My Parenting Style Decoded: Im French! Who Knew?

Parenting these days is a complicated matter. At least, it seems to be, judging by the way so many parents live their lives.  Constantly frazzled, alternating between hollering at their kids and smothering them with attention, parents have become victims of their own best intentions. Parenting makes up so much of people's identity these days, that you wonder what happens when these kids fly the coop?

Trust me, I’m not criticizing. I was there. I put so much effort into distracting the kids from seeing the failing family unit during my marriage that the day after I got separated, I had more than one moment of bewilderment.  My parenting style has shifted since then, but my love for my kids hasn’t.  I decided that I wanted the kids to see who I was as a person and  I wanted to know them as people, not just kids. I wanted them to learn independence. These became our basics:

1)      I gave them more responsibility, we all need to chip in around here. Kids have virtually no responsibility anymore. If we look back at how much kids USED to do back in the day, it’s much more and they turned out well because of working hard.  This is, however, the most difficult of the basics to get the kids on board with, as it involved cleaning.

2)      I didn’t hang up with friends or family because the kids were doing the “mommy, mommy, mommy…” deal in the background.  If we visit friends, they are not allowed to interrupt. They can politely wait for a break in a conversation, and say “excuse me”, but I want them to learn respect and see Mom nurturing relationships. I, in turn, do not interrupt them just because I’m the mom and I can.

3)      They make their own decisions (outside of the household rules/chores/schoolwork) and deal with the repercussions.  We talk through the options, the pluses and minuses of each, and they make the choice. So when my son decided to make a huge Hummer for his derby car recently, versus a sleek race car, he understood that it was bulky and may not come in first. Still, he chose the Hummer. When it didn't win, he was okay with it. He was proud of his different truck, and his hard work on it. But it was his choice.

4)      I don’t dumb anything down. I use adult words and explain them. I don’t shy away from difficult talks, and I don’t hide emotions from my kids. I explain my behavior. It keeps our lines of communication open, especially when explaining why I’m “making” them do something like school work or not jumping off the top bunk.

When I stumbled upon this article yesterday, I realized this is very much my parenting method. I still have weird “American” idiosyncrasies about safety; I won’t let my kids walk with a lollipop in their mouth because I’m afraid they’re going to trip and impale themselves. How often does that EVER happen?!
The original article can be found in full here. This is compiled by an American mom who raised her children in France for some time, and she’s outlining the differences between American and French moms. It’s pretty enlightening, especially if you tend to lean towards this method of parenting and are feeling like the minority in present day, American parenting system.


What Druckerman found -- and what most expatriates discover -- is that where childhood trumps adulthood in the States, the opposite is largely true in France. Kids are not king in France -- and if you treat them as such, they quickly become tyrants with a sense of entitlement that sticks around well into adulthood. Though they love their kids passionately like everyone else, the French generally don't subvert their identities to the lives of their children.


Boundaries, in other words, are good, particularly in protecting the sanctity of parents' private life. (No, Marie-Louise, you may not sleep in mommy and daddy's bed. And yes, Jean-Pierre, you must sit at the table every night for family dinner and eat correctly.) Kids are essentially expected to adapt to the grown-up world and not the other way around.


And most impressive, perhaps, as Druckerman discovered, "French women certainly don't suffer the same guilt about everything." No, they certainly don't. Guilt seems to be the American mother's evil stepsister.


Somehow in the last decade or so, trophy wives were replaced with trophy kids in the States, parenting became a verb, and an already sizeable how-to industry catering to fretful parents became colossal. (Amy Chua's "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" is the latest manifesto to sand-blast fear and doubt into every parent's heart.) Meanwhile, the French kept doing what they'd done for centuries, parenting with an iron fist in a velvet glove without forsaking pleasure in life. As Druckerman notes:
"While I kind of assumed that when I had a baby, my marriage and my body was going to suffer, and I wouldn't have any time for myself, the French just don't assume that. They don't have any illusions, but won't subjugate themselves entirely to the will of the child."

It certainly helps that the French government actually underwrites family values rather than paying lip service to them. French parents enjoy an infrastructure of social benefits that we can only dream of, including four to six weeks of paid vacation and excellent free education that starts with nursery schools and extends all the way to universities. Though the French and their system are far from perfect, when it comes to parenting their culture by and large nurtures common sense and autonomy.

On that latter point, Druckerman states:
"The French are absolutely not draconian about their own rules. They actually believe that children are more capable, in some ways, and believe in their autonomy. They just give a clear framework in which they can learn and see it's a process -- you don't suddenly arrive at being a brilliant parent."
Food for thought! French food. Mmmm....croissants....wait. What was I talking about?

I found the Fountain of Youth! But There's Some Teenage Guilt Involved.

Looking for a way to feel like a promiscuous, pill popping, suicidal drug addict? No? Well, I’ll tell you how to feel that way anyway.

On Tuesday, I had a medical “incident”. I knew instantly that something was very wrong; I’d never experienced something like that before. The room started spinning, I started to sweat (I’m consistently freezing, so that’s not normal for me!), I got dizzy and started to feel nauseous. I didn’t feel quite bad enough to call 911, so I opted for my personal 911 service: my dad.  Thats him, doing an unpaid ad for French's Dry Onions.



The ER was overly crowded, making me instantly itchy and a total nose breather. As not to inhale those germs, you see. I always think that those little hairs in your nose act as instant germ catchers. Logical, I know.

It took a couple of hours to get seen, so my dad hung out with me on my gurney while I waited.

“Heeeey dad. Whatcha doin? Nothing? Want to hang out on my gurney while we breathe sick people's air? Yes?”

The last time we got to chat one-on-one was when his motorcycle broke down a couple of months ago, and I sat with him while we waited to be rescued. Odd moments hold opportunity, too.

When the woman wielding needles and vials came around, it got uncomfortable. I am terrified of needles. It drives me bonkers that almost every time that I need to have blood drawn and subsequently freak out, the person taking the blood points out that I have several large tattoos.  Really? I DO? HOW did THAT happen?! But when the sarcasm drops, I point out that a tattoo needle and a “needle needle” look nothing alike. Or else my body would still be a clean canvas and my mother would be happy.

For some reason, my moment of sweaty anxiety seemed opportune to the hospital record keeper.  She decided at that moment to “fill in some gaps” on my paperwork. Ummm….okay. I was under duress but answered anyway.  And then I was transported back to 1990.

A litany of questions followed. Well, not a litany but it felt like it went on for an eternity.

“Do you now, or have you in the past, felt suicidal?” No. I don’t think so. No. Absolutely not.

“When did you have your last period?” Ummm…I don’t know. I know I should, but I don’t.

“Do you take any prescription drugs?” No. Thank God, an easy one.

“Do you drink alcohol?” Yes. But not a lot.  Really. I felt the need to elaborate.

“Do you smoke cigarettes?” No, no. Well, yes. But only, like three in a quarter. I did use the word quarterly, by the way. Don’t know where that came from.

Then I expanded upon that by explaining, “Only when I drink.” Typical over-sharer.

“Do you take any street drugs?” What the heck? I’m already a sweaty mess from this nurse drawing blood!  I’m clearly not an IV drug user, that’s for sure.

The funny thing is that despite the fact that I answered honestly to all of these questions, and I even elaborated, I felt guilty. Then it dawned on me why. It was because my dad was there! That would explain why I was also speaking in a freakishly loud, squeaky voice. I recognized it from my teen years.



See, I found the instant Fountain of Youth. All you have to do is have a “medical incident”, make a parent drive you and sit and keep you company, and answer various drug/alcohol/tobacco related questions. And POOF- right back to your teens.  The guilt lingers, even when you have nothing to be guilty about.  I can only hope that my skills to make my children feel that guilty while innocent is as flawless.

Oh and by the way…thanks, Dad. For being my EMT, my support and my unknowing inquisitor.

Being Retarded (repost): The Importance of Teaching Your Kids, Yourself and Everyone Else About Unkind Words

I was raised in a household that didn’t use unkind words. In fact, I can’t recall my parents ever cursing in front of us when we were kids. So imagine their horror when my sister and I began working for the Navy, and she began (I say she did, but I probably did too) cursing like a sailor. I’m fairly certain their ears started to bleed somewhere in there, especially during the fights between her and I. Then what we learned at work REALLY became apparent.

I’ve noticed that I am equally strict in my parenting with my kids when it comes to the spoken word. I am that annoying parent who corrects your speech. I actually can’t help it; it’s like a physical obnoxiousness that I can’t stop from tumbling out of my mouth.  And because of it, my kids use overly adult words that probably alienate them from their peers. Job well done, mom.

But unkind words REALLY get to me. They aren’t allowed to say hate. Or ugly (as in name calling). Or dumb. These are words that STICK. And the biggest offending word? Retarded. Nothing makes me sadder when someone uses it than this word. And because it’s been watered down (to people who don’t have a disabled person in their life) over time, it’s become socially acceptable.  It is still not acceptable to me, and I surely don’t want my kids being the ones to promote its use.

I am constantly trying to drive points home with my kids, real life examples to make them understand the lessons I’m trying to teach them. For instance, there was a horrible accident in Philly yesterday where the three fatalities were all 20 and under, the youngest being a 15 year old girl. Excessive speed was the cause, and the car was literally flattened, tires were knocked off and the battery dislodged. Two of three weren’t wearing their seatbelts and the passengers didn’t speak up to make the driver slow down. And in turn, all three lost their lives. A horrible domino effect. But I had my daughter read it, and talk to me about it. Because we’ve all been that girl in the car with two older boys, too quiet to say anything to him about slowing down. Trying to seem cool by not buckling up. I want her to understand that in any situation, she can relate and determine the correct way to react should she be in that position.  

So when I speak to them about casually using the word retarded, I want them to understand. But that’s a difficult message to get across to a kid that’s in school with 26 other students acting like its okay.  The other day, a friend of mine posted this blog to his Facebook. I was so glad that I clicked on it, and I’ve read it to everyone who will listen in the meantime.

Please do me and you a favor and read it. To yourself, to your kids, your spouse and anyone else who will listen.  Here’s the link to the original post…Phoebe (the mom/writer) is funny and refreshing. If you’re a blog reader, you should sign up.

BEING RETARDED, by phoebeholmes.com

All around me, people use the word retarded without a second thought.  Sometimes, I’ll say “Um, dude, really?” and they’ll say “Oops, my bad!  But really!  I was being so retarded!”

Sometimes, I let it slide.  I realize that it’s a word that’s ingrained in our society’s vocabulary and people use it without a second thought to its meaning.

But what does it mean to be retarded?  Well, I know what it doesn’t mean.

It doesn’t mean not being able to choose something for lunch despite 100 choices in front of you.

It doesn’t mean not being able to find your car keys.

It doesn’t mean saying the wrong thing to a person.

It doesn’t mean forgetting your best friend’s birthday.

It’s not something to describe yourself as when you’ve spilled your coffee, or tripped on a crack in the sidewalk.

It’s not something to describe your computer, car or phone.

According to  Merriam-Webster Dictionary  the word “retarded” means -

: slow or limited in intellectual or emotional development or academic progress

For me, it’s not just any old word – it’s my daughter.  My beautiful, bright, happy, loving, amazing daughter who is slow or limited in intellectual development and academic progress.

In our household, being retarded means something different.

It means not being able to fully care for yourself.

It means not understanding what the doctor is going to do to you.

It means not being able to explain what hurts when something hurts.

It means not being able to ride a two wheeler.  Or read.  Or ever be able to live on your own.

But ever the optimist, I also know that retarded means…

…never realizing the negativity behind the word retarded.

…never knowing the insensitivity surrounded the word’s usage.

…never realizing the ignorance of people.

…never knowing how other people view you.

Being retarded also means…

…loving unconditionally.

…finding joy in the smallest of things.

…being self-confident.

…not realizing that there are limitations.

…innocence.

 

This is Maura.  Her diagnosis?  Cognitively disabled.  Which means retarded.  When you call yourself retarded, you’re also calling my child stupid.  Because you use the word as just that – another form of stupid.

Let’s get something straight here.

My daughter may have cognitive issues.  She may have delays.  She may never live on her own.  Scratch that.  She will never live on her own.

But Maura is not stupid.

In her own way, Maura is very smart.  Maybe smarter than us at times.  She has more self-confidence than anyone I know who’s called themselves “retarded”.  She is the best judge of a person’s character than anyone else I’ve ever known.

Yes, she is slow to learn things.  But she is not stupid.

I know that most people don’t use the word “retarded” maliciously.  Most people I know use it in a self-depreciating way.  And when I point it out, they go “Oh wow!  I’m sorry!” and they truly feel like a heel. But the thing is, you’re still using it in the way that people who do use it maliciously use it as – to describe stupidity.

So why not just use the word “stupid” instead?  Because I know what “retarded” is.  I live with it in the form of my daughter.  And in our world “retarded” doesn’t equate to “stupid”.

Odd Parenting Techniques Using Daphne Guinness, New York and Fear. Whatever Works!

I have come to dislike winter immensely. I know that’s not a positive statement to begin the New Years blogs with.  I used to love it and detested summer. But as I get closer and closer to eventually becoming a Golden Girl (Blanche, thank you very much) I realized that baking in the sun is just where I want to be. But in my “off months”, I try to make the most of my time. So a few weeks ago while I was planning our winter break (the kids and I all had off between Christmas and New Years) I decided to throw a trip to New York City in there. This was not without an ulterior motive, however.



My teenage daughter is struggling this year in school. I’m not entirely sure, but I suspect the distractions are tall, of the opposite sex, smell questionably and have long hair and a guitar. I’m no fool, I am keenly aware that very little can be done to pull her attention back from these hooligans, so I decided my best tactic would be to show her what could be her two paths with schoolwork (both were in NYC). The first path was fun…an exhibit at the Fashion Institute of Technology. She has always wanted to be a designer; it’s where her focus has been for several years. The second path was one of those people living on virtually every corner of New York. Wicked harsh? Probably. But it was New York; you’re supposed to be overly theatrical. I was trying to prove a point.



We had a fantastic day in the city. I really took a good look at my kids and realized they are exactly what I raised them to be: roadies. I thought back to this summer when we trekked across the country in an RV all the way to Colorado, we went to the beach many times, we travelled to Philly, ate every week in New Hope. They worked in the garden with me, they hiked the Rockies, they kicked around dirt roads in Nebraska, rode the quads to the lake. And here they were, bundled up, happy and totally comfortable in one of the biggest cities in the world.  I spent the rest of the day very contented, knowing I had been doing something right by exposing them to so many different places and cultures.



We had a few places to hit in the city, and ended up walking about 130 city blocks. Lots of old lady pains by that night, I’ll tell you. But we shopped on Canal Street, hit Mario Batali’s Eatily, the museum exhibit at FIT, Times Square (the day before NYE. YIKES!) and finally ended up stopping by Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree and grab a bite before the train ride back. But the main destination really was the FIT museum, because I wanted to show my daughter the exhibit on Daphne Guinness.



As a longtime reader of Vanity Fair and Harpers Bazaar, plus some NY rags, I’m pretty familiar with Daphne Guinness.  I think she's funky and fun, the original to Lady Gaga's copy.  She is a study in extremes, and everyone who knows me knows that I appreciate that. She is loved and hated, feminine and masculine, a bold personality but a softspoken person.  And despite my own lack of fashion brilliance, I think DG is genius. I admire her style, and can say with certainty that if I had the money, I’d probably wear most of her outrageous wardrobe (heavy on Alexander McQueen. LOVE!).



Being an eccentric chick living in the Burbs is no big thing, if you have your own style and don’t wear the standard suburban mom uniform you’re considered unique. But living in NYC and still being eccentric and making a statement takes a considerable amount of fearlessness and taste. I thought that along with the regular fashion exhibit at FIT, this was one for my daughter to see. And given DG’s love of chainmail, armor, feathers and all things shiny, my 7 year old son was equally enthralled. That’s a win-win in my book.



We spoke at length about the collection and about the fact that even though designers rely upon their creativity, they also need knowledge of fabrics, techniques, merchandising. So the point is that they need schooling. And to get into a school, you need good grades. In order to live in the city that she loves, she needs to go to school and make enough money to do so. The days of a starving artist are far from being glamorous now.  I know that merely talking to my daughter won’t get me far, she’s very advanced in the art of blocking out moms voice. But I took her to the city, picked up some fashionable cheap finds on Canal Street, took her into the stores she loves, took her to Bryant Park which she sees on Project Runway. And I NAILED it! I got my point across. I hope. We’ll see. Maybe. Ask again later.



Sometimes being a mom takes creativity that they don’t exhibit in a museum. Can you imagine what a mess that museum would be? They’d have an entire room devoted to how to cook vegetables into normal meals without your kid detecting it. Or how to make bath time fun so that your boy doesn’t shriek and run away the second water hits his skin. Perhaps the “Hall of Hell Hath No Fury Like a Pissed Off Mommy”? This exhibit would be where they pay homage to mothers who HAVEN’T strangled their kids when they decided to draw the “Circle of Friends” in red Sharpie on their newly painted walls (that was me, by the way). Or when their kid decides to tell total strangers on the train to NY that one time, his mom cried over losing a boyfriend and he then went on to demonstrate what she looked like while crying (Oh, that’s me too)?

We spent New Year’s with friends and family, with a warm fire, good food, and snuggled up watching those crazy people standing where we had been the previous day. 



I spent my last night of 2011 knowing that my greatest works of art were sitting next to me.  Nothing at any museum could possibly compare.

Here's to you in 2012.  Make the most of it!

A Man's Legacy: An Open Note to My Father and My Son

November happens to be the birth month of the favorite two men in my life: My dad and my son.  My birthday lands smack in the middle of theirs, ten days after my sons and 9 before my dads. This is an interesting parallel to me, since I try to parent Z (my son) that way. What I mean is this: he's 7 now. My dad is in his 60's.  I see Z as the man in the making now, and I see my father as the goal line. I am simply the person in between the two, trying to make it happen. I see myself as a conduit for my father's legacy.



It is easy for me to carry on my mom's legacy with my daughter and son, but it's an every day struggle to raise a man as a single mom and to instill good qualities. Especially since he's so much like me in the best ways: he's a wild nature lover, he's in love with simple things and always stops to smell the roses, he's impulsive and passionate, he is kind.  And he's like me in the not so great ways: he's impulsive and passionate, he's stubborn as you can get, he's kind to a fault, he's hardheaded and cannot be convinced to do it any other way. But I know every day that it would be so much harder to raise a man if I didn't have such a good role model to base it on.

And lucky for me, I do have the best role model you can find. My son idolizes my father, as I did when I was younger and still do. When Z talks about getting bigger, he almost always follows the statement with "like Pop-Pop".  This makes me ridiculously happy, because I know he sees many things worth emulating in my father including patience, kindness, humor and unabashed love and affection for his loved ones.

Now of course, as a daddy's girl,  dating has been an adventure. I didn't marry someone like my dad. Oddly, none of the three sisters married a man remotely similar to my dad. I find this crazy and don't really have an excuse for it. Perhaps it was....maybe it was...I was drugged? Hmmm, no. I've got nothing. Except for that hardheadedness I referred to earlier. Two out of three of us are divorced, clearly we recognized the error.  I suppose that I could give up on finding someone with the traits that I think are the best about my dad, but I find that's what I did when I got married. I thought that they weren't really THAT important.  But then I asked myself this question:  Who wouldn't want a man who is honest, hard working, loyal, loving and diverse?  Who loves his wife, loves life and is never bored because he's out and about and trying something new? That's a man I could hang out with.

So today, on my dad's birthday, I want to say this. THANK YOU, DAD. For being a wonderful example of a man, husband, father and brother. Thank you for giving me faith that quality people exist and it's worth the effort to find them, that kindness and love don't have a boundary or expiration date (or else I would've used it up in my teenage years) and that I can raise my son to be like his hero. Because unlike his plastic superheros with tights on and shields, sometimes his real life hero shows up in denim shirts with mother of pearl snaps, Wrangler jeans, work boots and answers to "Pop-Pop".