French Twist Read online

  So I created my own faux French countryside.

  Experimenting on children sounds so sinister, and I don’t want to get some kind of reputation as a Mommy Mengele or anything, but I’m positively elated by the results of this one.

  For a number of reasons, I couldn’t quite get my entire family to the real French countryside anytime soon, so I did the best I could to recreate that experience much closer to home. Happily, it is not as hard to do as I thought, and we found our little getaway française in a remarkably close yet still sufficiently secluded hamlet on Fire Island, located off the south shore of Long Island. Just a two-hour train ride to a ferry, and in another half hour we felt very far away from Brooklyn. On our part of the island, which is 330 yards at its widest and 190 yards at its most narrow, there is only one small market and one restaurant. Not a lot of opportunity to placate kids with consumer crap.

  Still, I hadn’t fully realized when we made the Fire Island arrangements how perfect it was for our purposes. With no cars allowed on the island, I was barred from chickening out and stockpiling backup toys and other diversions for the girls. It was time to sink or swim. Oona and Daphne were each allowed to bring whatever they wanted, provided it fit into their small backpacks, which they would be carrying (Lucie had once chastised me for always schlepping their things: “You are a mom, not a mule”). Of course, it would not have taken much effort at all to stock the iPad with games and movies and slip it into our (one!) suitcase, but I was hell-bent on getting this right, so we left all screens at home. I was more than a little nervous, to be sure. I summoned thoughts of books like Heidi and Little House on the Prairie for inspiration. When I stopped and realized that I was worrying about how my children would respond when given only a wonderful beach house, gorgeous seashore, and a nearby bay filled with clams and crabs to entertain them, I felt like a sad and privileged city asshole.

  On the downside, Fire Island, rather unfortunately, rivals New York City when it comes to things like the cost of food. To make my ersatz French getaway possible, we rented one big, beautifully ramshackle six-bedroom house with a revolving cast of good friends, including Paul, a fashion industry exec from Bordeaux who has been living in the United States for the past four years. The conditions were practically perfect for my summer experiment.

  Despite our near translucence, my husband and I both love the beach and the sea, so this was hardly the first sandy vacation that the girls had been on. Previously, however, we had stayed primarily in beach motels, all with pools and usually located in towns that twinkled in the night—not because of the stars overhead but because of gaudily packed boardwalks blinking crazily with flashing rides, games, and neon signs saluting junk food aplenty. On these other vacations, the beach turned out to be among the lowlights for the girls (down there with teeth-brushing), just a backdrop to the glitz of the Ferris wheel and the curiously timeless thrill of a pink wad of cotton candy the size of a well-fed bunny. Generally the kids would consent to an hour—tops—of playing in the surf, to appease us so we would let them go back in the pool or to the ice cream parlor. Oona often griped that the beach was “way too sandy.”

  And so I set off for Fire Island lugging only a single suitcase—but also plenty of trepidation. I could easily envision ten days of isolation with minimal toys, no electronic entertainment, and copious amounts of sand ending in disaster.

  But somehow it didn’t. In fact, it was the most enjoyable family vacation we have ever had. I’m not about to live off the grid or anything—I may be second only to my husband in the contest for least handy person on earth—but I saw in a short time how my children, given no other choice, learned the art of hanging out. And, oh, what a fantastically gorgeous art that is.

  An alternative title to this book could be Why French Kids Can Hang: And What It Means for Their Parents. It is such a beautiful thing when a once-petulant kid comes out of the whiny woods. I realized on Fire Island that I may have been inadvertently banishing my two to the forest. Maybe, in our former attempts to ensure that our kids had fun on vacation, we had in effect prevented them (and us) from reaching new levels of enjoyment. Really, there is only so much fun to be had on the Frog-Hopper—you go up and then … you go down—and the constant stimulation and seduction of the carnival atmosphere would turn my kids into holy terrors. We’d been separating their pleasure from our own, somewhat grudgingly taking them to the kid crap and then “escaping” to do something grown-up one night, with the assistance of the hotel babysitter—always uneasy about leaving our kids with a stranger and unhappy about all of the added expenses. Having seen many French children mingling, but not dominating, in the adult realm without consistent embellishments, I had a new goal for my own children.

  Knowing that we didn’t pack any movies or video games, the girls wasted very little time begging for them. Even if they’d been particularly persuasive, there was nowhere to go to buy, or even rent, media for a Muppet fix. Brilliant. Naturally, they fell into a rhythm of playing with each other and the grown-ups. In hindsight, it was fortuitous for my little ploy that most of my friends on the trip were childless. These pals are not accustomed to the trends of permissiveness in parenting and thus were not inclined to indulge my children when it came to any dictatorial behavior. With Mac and me cranking up the French amid a group of adults who wanted only to enjoy their own time off, Oona and Daphne were completely outnumbered.

  My fears that they would be tiny misery machines were put to rest almost immediately, and they took to nature like burrowing sand crabs. We spent hours and hours building sand castles, playing wave tag, going on scenic walks (walks—ha!), reading, playing board games, and baking. Ah, yes, the baking. This is where Paul took over the French education of my kids, especially if they dared to announce that there was nothing to do: “What? If you are bored, then we must do some work. You know the dessert will not make itself. Stop complaining and put on dees apron.” My kids are now well practiced in the arts of chocolate mousse, peach tatin, and, of course, crème brûlée. Oona and Daphne wanted to teach Paul a thing or two about the confectionary arts as well. After they introduced him to s’mores, he effectively damned their two favorite sweets in one fell swoop: “Well, it’s not nearly as bad as that Rice Krispies treat.”

  All of this successful hanging out brought to mind a recent conversation I’d had with Bess, one of my Brooklyn mom friends. She was nervous about an upcoming holiday at her husband’s parents’ house (Bess’s relationship with her mother-in-law is a perfect cliché). She complained, “It’s always awkward when we go there for holidays now, because there are no kids running around creating buffers like there used to be. I mean, all of the little cousins are there, but everyone has their own computer or DS, and it has become much quieter. I’m always stuck in the kitchen with just grown-ups, trying to get along.” There was so much to pity in Bess’s situation, but the thought of kids spending more time with their machines than with one another at an annual party was particularly saddening.

  There’s no doubt that the past seven years of child-rearing have given me countless marvelous memories, and many of them spring from our family trips—but these ten days on Fire Island were truly transcendent. It was the first time since having children that my husband and I felt that the vacation was not all about the kids. Very refreshingly, Oona and Daphne had to figure out a way to adapt to the adult world, and not the other way around. This is an integral concept in French parenting. Once the girls understood this, and that none of the grown-ups present thought it was cute or appropriate for them to always be hogging center stage, they adapted. In fact, I think they even realized that it was to their advantage. With a little patience and moxie, they were allowed access to a new side of their parents—one that is not always catering to them. I saw them looking at us with something close to wonder. For me, this was extraordinarily moving. I want them to have these kinds of memories of me, not just recollections of me as a parent. When they are in their thirties, they will want to know w
hat I was like at their age—at least they will if they are anything like me, constantly trying to remember my own mother as a person separate from her identity as a mom.

  I knew we were on to something when, on our second night on Fire Island, the girls asked if they could stay up and have dinner with the grown-ups. As the adults were planning to eat at 9:00, I was conflicted. I agreed, on the condition that they control themselves. I made it very clear that both their father and I wanted to enjoy the company of our friends and that they would be visitors at our table and not permitted to rule it. For Daphne, who was … well, Daphne and only four years old, I assumed this would be a real challenge. But that dinner was sublime. The kids were calm and courteous, instinctively knowing that complaining about being tired or about what was put on their plates would detrimentally affect their future requests to join our adult posse. They hung around the table with us for more than an hour, and when we started a dance party, my girls curled up on a daybed on the screened-in porch—still unwilling to leave a gaggle of grown-ups clearly having fun. I’m not sure when they fell asleep, but it was with satisfaction and unforgettable pride that Mac and I, drunk on life and plenty of red wine, transferred our two sleeping beauties upstairs to bed.

  On this trip, we pared down the excesses and turned up the trust in our kids’ inherent coolness. It was a gamble that totally paid off. Our faux French vacation has been the most gratifying family holiday to date. As I gushed about it on the phone to Yvan, a French friend and father of two, he announced, “Now you are ready for the real thing. But it must be in the south of France. We will wake up, cook some food, have something to drink, perhaps take a walk, drink more wine, and more wine, cook something else, maybe read something and have some wine—and all the while the children are just running and playing outside. I think you will like it.” Me too! And apparently for the French there is value in having less of some things—though clearly wine is not among them.

  5 Things to Cut Right Now

  Birthday party goody bags

  50 percent of:

  Prizes for good behavior

  Snacks between meals

  TV time for the kids

  Holiday loot

  The sight of toys in your living room

  Young child’s allowance

  THE CORD!

  Warning Signs

  Occasionally during our French journey, Oona and Daphne have said or done things that have given me pause long enough to remind myself that this is not France.

  Here are a few signs that you may need to temper your newfound Frenchness:

  Your four-year-old has a nightmare that she is lost in Paris and is being hunted by a monster that “is actually you in a costume.”

  Your child develops the habit of reprimanding other kids on the playground and accusing them of being “very un-French!”

  You have an extremely hard time hosting playdates for your children because you cannot tolerate the behavior of their friends.

  You have too many conversations like this:

  Daphne: Mama, did I do a very good job of not complaining about leaving Celia’s house?

  Me: Well, you did a normal job. Not complaining is normal. If you had complained, that would have meant you had done a poor job of leaving.

  Daphne: Poor?

  Me: It would have meant that you did a “not good” job.

  Daphne: But I didn’t complain. So I did a good job. Complaining is not very French, so I was being French!

  Me: Honey, I am not going to congratulate you for just leaving without a fuss. That is now normal for you. And you should always do it and not look for praise.

  Daphne (through tears): But I DID do a good job! You should be proud of me!

  Chapter Seven

  Les Petits Trésors or Teaching the Art of Living

  Not long ago, Mac showed me some home-video footage he’d taken of Daphne dancing around the living room—and on the coffee table. Initially, my newly installed French-o-meter went berserk at the sight of my child fluttering atop furniture, especially living room furniture! Then the alarm bells in my mind grew fainter as I slowly realized that Daph’s dance moves were quite similar to my own. And I do love a good dance party. My pride and delight won over an initial desire to stop the video and have yet another meeting with my girl about boundaries and behavior. She was so good. (Also, our coffee table is really big and made of strong wood. It does kind of seem like a stage.)

  I’m pretty certain that Daphne did not just inherit this style but rather developed the steps by watching me during our frequent after-dinner dance parties. I like to think that my signature moves resemble Molly Ringwald’s dance in The Breakfast Club peppered with a lot of Goth-y swoops and a dash of interpretive dance. I’m not sure what the French would make of our regular habit of busting a move before the dishes are even done, but I’m sure they would not approve of a five-year-old bouncing on a table for any reason. So I split the difference and informed my children that we must always dance if we feel moved to do so, but no one is allowed on the stage coffee table without permission.

  The experience of watching Daphne channel me reinforced how much influence I have on my kids—some of which I’m not even aware of. What could I do with them if I really put my mind to it? What kind of Frenchness, beyond discipline, could I instill? It was all very exciting.

  Before setting out on this project, I polled a posse of French parents about that sort of je ne sais quoi they imbue in their kids. It did not surprise me that my French connections knew exactly what I was talking about. Three out of nine gave me some version of the following advice: “You have only so long to mold and shape your children. After about age eight or nine, they lose interest in what you teach them. Use your time wisely.” With Oona, far from babyhood, the clock was ticking especially loudly. I asked these parents to list those qualities that they value and endeavor to pass along. These are the ones that came up repeatedly:

  Appreciation of food

  Good citizens/manners

  Good conversationalists

  Sense of style

  Joie de vivre

  Appreciation of small, beautiful things

  Good student

  I like to think I’ve already hit the first two (with a rather large hammer), but the other five endowments were certainly worth some effort.

  Allons-y!

  GOOD CONVERSATIONALISTS

  French people often accuse us Americans of being boring. And we like to protest that they are uptight snobs. We are not boring—we’re fun, but we might not always edit ourselves effectively. And the French are merely well trained (and perhaps a bit uptight).

  While French children are not encouraged to practice their loquacity in the classroom, French parents are rather intent on raising good conversationalists elsewhere—real emphasis on “good.” Even though the French have a reputation for being reserved, I found that they actually do talk a lot; yet for them, conversation is like another art form—think Cyrano de Bergerac.

  Once I noticed that very few of my French parent pals would tolerate a draggy story from their child, it became exceedingly difficult not to analyze the occasionally lackluster orations of my own offspring. To me, Oona and Daphne are the two cutest people in the world, so when they launch into a homily on blueberries vs. strawberries—for the seventh time—or want me to listen to the plot of their favorite Phineas and Ferb episode (again), I don’t have much of a problem indulging them. I like to watch their little mouths motor, minds work, and hands gesture. However, this reaction surely isn’t the same for everyone—like pretty much every adult that did not give birth to them. Yet I often see tables of grown-ups halt their conversation when a child joins their ranks and decides to make a statement, whether or not it has anything to do with the previous adult conversation. It’s not uncommon in the States for family meals to be hijacked by the smallest among us, who use the spotlight to make us lift our adult arms up! And then down! And then up again! It’s exhausting—and kind of
annoying. This would be a definite non-non for a French child.

  The French are all about harvesting gracious members of society, so for the parents it is important to teach a child the art of discourse. (Lesson #1: Try not to speak unless you have something interesting to say and, if part of a conversation already in progress, relevant to say.) Of course, French parents aren’t going to harsh on the stories of a three-year-old just mastering language, but I noted that at around ages five and six, many French kids are urged to step up the level of their chatter (or quit it).

  I began to acknowledge that even when my girls did not have anything to say, they would start talking simply to wrestle their way to center stage. In their defense, no one had ever told them not to. Whenever they opened their mouths prior to the “new way,” they had generally been met with nothing but enthusiasm. I was loath to disparage Oona and Daphne’s little speeches. It seemed as if I would, in turn, be criticizing their personalities. Then again, as I became more aware of it, my patience—especially when they interrupted a perfectly enjoyable conversation to offer up something extraneous or mundane—began to wane. I’d seen French mothers chastise their children with a “Why are you boring me with this uninteresting story?” and “I have already heard about this from you before,” and it sounded so biting. Truthfully, French children are more accustomed to criticism, so I’m sure it did not affect them the way it would the tender pride of my kids. I can only imagine future years of therapy if I said something similar, and so I had to, rather happily, go half-French on this one. I made the case, in a nice, supportive American mom kind of way, that it is important to think about how to captivate your listeners before taking the floor. When an asinine story hits the airwaves at home, I don’t let it go, but I don’t trash it. I might say, “Tell me something else!” And, most important, I don’t applaud it.