French Twist (18 page)

Then there’s Valentine’s Day, another tradition of
growing immoderation brought to American kids by Hallmark. I am going to have to stay strong—and French-ish.

If you are tempted to pity Oona and Daphne here, don’t. They’ve been at sea in an ocean of extravagance for too long. I knew we had hit a wall when we experienced what is now known as “Lunch-Box Waterloo.” One day when Daphne was in kindergarten, a decorative flower fell off her beloved Hello Kitty lunch box. Because the girls get new lunch boxes every year, I assured her that she had a few backups for the choosing. I’d forgotten, however, that one lunch bag (super cute, with pink polka dots) had been committed to hold the birdseed for our parakeet, Marvin Montandon. When I offered two choices to the kid for replacing Hello Kitty, you would have thought that I was suggesting she carry her lunch to school in a bedpan. “But—but—but—that’s not fair! I want to have three more! That’s what I
need
.” At the risk of sounding all “I walked six miles uphill to school in the snow,” I used a brown bag when I was a kid—not a trendy twenty-two-dollar hand-stitched monogrammed satchel, or a customized “modular lunch box system,” or even, God forbid, something metal covered with lead paint, with a matching BPA-riddled thermos.

Now, mercifully, we are deep into detritus detox, scaling back and talking A LOT about excess. The French don’t worry too much about lunch boxes, what with those five-course meals served at school, but when I looked into their approach to backpacks, I found that the same backpack can last a long time. You also don’t see many television
characters and cartoons adorning their gear. If Daphne were French, she’d have to be sporting
La Petite
Mermaid on her back for the next four years.

I received a surprise lesson in teaching the value of money from a French pal, Christiane, who lives on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I happened to be over one day when her parents were visiting from Lyon. Both Christiane and her mother were engaged in a very serious conversation with Christiane’s eight-year-old daughter, Marie, who was dying for an American Girl doll. Marie looked stricken—I could tell that her dreams of acquiring a Kit Kittredge or a Julie Albright were being dashed—but after a long, hushed conversation, she wiped her eyes and gave both her mother and grandmother a kiss. Later, I pressed Christiane for details. What was the problem? “Well, quite frankly, that is just too much money for a doll. My mother would like to get her a present, and she doesn’t mind spending money—but how will Marie ever understand the value of money if we are spending a hundred and twenty dollars on one doll? It is really too much. This is not easy to explain to a child, but it is necessary. It was a big deal for her, but it’s also an important idea for her to understand.” Cringe moment No. 927 for me. When my
four-year-old
asked for an American Girl doll, I merely passed along the wish to her grandfather, who happily complied, as he was desperate for a birthday-present idea. (Note: This is my husband’s father, who I believe owns one pair of pants and saves on his water bill by not showering. Daddy Warbucks he most certainly is not—but no one
stateside is immune to fiscal fever, particularly when there are kids involved.) It didn’t even occur to me that this was inappropriate or could be a learning opportunity for my children. Oona ended up getting one of these very dear—and, yes, very well made—dolls as well. The French are all about teaching the respect of money to their children, in private, because money is unmentionable in polite society. I felt like a bit of a boob after watching the care and responsibility Christiane brought to the subject. A few months later, however, my boob-o-meter flew way off the charts. That’s when Daphne took her Julie doll to a friend’s house, covered her with makeup, and gave her a haircut. I felt more negligent and profligate than ever.

Christiane’s example has really stuck with me. I no longer hand out change from the glass jar in our kitchen every time my children ask for money, which happens often when they are deep in a fantasy game of “grocery store” or “library” (Oona, ever the creative entrepreneur, likes to make her dolls pay fines). Daphne has no idea what a dime is worth, and I’m not even sure what she did with the coins I so casually doled out when she finished playing. We now talk about the responsibility that comes with money. It seems so obvious and important to me now, but this is the kind of thing that gets overlooked in our current child-rearing climate of “make them happy!” at any cost. Believe me, Christiane did not enjoy declining Marie’s request, but she did it in an attempt to create a thoughtful, conscientious person. Funny part is, the mother of one of Marie’s wealthy schoolmates ended up giving Marie her
first American Girl doll—figuring the poor kid wanted it so much and needed it, really, for the girls to play together.

The first time Oona asked for an allowance, she was three years old. I’m not even sure she knew what the word meant, except that it was something she should have that would allow her to get more things that she wanted. She must have heard about it at day care or in an episode of
Scooby-Doo
. This, of course, was well before we attempted to get French—so Mac and I thought the request was precocious and cute (made even cuter because she used to talk with a little lisp), and we ceremoniously gave her fifteen cents from that kitchen change jar every Friday, which she would dutifully transfer to her Hello Kitty bank. As she and now Daphne grow older, we’ve tried to make them earn the ever-growing sum (at around age five, Oona caught on that fifteen cents wasn’t getting her anywhere and most recently asked for five dollars a week. For doing nothing. At least I had the sense to deny that one). Regrettably, neither of my girls is tremendously fond of chores. And yet they thought a weekly handout was a privilege that naturally came along with being a kid. Sorry, lovies—not so in France!

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 attention and the constant cascade of presents appears to do wonders for the imagination of a child.