French Twist

by Catherine Crawford

  I found that few young French children are given any allowance at all. The value of money is such that small kids needn’t be trusted with it. And because they don’t have the same fixation on stuff as kids in a consumer culture do, they don’t yearn for it. But of course they are still expected to do chores. I did speak with one set of French parents who dole out the cash—but on a per-job basis. In addition to the regular, obligatory household duties, their kids can complete other chores to earn money. For instance, organizing the Tupperware brings in half a euro. On our spiffy new “jobs board,” I’ve agreed to a quarter for dusting the living room, fifteen cents for sorting laundry, and twenty cents for (effectively) wiping down the triptych of tables in the kitchen, dining, and living rooms. Everyone wins! At first Oona was a bit too enthusiastic—she’s hell-bent on getting an iPod Shuffle and has accepted that we aren’t going to buy it willy-nilly—and I began to fear for the bank account, so we’ve limited the extras to no more than six bonus jobs a week. Still, my house is much more tidy these days.

  There remains a lot to be learned about excess. With two kids in the bloom of their birthday-party careers, I have thrown (and attended) some real doozies. I’ve always felt particularly lucky that my girls were born in the “good weather” months, so that we could host their birthday fêtes (always, until now, ragers) in the park. I truly feel bad for those parents saddled with a February birthday to exalt their offspring. Here in New York City, parents regularly shell out upward of $500 for a party. What else can they do? That’s what everyone else does. And apparently not only the weather is to blame. A friend from Los Angeles recently confided to me that he’s in the market to buy a bouncy castle: “At nine out of ten—no, maybe ten out of ten—birthday parties here, there is a bouncy castle. If we get one, we’ll save a ton on the rental.”

  Even by throwing Oona and Daphne parties in the park, I was never able to keep costs under $250. There’s the requisite pizza for thirty people, drinks, snacks for parents, cake, piñata, balloons for everyone, and goody bags. Goody bags—the bane of birthday parties. There is nothing less cute than a little guest at a party screeching, “Where are the goody bags? What do we get?” With mortification, I will admit that it was once my child (but not since she got an earful about that). Inevitably, there is crying and disappointment because some kid got the wrong-color trinket in their bag of favors, or they only like chocolate but received Gummi Bears. Also, goody bags are always filled with plastic junk that I immediately throw away. The whole thing is a wasteful hassle, really.

  These kinds of birthday bonanzas are not standard in France. I attended l’anniversaire of a French five-year-old while I was abroad. It was a revelation. He had two friends over to share his favorite meal of roasted chicken and potato wedges and chocolate cake, all expertly cooked by his parents, naturally. It was simple, refreshing, and strangely more enjoyable for everyone than any kid party I can remember attending in Brooklyn, where, more often than not, the birthday kid ends up having a breakdown because of all the attention and stimulation—and sugar. I am still trying to get the blood out of a shirt Oona wore to the last party we attended, where things went so berserk that three children ended up with bloody noses (a vicious game of freeze tag—don’t ask). Iron Maiden would’ve envied the decibel level in that room. And how do the French handle goody bags? According to a friend who teaches elementary school in Paris and has two daughters, “There are none of these at French birthday parties. The child should not be rewarded for going to a party. He gets to go and have fun and eat cake. That is surely enough.” Once more with feeling: Touché. Many of the French acknowledged having more of a “thing” when their babies turned one—a real milestone—but, beyond that, there’s often just a family party until the kids get a little older and are allowed a couple of friends to celebrate with them.

  Again with the detox, we have decided that Oona and Daphne are going to take a year off parties, starting this year. True, we’re still a few months away from either of their birthdays and this is all a bit theoretical, but so far they seem strangely accepting of the arrangement. Also, as I am trying to be at least part French, they don’t have a whole lot of say in the matter. They will be given a birthday party every other year. This is hardly a bad deal for them. On the off year, they get to be “Queen for a Day,” which entails choosing what’s for breakfast (we used to do that anyway, but I think they may have forgotten), going to a toy store and selecting whatever they want (within price-tag reason), and deciding where we go to dinner. If I could get them to be excited about home-roasted chicken, I’d make it every night, but they haven’t become that French yet. Alas, for now we are still at the mercy of a diner or pizza parlor. I have explained that their future birthdays will not yield a pile of presents carted home in a trash bag post-party. So far they don’t seem bothered by this. Is it possible that, in some small way, they are relieved? I know I am.

  I realized that something had to give (and suspected that the French had the answer) when I grew fanatical about jettisoning playthings from my home. Every time my kids would leave the house and I was left in glorious solitude, I would fiendishly dart to their bedroom with a trash bag and start filling it up with toys. This will sound pathetic to any non-parents out there, but this was almost more fun for me than going to see a movie or to a bar. The first couple of times, I was tentative: “This glow-in-the-dark turtle is so nice. They might want to play with it someday.” I’d fill a bag and put it in the closet for a few months, to gauge the sturdiness of my resolve. I’ve done this on three different occasions, and not once have they noticed anything missing. They commented that their room seemed “cleaner” and “bigger,” but they haven’t been able to pinpoint what’s not there anymore. Guess they weren’t very attached. So now I’ve removed the “holding bay” closet stage, and the hapless junk goes straight to Goodwill as fast as I can get it there. To my delight, I’ve discovered that my kids are playing with the remaining toys more. It’s as though the survivors look more desirable now that the plastic overgrowth has been hacked away and they can be seen. When the girls’ room was bursting at the seams, they’d walk in and complain, “There’s nothing to play with!” But now, with less to play with, I rarely hear the lament from my kids. I have a friend who swears that the same logic works in the closet. She’s always giving me cast-off clothes, which she claims get in the way when she’s trying to put together outfits. I should probably stop taking them—since I rarely end up wearing them. But someday I might.

  The French seem very keyed in to this little trick. I’ve been watching a lot of French films lately, and I’m always freshly shocked at the depiction of children’s spaces. I cannot think of one French flick that has a kid’s room brimming with stuff (I thought I’d found a culprit in Noémie: Le secret, until I realized that the movie is Canadian). This is certainly not the case with many American movies, classics even, from E.T. to Toy Story. Art imitating life? I am sure the incredible expanding nursery exists here and there in French cinema, but it is certainly not the norm. It’s also not the norm in true French homes, as a bit of sleuthing on my part revealed. “Discreet” is the word that comes to mind when I think about the existence of toys in the French homes I visited. And these were homes that often housed more children than the average family of four in my circles. As the French government truly rewards its citizens for procreating, the third (and fourth!) child is far from rare. Yet somehow their homes, even the children’s rooms, don’t morph into enormous playrooms, as is the trend here. My heart melted during a tour of a six-year-old French girl’s room. Her English was even worse than my French, so it wasn’t so much what she said but rather the way she handled her moderate number of belongings with such affection. She had two baby dolls (not nine, which is the last tally from my girls’ room—not including the now contentious American Girl dolls). Get ready to be inspired—and a tad jealous. If French children can play happily and independently with fewer things, so can ours. Easing off on the attent
ion and the constant cascade of presents appears to do wonders for the imagination of a child.

  I’ve seen it work with the toys, and I’m determined to practice the same kind of regulation in my closet. Gone are the days of carefree amassing. Eat it, two-for-one skirt sale at Old Navy! It’s time for some serious weeding and tough decisions. My French lady friends tell me it is all about concentrating on a few quality pivotal pieces that look great and will last. Maybe that explains the “classic” French look.

  It’s time to talk about damn prizes. Like most of the kids in our neighborhood, my daughters had somehow begun to expect a prize for everything, from getting a haircut to accompanying me to fill the car up with gas. My bad.

  I know there are certain situations that I cannot and, to be honest, don’t really want to get out of without giving my kids something special. For example, Daphne is petrified of the doctor. We’ve had enough conversations about her well-being and the necessity of checkups that she’s accepted the fact that she has to go—but she still doesn’t like it. At. All. She and I struck a deal that whenever she gets a shot I will buy her a prize. It’s always a harrowing experience; a couple of times, because of some very impressive writhing and theatrics, we’ve even had to abort the mission and reschedule. But when she does get through it, I’m usually so relieved that it’s over and heartbroken for poor, tortured, hoarse-from-screaming Daphne that we head straight to the nearest toy store, and there I am relieved once again—this time of at least thirty-five dollars for a pity prize.

  I know a French five-year-old, Christian, with the same kind of doctor-phobia, and I asked his father how they deal with the situation: “We are like you, and we always allow Christian a little cadeau after the doctor ordeal. He had his flu shot last time, so after it was over I took him to the stationery store and I bought him two rolls of tape.” Tape! How brilliant. And I’m sure Daphne would have much more fun with a few spoils from Office Depot (she has a real thing for Post-its) than the hundred-fiftieth stuffed animal that she inevitably picks out. And even the jumbo stack of multicolored Post-it notes is probably less than ten dollars. Voilà—another problem solved.

  The truth is, my children are far more enjoyable now that I’ve put a stop to the bribes and exchange of perks for good conduct. Ever since the font went mostly dry (read: French), they don’t expect it. Occasionally, the spirit will move me and I will get them something unexpected. They are sooo happy—much happier than they used to be when the goods rained down. Our new favorite thing to do with the girls is to go out for dinner. They’re suddenly capable of remaining seated at a table in public, waiting for their food, eating with utensils and decorum, and hanging around with my husband and me until everyone is ready to go. My heart sank a bit when I read about a new restaurant nearby that features video screens in the tabletops so parents can enjoy a dinner out in a restaurant while their kids watch movies. To me, this is beyond depressing. I’ve seen so many French children, as young as two years old, sit through long, luxurious meals without the need of a screen to keep them from exploding, crawling under the table, or throwing silverware. I’m no flower child, and my kids have all of their Disney characters down pat, but I think there’s something sad about having to plug them in for a family meal—especially at a restaurant.

  I’ve been truly inspired by French children and their lack of dependence on la télévision. It is difficult to provide exact statistics comparing the television consumption of French and American kids, as there are countless studies and the numbers appear to change daily (not for the better, I’m afraid). But virtually all agree about the detrimental effect of television time on young, developing brains, and it’s safe to say that French children spend less time staring slack-jawed at the boob tube. One probable reason for the difference in older French kids is that network French television is reputedly ghastly, so the temptation isn’t the same; another is the fact that it’s not as easy in France to get six hundred channels beamed into your home. In 2008, the French television authority banned channels from programming any shows directed at children under three years old—while this is a booming market here in the United States.

  Regardless of the grounds for the disparity, I’m convinced that those French kids receive a boost in their powers of self-amusement because they have more time in the day to practice. In France, little kids don’t count on coming home from school and cuddling up with Dora or Phineas and Ferb, and the big ones have too much homework to do. I had always thought of television as having a calming effect, but a lightbulb went off during one auspicious multicultural, multigenerational party. Three families had gathered for lunch at the loft apartment of a mutual good friend. Oona, Daphne, and two young Frenchies represented the kids’ contingent. I had brought along the portable DVD player, figuring that at some point we could throw on a disc to ensure a little adult peace. After playing blissfully with the French kids for more than an hour, Daphne, while looking for some fairy gear in my bag (I usually travel with at least one wand and a tiara), realized that I was holding and begged me to put on a show. The other kids joined in. We parents had been thrilled that the kids were playing well, so we specified one episode only, and soon they were all deep into an Angelina Ballerina DVD. After thirty minutes of watching Angelina’s antics in a tutu, the four children returned to their game. Unfortunately, they had a hard time finding their groove again, and they clashed more than anything else. I usually like to blame these mood swings on fatigue or hunger, but they’d all eaten well and it was only 2:00 P.M. Then the French mother dropped a giant revelation on me: “It is the television. They always fight when they watch TV. It takes a while for them to use their own brains again after watching.”

  While I’d always told my children that television rots the brain, and other savory axioms that come gratis with the parenting handbook, I’d never really seen it in practice. Or at least I hadn’t put it together. Ever since we’ve cut back on the TV time at home, sibling battles have most definitely waned.

  To determine exactly how to cut back, I turned to the French. No doubt, there isn’t just one way to do things in France, so the answers I got on how much television is enough were all over the map. A few separate sources said that they allow their kids to watch only videos that “have a beginning and an end. A real story, and not mindless cartoons or sitcoms.” This seems like good advice but a little too stringent for me. I happen to love mindless cartoons. My new French-inspired approach is to allow screen time (including computer and iPad) only on the weekends. Although counterintuitive, this rule has made our lives much easier. Oona and Daphne don’t even bother begging for it on weekday mornings or when they get home from school anymore. Before the rule was in place, I spent valuable energy negotiating TV time. My kids were either livid or insufferable whine-bags if I dared to reject a morning show. It was often easier to let them have their way and feed and dress them in front of the box. These days, our mornings are often downright lovely, with a shared breakfast and more time for dressing and playing (and maybe some leftover homework).

  There was also the happy realization that we are sending the message that dinner together is more important than television in the evenings. Very French indeed. I had a good laugh on a recent Tuesday night when, while we were sitting around the table, my husband mistakenly announced, “After you clear the table, I’m going to show you guys a really funny YouTube video.” As the new heavy in the house, it was my duty to point out that the kids aren’t allowed to watch videos on weeknights. The sadness in the dining room at that moment was palpable, so I gave in. “Okay, you can watch Daddy’s YouTube clip but only tonight. This is highly irregular, so don’t get used to it.” The video itself, starring a kitten on a trampoline, was less than three minutes long, but before it was queued up, Oona and Daphne spent close to fifteen minutes dancing and hugging and laughing. They were beyond giddy that I was going to let them watch something. Anything. For a moment, after I stopped giggling at the spectacle, I wondered if I was bein
g cruel in regular life by not allowing TV when it made them this happy. But that’s the thing: It had never made them this happy. Now that screen time is truly special and my kids don’t consider it a right, it has taken on a whole new meaning for them.

  I know that cutting out television completely during the week is not feasible for many families (here and in France), yet I think we can take a cue from French parents and create a few (almost) unbendable rules to decrease TV’s dominion in the home. Or, if you’ve got the über-cable situation, you could try allowing programming only in French—I’m sure that would crush some of the appeal.

  What does all this mean for vacation? I was tempted to consider most of summertime and any vacation day in the same boat as “weekend.” I’d made such a big deal about television interfering with focus on school that I didn’t really have a leg to stand on in, say, late August, with no camp or school in sight. Once again, I suffered that now very familiar feeling that I was half-assing it in my Frenchification efforts when I was setting up interviews with French families, and a large number of them apologetically informed me that they would be unavailable for the month of August because they would not have phone or Internet reception. Paris in late summer is taken over by tourists, as the city’s natives flee to their centuries-old, rustic, and perfectly romantic farmhouses (gross generalization here, but much of the population does hoof it somewhere else). Eventually it dawned on me that a place without phone or Internet reception probably also didn’t have mini golf, multiplex movie theaters, video-game arcades, the dreaded Build-A-Bear franchise, or any of the other “amusements” that we’ve been accustomed to dishing out to the kids when vacationing. What do the French do all day with their kids in such a place? Not much, as it turns out. But the twist? Apparently they love it. Marguerite, a French mother of twins, said to me, “The children like to relax, and it’s very nice for them to play outside. And they like to garden with me.” It all sounded so quaint and, I must say, healthy, yet I could not—and did not—want to imagine my own kids after two days on vacation without their beloved Netflix or Nick Jr. computer games, not to mention no hope of diversions tailored specifically to their kind (the even more dreaded Chuck E. Cheese’s). But what kind of French-parenting wannabe was I if I didn’t at least try?