In preparation for our move I had read several books which detailed the cultural differences between France and America and child-rearing was always a hot topic. I felt pretty well-versed in what to expect, but obviously nothing you read can come close to the real life experience of these matters. Interestingly enough most of the information was fairly accurate. I guess there was a part of me that thought maybe someone or some group had found in France a good marketing gimmick that might be appealing to desperate American parents.

From the time we got here I have noticed small things. Kids sitting on subways quietly and still, moving out of their way for the adults on sidewalks, of particular fascination was one day at the playground in the Jardin du Luxembourg kids waited patiently in line to have their turn at a kind of miniature zip line/rope swing. It took two other kids to manage the line and bring the swing back to the front every time this was used. They worked efficiently and with respect to one another and in the thirty minutes I watched not one problem occurred. Even my own children remarked at how nice everyone was and wondered if those kids who helped were paid employees. The thought had also crossed my mind.

In their third week of school it felt a bit strange at times to be so detached to their school life. At home as most other moms in our town I had been fairly involved spending a decent amount of time on campus between volunteering, social engagements etc. I would be lying if I said that this new freedom wasn’t liberating. Not to mention their school (located 8 miles from the city center of Paris but almost impossible to get to without taking a taxi) was not that convenient to pop in and out of. We lucked out that a fair number of students lived in our arrondissement and ended up having a bus stop two blocks away. Our morning routine even seemed less rushed and everyone became aware exactly what time by the minute we had to make our bus. For the first time in my life I’ve had to set an alarm and either I’m still adjusting from summer or our black out shades work very well. I think the latter. Recently my alarm did not go off and Cash woke us all up approximately 8 minutes before we had to catch the bus. In a mad rush I got the kids out the door to meet Tommy at the corner where he had picked up their breakfast to go (croissants) that they could shove down before they got on the bus (no eating on this bus). Iyla, whom had seen kids running after the bus attempting to catch it at the next stop thought this sounded like an exciting adventure and asked if we could do this. She might get her wish at some point but so far we have been able to  make it. Another day Tommy waved the kids off and started his walk back home when he realized (a bit too late) he was carrying Iyla’s backpack. I’ll give him the father of the year award for taking the three trains out there to hand deliver it to her. We were fairly certain she would have survived without it, but just the day before we had heard a grim story of another kid leaving her backpack on the bus and the trouble that ensued.

Feeling a bit neglectful I contacted the bus coordinator at school to see if it would be okay to ride the bus to school with the kids one day. The friendly bus coordinators response was, “well yes we can arrange that… I suppose.. but how funny” I took her response to be the English version of what was going on in her French brain as “Quelle bizarre!” why would any parent want to ride the school bus with their child. The arranged morning came and we excitedly boarded the bus. The kids were enjoying being our tour guides and letting us know all the upcoming stops, who we could expect to see board-and their observations on said person(s)- and all the sites we would see. The highlight was driving so close (you practically go under it in their words) to the Eiffel Tower. We were one stop away from this point and as a well dressed teenager barely made it on the bus with a French exasperation “ooohhh lala” as he boarded (which made us all giggle a bit). I looked up to notice the driver going outside to play with the door (which apparently was having difficulty shutting) he shoved it one last time, got back on the bus, and hit the button to close it when all of a sudden everyone on the bus was woken up by the sound of shattering glass. The entire bus door had cracked into a thousand shards that now lay on the street. It turns out it had been stuck on a small pole outside and the pressure of budging loose bent it in such a way the glass could not tolerate. Well this was certainly an adventure. And of all the days for us to have taken the bus. As the bus driver took a minute to figure out what to do (I’m sure a few “Merdes” had to have been said under his breath) he continually stuck his head out of the gaping whole that used to be a window, while I held my breath as a few leftover shards hung off the top precariously close to his exposed neck. The last thing we needed was to see a live guillotine here. The whole bus was so quiet I wondered if this was an ordinary occurrence. The reaction from most was calm and unalarmed and conversations with classmates were carried on as usual. Most of the upper schoolers on the bus were local french kids. One girl who had been deemed a bus monitor and bore the tasks of buckling in the younger children and making sure everyone got off the right stops was now having her position tested. She succeeded with much composure and quietly stayed on the phone with the head of the school (as I leaned as far forward to try and hear every word). Approximately 40 minutes later we were greeted with a new bus all boarded and headed off to school in normal fashion. The kids on our bus aged from 5 to 18 never made more than a peep during that wait. And do you think we got a memo from the school about it? That would be a no. In fact when we rushed the kids into their classes thirty minutes late the teachers whom had been informed shrugged it off as no big deal. I think the bigger shock was that parents had actually ridden the school bus with their children.

After dropping them off we decided to explore the surrounding area of their school. It is highly suburban and hilly and we had absolutely no idea where to go but decided getting lost had normally worked in our favor. We stumbled across a small farmers market and sat down for a café and croissant and then headed towards the neighborhoods. After a few times of what seemed like going around in circles we got into an area that was a bit more wooded and dense. Lo and behold we saw the beginning of a trail. Being regular California hikers and having sustained four weeks of pounding on concrete this was a welcome site. We began the trail as I observed the sign telling us we were entering “Le Forêt de Malmaison” my internal translation of forest of the bad house could not be right could it? Rain had been in the forecast for later in the afternoon but the clouds were looking ominous. We stayed on the path veering here and there for about 40 minutes. I was glad I was with Tommy who had an amazing sense of direction and at this point his phone was dead (and I course yup you guessed it I still had no phone). I was relieved when we finally heard the sound of cars and were on our way out, and that I hadn’t seen any scary rundown houses.

Our original plan was to take a cab back into the city, yet I felt with the circumstances of the morning I had not been able to chat with their teachers and see more of the school, so I decided why not go back and surprise them for lunch. Calling the school to make sure this would be alright, I was greeted by a very confused receptionist. I switched over to English but was still given a confused response “and what exactly is your purpose for wanting to visit the school madam?” I racked my brain knowing that the obvious response “um to see my kids” was not going to fly over. I ended up telling her a longer version of how we live in the city and don’t get many opportunities etc. etc. I was told to call back in ten minutes. When I finally got clearance we were nearly at their school. I’m not going to lie when I say it is about as tough to get into as Fort Knox. Here your badge is not just a casual implementation it is absolutely mandatory. Not to make light of a sensitive topic (which realistically is now the world we live in) and to be quite honest the extra security and precautions which might seem excessive put me at ease.

We made it just in time as it was now pouring and we were able to see the kids splashing around the playground with their friends (unaware of our presence) from the inside of a classroom. We met Iyla in the cafeteria for her lunch which was the first session and we were yet again met by more odd looks from adults working in the cafeteria (At this point I felt like we most definitely would be written up in French parenting books). The kids lined up as the cook served them their lunch and then sat down at their assigned tables. Tommy and I sat at a table in the back corner and I was learning pretty quickly that it might not be smart to interrupt this lunch process by requesting to sit with her. The kids sat in their spots and a woman with the look and authority of a trained drill sergeant walked up and down the aisles making sure every child was eating and noone was talking. It was so quiet I could literally hear a pin drop. I held my breath. The kids had to sit still and eat their lunches for 15 minutes (and all fifty third graders did) and then once given permission by sergeant lunchlady could then begin chatting with friends. She was so intimidating that as starving as we were I was too afraid to swipe an apple from the fruit basket. I pictured her swatting my hand away and admonishing me in front of everyone. They also had their playground time before lunch so noone was rushing off to play.  Having heard my kids say one too many times that they had no time to eat their lunch I thought this was a brilliant move.  Just before leaving the cafeteria Iyla’s teacher (a very likable and friendly Irish man) walked in and congratulated the kids for their behavior and ended with a “Bon Appétit children” of which they all responded “Merci, Mr. McGregor“. Then spotting us he came over and said “Wow it’s a first! Parents in the cafeteria!” He was very friendly and jokingly offered us champagne but the message was loud and clear that parents didn’t hang out at this school.

All of these experiences took me back to something I had read that had struck me at the time and that summarized French parenting pretty concisely:  “we consider our children to be small people, but they are not equal to an adult. They need authority, they need rules and they need to be kept in line. In France we see authority as a form of affection and believe that a child blossoms because of, not in spite of, that authority. “ So there you have it, and generally speaking it looks as if it works well for them in terms of respect, behavior, independence and politeness of children. The long term effect I cannot speak to. Interesting enough we are at an international school (and from what I’ve heard one of the more open-minded ones). I can hardly imagine what the inside of a real French school looks like (but I’ve heard stories) and this might be why the school we are at has had a high increase of French children.

The kids are becoming more comfortable and confident in their new surroundings. I can give them money and simple tasks to buy a bottle of water or baguette or go ahead to the playground without them being fearful of not being able to speak the language or any other notions of unfamiliarity that might dissuade them. They begged for scooters from day one upon noticing immediately how all the kids out here have them, and they now happily ride ahead of us knowing the route to the Jardin du Luxembourg. I took them for their first crêpes (I know it’s been a month but we did a lot of ice cream to start) and after having them order en Francais, I got a nod of approval from the crêperie man.  Which in France is as close to a compliment as you are going to get. And at the end of the day it’s those small redeeming gestures that make you realize you might just be an okay parent.