must do to obtain them. My only difficulty will lie in the nature of the soil, given that I apply myself regularly to the task, that is. But when I raise my child American-style, it is almost as if I were planting a seed in the ground without knowing for sure what type of seed it was. I must devote myself to giving it food, air, space, light, a supporting stake if necessary, care, water—in short, all that the seed needs to develop as best it can.”
This is a fantastic analogy, and it has really stuck with me. Poignantly, one of my favorite spots for child-watching is Les Jardins du Luxembourg on the Left Bank of Paris (also great for crêpe-eating, and then crêpe regret—but that’s another story). There is a beautiful, old, rather rickety and soulful carousel in
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