We had a family reunion of sorts last weekend, honoring the visit of our French relatives: my niece, her husband and their two girls, Alexia and Emily, ages 4 and 6. They were accompanied to the ranch by my sister, her son and his fiance. Already here, my son, one daughter, her husband, son Devon, 11, and daughter Amy, 3. My other daughter and her little girl, Sutton, 5, joined in by telephone from Montana.
I was prepared for mayhem. What ensued was the loveliest afternoon in recent memory, due in no small measure to the calming influence of the French.
To say that Alexia and Emily may be the sweetest, best-behaved children on the planet is really not an exaggeration. Their mother, Erin, a product of Malibu public schools and Catholic higher education (Louisville High and Notre Dame), has managed to raise these kids in keeping with her environmental ethic and her total rejection of this country’s conspicuous consumerism. When asked by her American friends when she plans to return, she simply replies, “Never.” She couldn’t raise her children here with the constant barrage of TV ads, violent computer games and degradation of language, she says. Life in France is based on simple pleasures, home cooked meals and the three-week family vacation.
Erin’s husband, Dominique, is a detective with the French police and, for the past few years, has managed the police department in Dunkerque. However, he applied for and received a two- to four-year post in Martinique, so they’re in the process of renting out their house in France, packing up and moving to the French island protectorate in the Caribbean. How this will go is anyone’s guess, but Erin accepts it as an adventure and a mind broadening experience for her children, who are not crying about leaving their friends, as just about any American child I know would be doing. Sutton still has issues with moving from Manhattan Beach to Bozeman.
Seeing how Erin evolved from a slightly rebellious teenager to a thoughtful adult, who chose a career in therapy for the handicapped, helps me to understand how she’s raising these two little girls to be bright, active, slightly mischievous yet unfailingly polite. When they thank you for anything, you feel they really mean it.
Throughout a very long day and evening, I never heard a struggle over a toy, or a parental demand to stop doing anything. It’s hard to imagine Erin or Dominique ever raising their voices, or needing to. I hear more children being yelled at by distraught mothers on a short trip to the market. I suppose it has to do with the stress level of mothers who work full-time to help pay for a trophy house, two cars, designer clothes and dozens of plastic, electronic, motor-driven toys for their darlings. And health care, which of course is provided for all in France, as it is in most civilized countries.
While Devon and his cousin, Colin, were out riding their mountain bikes, Amy took her cousins around, explaining that you have to watch out for snakes because Grandma had to shoot a huge rattlesnake on the patio just two days before. She played with them on the slide and swing set inherited from a friend and reconstructed by her father. I didn’t hear a single “Me First” or “My Turn” the whole day.
After dinner, the combined efforts of all that made it that much more fun, the girls were put into their pajamas without any fuss, after which, they started a game of Simon Says. For those who don’t remember the days when children relied on games with no electronic bells and whistles, these are the rules: All but one child runs in a circle, doing whatever Simon Says, but not responding to any command not preceded by those exact words. Amy jumped right in and was amazingly creative in fooling the others into doing what she said. For instance, she would say, “Simon says fall on the floor … and rub your stomach.” Even her brother, heavily addicted to his PlayStation and way past the age for such silliness, fell for Amy’s ploy. But he was totally good-natured about the whole thing. In the throes of 11-year-old angst and daily bouts with temper at perceived unfairness, this was amazing to watch.
I remembered Devon’s meltdown a few days earlier when I suggested what he was watching on TV was inappropriate. Afterward, he apologized to me. It was one of those moments, after the temper cooled, to explain to him that I had, at his age, a similar rebellion when told by the nuns at Marymount that it was sinful to read certain books or see certain movies. With the Hayes Office still in charge of what anyone could see in a movie theater, this was ludicrous. And I couldn’t resist telling the nun, who was just trying to save my soul, that I didn’t see the virtue in living under a rock, protected from any knowledge of the real world. I was suspended from school for a week, but my parents actually agreed with me. I explained to Devon that we weren’t trying to control him (through power or guilt) as much as helping him to develop control of himself. Then we discussed some strategies to do that, which once mastered, would make him feel more powerful.
Of course, when it comes to temper, I’m the guilty party here, and I learned it from my father. Devon’s father never loses his temper or swears. But I’m afraid his mother heard it all from me. And so it’s perpetuated. How Erin grew up with such serenity, I don’t know. It must be a French thing.