Related to this, I’ve been working on their delivery—particularly the length thereof. If a story is inching along painfully, I let them know. It took a few attempts to explain the phrase “You’re losing your audience” to Daphne, but she gets it now. Both girls are growing more accustomed to developing their thoughts before releasing them out into the world. No one seems scarred, and I don’t think I’m imagining that our dinner conversations have become more intriguing. This lesson in editing can only help with their charm skills later in life, when they are, say, in the lunchroom commanding the attention of a cluster of friends and not their ever-adoring parents.
The other half of this equation, of course, is cultivating a knack for listening. (Lesson #2: Learn to listen.) For Daphne, this has not been easy. She often reminds me of a humanized R2-D2, manically leaning on one foot and then the other, trying not to erupt while waiting to add her legitimate two cents to a conversation. I have a hard time not laughing outright when this happens, because it is so pathetically adorable, and as soon as Daph can concentrate on what others are saying and not direct every ounce of her energy toward keeping a lid on things, we’ll really be getting somewhere.
Looking ahead, some added savvy in the articulation department will also serve any American kid who grows up and attends a party in France, where most likely they will encounter a number of fervent arguments on everything from orange zest to politics. These kinds of conversations are like sport, and there is rarely any ill will imparted.
The first time I witnessed this phenomenon at a French get-together, I consciously backed away from two Frenchmen who were deep in a rollicking exchange about the Gaza flotilla raid, fearing that they were about to get physical and start throwing down. And then, as if nothing had happened, they switched their conversation to the Marseilles football club and were next seen raising a glass together. These fellas did not appear offended by each other in the least—to the contrary, they were delighted. I’ve heard it said that the mark of a good dinner party for the French is when the conversation gets heated and a vocal mêlée ensues. I am easily inflamed when people have the gall to disagree with me, and these French-style interactions provided a worthy new perspective.
I do pity the clown (often me—yes, I pity myself) who disagrees with Daphne. It doesn’t take much for Daph’s spikes to come out, so I’m particularly keen on implementing this offshoot to the art of conversation. The French are so very opinionated, and yet they do not seem particularly sensitive—unless, of course, they are in love. I like this. With skin about as thick as paper vellum, Oona and Daphne could use a dose of Frenchness in their metaphorical epidermis. (Lesson #3: Let the discourse begin!)
SENSE OF STYLE
I must admit, my French informants who ranked “style” high on their lists all had one foot in the United States. For instance, two of them have American spouses and visit here often, and one, let’s call her Gina, is an American who married a Frenchman. Perhaps these sources are particularly sensitive to the subject of style and presentation because they have seen, firsthand, the differences between our two countries. Remembering her own, initially rocky transition to life in France, Gina said, “I had to get used to sprucing myself up for even the playground. No more sweats, that’s for sure. I hated it at first, but now I guess I’m happy about it. It’s good to look good. I go home and sometimes see grown people out in pajama pants, and it kind of makes me sad.”
There’s a reason Jerry Seinfeld once devoted an entire episode of his comedy series to this issue, declaring that his pal George, who had begun to wear sweatpants out of the house, had, in effect, “given up.” Me—I’m not yet ready to give up.
My guess is that for the native Frenchies, the custom of careful dress is so ingrained in their psyches that they don’t even realize how forcefully they pass it on down the line. For them, it would be like listing “the ability to breathe” as something they hold dear.
Before going any further, however, I’m going to borrow from my previous sentence and swap in “style” for “careful dress.” The French always look tasteful and put-together, but the rebel in me (the one who still owns—and wears—leopard-print creepers, those punk–rockabilly shoes with the enormous soles that are probably less common on a French playground than the sweatpants) does not necessarily equate this with style.
Whatever you want to call it, the French mince no words when it comes to the outfits their children put together. For them, careful dress is a sign of consideration for both the company one keeps and the activities they engage in. According to Susanne, a mother from southern France, whenever visitors come to her home in Provence, her two young children are expected to greet them at the door, winsomely dressed and with their hair combed. By the way, she also insists that they look all callers in the eye during the requisite salutations. You’d never see Susanne’s children lounging on the couch in their pajamas and playing on a Nintendo DS if you arrived for a planned visit. She remarked that this would convey “that we feel too lazy to have company.” I can see where she’s coming from, but I also wanted to counter, “Ease up, lady!” (But I didn’t.)
From what I’ve seen, French parents, mostly the moms, don’t think twice about sending children back to their rooms to try again if they’ve selected a poor clothing combo. My friend Peter, who was raised just outside Paris, remarked, “Until my sister was eighteen years old, my mother would send her back to her room to change. Oh, how my sister hated it!” When I naïvely asked what his sister would do, he gave me a look that said, “What do you think?” Then he responded, “Of course she went and changed. What else could she do?” I’m still getting used to that.
I do wish I had a similar power, especially for those times when Oona emerges looking like a lunatic who dressed in the dark. Sometimes it seems as though she is going for some kind of Guinness Book of World Records entry for most number of patterns worn at one time. But, again, I suffer from the fear that I’ll be corking her bubbling individuality. And then I wonder, was it self-expression that impelled her to select the flowy pastel-flowered shirt with a Peter Pan collar to go with navy sweatpants, or did she go there because she didn’t know any better—or perhaps because she didn’t really care? Either way, it became clear that someone should step in, and, évidemment, I was that someone. One French mother suggested I number-code all of Oona and Daphne’s clothes, as her own mother had done for her: Any ones could be worn together, any twos were fair game, and so on. I gave it some thought, but this method, while perhaps more gentle than declaring, “You look ridiculous in those clothes. Go change!” is too neurotic—not to mention time-consuming—for me.
I found my solution by simply bringing up the concept of fashion sense with my kids. In fact, I even turned our style sessions into a game—very American—called dans la mode. After Oona and Daphne accepted that this had nothing to do with ice cream, they got into it. Every so often (particularly when it’s rainy out) we’ll take all of their clothes out of the drawers, separate them by species (e.g., leggings in one pile, shirts in another), and then they lay out outfits on the bed and discuss them together. Kids, by the way, love clipboards—at least mine do. We made a sheet with categories to think about when reviewing ensembles, including “colors,” “shapes,” “overall feeling,” and “season.” For Daphne, who can’t read yet, I drew pictures next to each division. Inevitably, she ends up trying things on while performing a little show. Before you get visions of me being a raging stage mom, I swear it is not like that at all. We still listen to the Free to Be … You and Me soundtrack, and I won’t force them to wear something they hate—I’m just helping out, like a mère française.
The hard part is when Daphne materializes wearing an outfit that, while technically matching, still manages to be insane. Picture this: royal-blue leggings bespattered with big pink stars and a pink T-shirt, overlaid with a light-blue sleeveless leotard featuring a flouncy attached tutu. And high red boots with multiple straps and zippers to top the look off.
And a hair thingy. (Okay—I suppose I need to be more selective about what I buy for them as well.)
She was beaming with pride. I knew that I would have to search pretty far for a French mother who’d allow this getup (not at all dissimilar to something Hulk Hogan might sport) out of the house. Well, at least she matched.
I almost laughed orange juice out my nose while having breakfast with Belinda, a mother of three from California who sends her children to a French–American school. As about 50 percent of the students at the school are French (as in from France), Belinda has had plenty of opportunity to observe the style differences. “First of all,” she told me, “you should know that my mother-in-law can barely stand to go out in public with my daughters. They are toddlers, so I don’t really mind that they have wild hair and dress like they’re constantly on hallucinogens. But this is severely painful to my husband’s mother’s French sensibilities. It is truly torture for her. I admit, my girls are noticeably more unkempt than the other kids in their preschool, but this is not a normal school. For instance, one of the parents actually started her own children’s clothing label so that she could have the appropriate French kind of apparel for her son. The clothes are cute and also utterly ridiculous—like short slacks, which stop right above the knee, and little caps. That style of pants/shorts is very French to me. I remember seeing this father on the playground once, wearing those shorts with a blue-and-white-striped shirt, like a gondolier would wear, buttoned down to show some chest, with a black vest and a beautiful kind of gnarled-wood necklace with gold, and then red patent-leather Birkenstocks. I remember thinking, He’s not gay, just French.”
Side note: I’ve been racking up quite a few nice comments from the moms around school who’ve noticed an uptick in my own look lately (this, by the way, was not hard to accomplish for someone who used to be part of the sweatpant people). In explaining that it was a by-product of our mini coup d’état at home, I realized that part of the reason I have the time in the morning to primp a bit is that I am no longer tending to every whim of my kids. Then again, my oldest friend has gotten creative and simply puts her son to bed in the clothes (always sweats) that he’ll be wearing to school the next morning, thus buying herself more time. Victor Hugo once said that “the French Revolution was the anointing of humanity.” I’m not sure he meant buying more time in the morning by putting one’s kids to sleep in sweatpants, but, in any case: Amen, brother!
JOIE DE VIVRE
Of course, this is high priority for the French—the phrase is so familiar it needs no translation. I thought it was endearing that the French parents I polled actually mentioned this as something they wanted to foster in their children. I had thought it was one of those phrases that we love to repeat and run with because they are so quaint, but secretly I feared it had little to do with the reality of French life.
Fear not.
This is a kind of “payoff” priority. Without well-mannered, self-sufficient, good-conversationalist children who appreciate small beautiful things (for example), the French could never have taken home the championship belt as the nation that spends more time than any other eating, sleeping, and shopping (this from a recent study conducted by the OECD, the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development, an international organization of more than thirty developed countries). And, make no mistake, it’s not that the French eat and buy more: rather, they take their time and enjoy themselves. I’m sure that added shopping time is spent on selecting fresh, delightful ingredients for a meal, which will then be lingered over for hours while they engage in lively conversation (uninterrupted by any dull musings from their youngest citizens). It’s all part of the lifestyle. As the French also took home the silver for second place in life expectancy, it may not be such a bad one to imitate.
Many French people value time spent with family and happiness over economic prosperity. In a 2010 study, they had the best record for using all of their vacation days; this is saying a lot, as they have the most generous allotment in the developed world. Eighty-nine percent of French people took vacation, compared with 57 percent of Americans, who often preferred to trade in their days for cash. And how about those fierce riots when President Sarkozy upped the French retirement age to sixty-two?
It’s clear that the little Frenchies are watching. A mini riot broke out not long ago among schoolchildren over a false rumor that Sarkozy wanted to eliminate several school holidays. I wonder, was this due to joie de vivre or aversion to l’école?
On a smaller scale and with fewer burning cars, in my home we have made major strides in finding the joy in food. In addition to our attempts to revamp our eating rituals on a daily basis, we’ve also introduced the “Saturday Night Spectacular” to the mix. (The girls were in charge of the name.) Saturday is now sacred, and nary a playdate nor crafting lesson will be scheduled after 4:00 P.M. Or, if we absolutely have to break the rule (some things, like the Latke Fest we are going to this Saturday, cannot be missed), we devotedly protect Sunday afternoon and evening for the SNS.
This is how it works: Sometime during the week we get together and devise a menu with appetizer, vegetable, main course, and dessert. Although Daphne has lobbied to permanently be assigned dessert, each week we’re all given a different focus. This week, Daphne is on appetizer duty, and she has suggested “little hot dogs wrapped up in ham.” I might have to work with her on that. Once we know what we are going to make, we start gathering, sometimes picking up supplies on the way home from school but other times getting it all on Saturday. When the time arrives, we cook everything together—from scratch—set the table with the candelabrum and wineglasses for everyone (and, no, the girls aren’t getting the leaded stuff yet—only juice or seltzer water in their goblets), and most often end up lounging and laughing around the table for more than an hour.
I didn’t realize that Oona and Daphne were loving these dinners as much as Mac and I were, until we were forced to miss one and Oona cried her eyes out. She had wanted to make carrot-ginger soup. Who are these kids?
Meanwhile, my concerted efforts to get them to find the value in extended sleep are a work in progress.
APPRECIATION OF SMALL, BEAUTIFUL THINGS
This French penchant is related to la joie de vivre, yet it is its own animal and thus deserving of some first-class scrutiny. Edith Wharton (the real E.W., not Oona) once described the French as “a race of artists.” After observing how they pass this reverence for beauty down the line, I now understand why Wharton implicated the entire population. I also now have more perspective, sadly, on my most vivid memory from high school French class, when my teacher, Madame Prideux, stopped in front of each of our desks (more than twenty) with an outstretched hand so that we could admire her rings: “All ze gems are real. I do not wear fake jewelry. Aren’t zay beautiful?” This was an all-girls Catholic school, which makes it a little less weird—but only a little. Even though I barely looked up from drawing on my shoes and thinking Mme. Prideux was a snob, I remember well that they were emeralds. Now, in retrospect, I feel kind of bad. She was just being French and trying to instill some taste in us—a motley crew of California teenagers dripping in accessories from Contempo Casuals. As a French mother, she probably couldn’t have helped herself.
Beauty, however, doesn’t have to come from swank jewels for the French to take note. And that’s just it: They like to stop and observe as well as make time to create beauty. I once witnessed a seven-year-old French boy spend at least forty minutes arranging the hors d’oeuvres before the arrival of his grandparents for a weekend visit (a comelier array than anything I’ve ever put together). Halfway through his task, the little guy asked his mother if they could take a quick trip to the park to collect some stones he’d seen the previous day, speculating that they would look nice next to the radish flowers. Seriously, kid? The request was denied because the park was a good twenty minutes away, but the mom, in turn, sat down and contemplated a number of alternatives to the decorative stones. The boy fi
nally settled on a few dandelions from their front yard to break up the sea of red.
In my house, for Oona and Daphne, it’s all about efficiency. They will race through a coloring book in ten minutes, as though they think that as long as they tag each page with a bit of color it is good to go. I’ve heard the horror stories about French teachers forcing children as young as three to crayon within the lines, using “appropriate” colors. That’s definitely not what I’m after; rather, this particular French lesson is more about taking time. I’m all for coloring faces purple and adding an extra limb here or there to Mickey Mouse and his friends—I’d just like my kids not to be so obsessed with quantity and the speed at which they produce. This goes for handwriting too. Sometimes I hear a little voice saying, Who cares? Everyone uses computers now anyway. Yet ever since I began striving to get French, another, stronger voice tells me that it is all related to an urgency that charges so many aspects of my children’s lives. And I love pretty handwriting. So now one of my most familiar mantras is this: “Slow down, Oona.” It’s not exactly George Harrison material, but, hey, I’m busy.
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