Not having children, I have an unearned and slightly bias view of this book. But first of all, I LOVED it. I was intrigued by the cross-cultural study, as I’m always fascinated by comparisons of the American way of life vs. European. And with the title Bringing Up Bebe: One American’s Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting, I knew there would be haters and lovers, controversy and debate blowing up the airwaves. Bring it on.
Druckerman is an engaging author, having been a newspaper journalist in her life pre-bebe, and presents well-argued, supported claims on the difference between French and American parents and their progeny. Whatever topic she decides to sociologically/anthropologically dissect next, I’m all ears.
Having experienced the highs and lows of “other people’s children,” I’ve formed my own disaffected view of how they’re raised, praised, disciplined, mannered, obedient, rude, sweet, obnoxious, etc. I have friends with gorgeous, polite, endearing kids—they have the normal fit or expected break down, but they’re generally well adjusted and humorous small people. Then there are the other kids. The ones who stick their hands in your food at a restaurant, grab everything in sight as though its theirs, scream every time they don’t get their way (well past the age of toddler tantrums) and have a spoiled, entitled, center of the universe means of existence. Those are the kids that cause poor restaurant owners to put signs on their door that say “children under 6 not allowed.” And they end up with the hate mail.
What I would love to say to those parents, which would be socially unacceptable, is—“these kids are a reflection of you, not themselves.” Again, I don’t have kids. If mine turn out to be monsters, well…
The best thing about Bringing up Bebe is that the author is incredibly smart, adept, and well-traveled, with just the right amount of self-deprecation and doubt about being an ex-pat and a fit parent to three human beings. She begins with trepidation, but accepts the French community of child rearing, from the other parents on the playground to the daycare system and schools with an open mind ready to document why her children throw food, but French children don’t.
She doesn’t even have to sell it as well as she does. The French “way” makes sense—it’s logical, sensible, and goes a lot further back than the current helicopter method of American parenting with endless praise, rewards to divert bad behavior, and harried mothers convinced that their child’s needs are far superior to their own. In France, everyone in the family has needs and all needs must be recognized and accommodated. French babies sleep through the night about five times sooner than their American counterparts, and the most important thing children are taught is to say bonjour and au revoir to adults, as well as merci and s’il vous plait. They are held as responsible as an adult would be who ignored basic greeting rituals in a social setting. Frenchie babies are eating brie and eggplant puree, learning the nuances of sheep’s milk vs. goat cheese, (a kid after my own heart) while the American kids eat chicken nuggets with ketchup. French kids are taught to wait, be autonomous, understand the needs of others early on, and not to interrupt. It’s bloody glorious. It doesn’t mean that they do all this, and that they’re drone robots of perfectly behaved, three-year-old Princeton hopefuls. But the rules are embedded early on, and the expectations are wildly different than other Western child development playbooks.
This is not to say that American kids and parents are terrible, vile heathens, all with superior king-like complexes in need of Super Nanny. It’s just the difference between one culture and another, and two views of what kids should be like, how they should learn, act, eat, and live. I have to say, the French way sounds far more civilized, pleasant and all around better for the parents, the kids and everyone else. I have nothing to compare this to, except the way I was raised, which I’m not saying was perfect, but if I didn’t know better, I’d swear to God my parents were French.