Bringing Up Bébé
Written By Emma Bland Smith
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Two moms — one American, one French — exchange notes on raising toddlers.
"Most French moms wouldn't approve of the way you feed Everett," said my old friend Marie Catherine, as I plopped some scrambled eggs in front of my 15-month-old son and let him dig in with both hands. Everett and I were spending a vacation with Marie Catherine and her toddler, Méline, in the Périgord region of their native France. As it turned out, the castles and cafés weren't half as interesting as the education I was about to receive in cross-continental parenting philosophies.
The first culture clash came when we pulled into an autoroute rest stop on our drive from Paris to the countryside. It was a wonderful place, a prosaic distillation of the dignified Gallic approach to eating. There was a cafeteria, with hot food and regional cheeses served on china, chocolate mousse in ramekins, and little bottles of wine. I decided on a snack of sautéed potatoes to share with Everett. Marie Catherine instead pulled out a petit pot of puréed baby food and headed to the microwave. "Are you already feeding him chunky food?" she asked. "Méline hasn't had any yet." Méline was 14 months old. Sacré bleu! Apparently Méline's doctor had warned that giving babies textured food too early can cause them to develop a lasting distaste for it. I told Marie Catherine that American pediatricians take the opposite stance, saying that if you stick with purées too long, a toddler may turn up his nose at chunkier stuff.
Huh, we both said thoughtfully. She gave Méline another bite of puréed lamb stew (how français!), and I chopped more potatoes for Everett.
We were careful not to criticize each other's methods, but it was hard for me not to ask a million questions. Why did Marie Catherine buy fortified milk for Méline? (In many European countries, kids up to age 5 drink iron-enriched milk called lait de croissance, or "growth milk.") Wasn't Marie Catherine worried about orthodontic problems, giving Méline bottles? (Nope. She looked curiously at Everett's sippy cups, and I felt silly with my "no bottles after one year" rule.)
Marie Catherine had questions of her own: For instance, what was the American philosophy on spanking? I replied that it was out; she told me her doctor advised that a little spanking wasn't a bad thing. She hadn't heard of attachment parenting or the cry-it-out debate. (Méline's doctor definitely supported letting babies cry at night.) But our theories really diverged when it came to what our toddlers ate, and how they ate it.
The Toddling Gourmet
When Marie Catherine told me French mothers would shudder at my baby-at-the-trough feeding style, I was surprised and slightly hurt. I'd thought I was Mom of the Year, offering Everett such a rich variety of food to throw, smear — and hopefully eat. In France, kids learn early that eating is a serious matter, and they're encouraged to use a spoon and fork as early as they can manage them. A fistful of cheesy mac? Quelle horreur!
I could hear the wheels turning in Marie Catherine's head. Slapdash Americans, giving their children heaps of mishmash food, manners be damned! I hastened to explain that at home, baby and food authorities insist that letting a child feed himself, beginning at 6 months or so, is the basis for independence and a healthy curiosity. If he gobbles down diced chicken and crumbled tofu, he's applauded as a "great eater" with a lust for life. A child like that — like mine, I admit proudly — might have meticulous French mamans tsk-tsking and running for the broom.
So the French have access to some of the best food in the world, but postpone letting their children near it. I'd dreamed of introducing Everett to quiche from the boulangerie and crêpes au fromage et jambon. The French want their kids to enjoy these things too, but with the proper respect — and utensils.
This was initially puzzling, but it began to make sense when I thought about France's notoriously regimented approach to certain aspects of life. In America we value independence and individuality above all, but the French hold discipline in the highest regard. Children are taught to sit quietly at meals that often drag on for hours, obey parents without question, and call their super-strict teachers maître (master) and maîtresse (mistress).
Ironic, no? The people who invented joie de vivre revere conformity and order. Maybe it's another French paradox, like the one in which French hearts are so healthy in spite of all that butter.
The French focus on refining not just young manners, but palates. Look at the baby-food aisle in a grande surface (supermarket), with its tiny jars of hachis parmentier des tout-petits (shepherd's pie) and pâtes ratatouille veau (pasta with veal ratatouille). This early-indoctrination method seems effective indeed: I've yet to meet a French child who won't eat things an American kid (and many adults) would gag at — pâté and dried sausages, blue cheese, and rare leg of lamb.
Next page: Breastfeeding, Nutella, and more child-rearing differences
