French Kids Eat Everything

the table. And, most amazingly, they were taught not to interrupt adults. When we sat at the table in France with our children, the adults could actually carry on extended conversations.
Some of this authority was imposed through an old-fashioned, authoritarian-style parenting that didn’t fit with my approach. I remembered one unhappy incident with Sophie earlier that year. We were having a small family gathering at my in-laws, and the apéritif had just been served. The children had gathered round, hovering expectantly, not daring to touch the treats that had been put out on trays. Sophie couldn’t resist and grabbed a cracker. And then another, and another, stuffing her mouth. Spying her out of the corner of her eye, my mother-in-law gave her two verbal warnings, and then (when Sophie didn’t stop) a hard slap on the hand, in full view of everyone. Sophie retreated in tears and was politely ignored.
As far as I could tell, most people thought that this was appropriate: Sophie had broken a food rule, and it was Janine’s duty (as she happened to be the closest adult, as well as the hostess) to bring her back into line. When the French reprimand their children in public, this is not seen to be humiliating (although I certainly felt this way, and Sophie did too). Rather, they are committed to instilling discipline in their children (and they assume that the adults around them will be sympathetic). Firmly disciplining your children in public in North America is, I somehow felt, politically incorrect (and, in some cases, physical “discipline” is against the law)—but in France, it’s almost the reverse. Even total strangers might let your child (and you) know their disapproval of public misbehavior; as a concerned adult, they are just doing their duty.
I was astounded at the contrast. Many North American parents feel a sense of panic when one of their children starts misbehaving in public. We are often deeply embarrassed and are driven to end the behavior as quickly as possible. In my case, I was always fearful of making a scene because I didn’t want people to think I was a mean (read “bad”) parent. So I ended up giving in to my kids when sometimes I shouldn’t have. French parents, on the other hand, feel obliged to discipline their child in public—with the full support of onlookers.
Elise, a French friend of ours in Vancouver, once described the first time she realized that the French parenting style wasn’t acceptable in North America. One day at the playground, soon after they had arrived in Canada, her six-year-old boy kept trying to interrupt her while she was speaking to another mom. Elise turned around and berated him soundly, lecturing him on his impolite behavior. “I felt,” she later recollected, “an icy silence all around me. I looked up, and all of the parents in the playground were staring at me. It was then that I realized that what French parents might view as normal discipline, North American parents might not.”
Yet most French parents are not overtly forceful. They’re loving while being firm. And somehow, magically, the children we met were often devoid of the impolite behavior and stubbornness that I saw in my own kids and in so many of their North American friends. This was, I began to realize, not just an issue of differing food cultures. It was also an issue of parenting styles.
French parents were in charge. This impressed me, because in our family I sometimes wasn’t sure who was in charge. The symptoms were obvious. I cajoled. French parents did not cajole. I wheedled. French parents definitely did not wheedle. I begged, threatened, and bribed my kids. French parents did none of these things (at least as far as I could tell). They calmly and firmly (but usually gently) told their children what was expected, and let their kids know (in no uncertain terms) who was boss. And their children seemed to miraculously comply.
How do French parents achieve this? Well, they demand more of their children, are stricter, and are less indulgent. They do not romanticize childhood. And they have little affection for that early phase of childhood that North Americans idealize as a time of innocence and creativity. Imagine a nation full of unapologetic tiger mothers dedicated to producing well-behaved children rather than violin prodigies, and you would have more or less a good idea of how French parents think and behave.
From the French point of view, the world is made by adults and for adults. Few concessions are made to children. Their children dress like little adults: mostly pastel and matte colors, and no more pink on the girls than you would see on their mothers. The furniture in kids’ rooms is usually a miniaturized version of adult furniture (no princess loft beds with slides, thank you very much, and no princess potty thrones either). Children are expected to be quiet (tranquille) in public. They are not placed on a pedestal and are not expected to be at center stage in a gathering.
My mother-in-law’s views are fairly typical. From Janine’s perspective, children’s primary job is to behave, and parents’ primary job is to help them behave. Some of this is generational: for example, the idea that children should be “seen and not heard.” But even mothers my age expected their children to be sage (which literally means “wise,” but when used with children means “discreet” and “well-behaved”). This is, above all else, a rule to be followed at the table, as suggested by the highest compliment my mother-in-law could pay to my children at the end of a family meal: “We didn’t hear a single word out of you!” Older children would be welcome to speak, but only if they had something interesting to say. Their interventions weren’t tolerated just because they were kids.
Before we moved to France, I had dismissed this behavior as old-fashioned. But after several months of living in France I realized that the passionate belief that the French have