Bringing up baby

There is a new book that has been making the rounds of my parent friends here. Called Bringing Up Bebe (with accent marks, because it is a French baby we're talking about), it is an American mother's look at parenting in France. No one I know has read it yet. But we've all read newspaper reviews of it. People on Facebook, parents or not, have commented on it. I think it is controversial because it mixes individual parenting styles with cultural ideas about children. The ugly American parents whose kids are constantly eating, whining and generally reinforcing the world's beliefs about our laziness strike a particularly sore spot with American readers of the reviews. Again, I don't know anyone who has read it yet.

I don't even know if I will read it. The review was enough for me to hear about the idea that kids should cooperate in maintaining a sane, peaceful family existence, be polite, and kind, etc, etc. No one I know thinks kids should be running around a restaurant while parents and others are trying to eat, especially if those kids are making a mess, or the like. And yet, I have an impatient restaurant sitter in my family. Sure, when she hasn't had a snack close to dinner, she eats for longer, and doesn't have as much time for anything else. French babies, according to a friend's recall of the review of the book, sit quietly at restaurants. Well, my kid does, until she's full. Then she's ready to go. It depends on how tired she is, how interesting the surroundings are, and a host of other variables. And how I handle it, especially in a Swiss restaurant depends on my lack of understanding of the subtleties of Swiss attitudes towards child-rearing.

As I was reminded yesterday:

A really good cappuccino. One of the best you can get in Zurich.

A mom sits reading a paper while her 2 and 4 year olds run around in socks on a snow damp floor, visiting with family friends a few tables over. Thee are not quiet, sit calmly girls, little heels hitting the floor hard as they run. But she let's them go back and forth, and no one seems to mind.

I couldn't do that with A. Not here. In the US, maybe. but not here, where the subtlety of social convention keeps me the slightest bit nervous, even in the hipster part of town. I don't know the range of what I can and can't do and that just means I'd have a hard time calmly reading the paper. Then again, maybe mom is faking the calm I imagine she has at her disposal. But she finitely didn't raise her voice when the little shoes got kicked off and the socks took over running.

And, of course, I sit here imagining just the good things about being her and not me. All I see is a woman with two kids (who are quietly engaged with a laptop I now see), reading a paper in a cafe. Without the pooch I'm sporting post-early-pregnancy eating. Actually engaged in an article. Her life is perfect, I imagine. She lives in a old, expensive house in town with hip furnishings and amazing friends. She most definitely uses mirrors in her home to improve the feng shue and not to scrutinize her face. Oh, and she cooks exotic meals every night with spices she learned to use on that two year trip she took around the world. By herself.

The coffee is good. And this moment alone has been good. As will going to get those bed sheets for soon arriving guests. 

As I left the coffee shop and took another look at the two little girls, they were happily sitting on and near the man from the couple they'd gone over to interact with. Watching YouTube videos. And I think I heard one of them say "papa." Which is when I realized that the super-cool mom I was so jealous of might well have just been normal-babysitter.