Most parents of young kids only dream about how helpful it would be to live in a community where friends, neighbors or extended family pitch in systematically to help each other out with everything from childcare to daily errands.

But author Anjali Mitter Duva has made it her reality by intentionally partnering with a neighbor to share cooking, grocery shopping and childcare. The arrangement, which all began seven years ago with two steaming bowls of pho soup, has grown into the cornerstone of Anjali’s strategy for juggling fiction-writing with the care of her two young children, her work as a professional project manager and her role as volunteer executive director of Chhandam Institute of Kathak Dance. In fact, it worked out so well for both women that their families ultimately decided to move together into a new, two-family home to continue sharing day-to-day responsibilities into the foreseeable future.

This amazing story of modern-day, cooperative-style living has implications for families everywhere.  It’s an honor to have Anjali here today to tell us about it.

Welcome, Anjali!

Q: When you first met the neighbor, Kathy, whose family you now share daily life with, you were total strangers.  Tell us how your relationship began.

AMD: It all began about seven years ago. My family was were living in a typical New England triple-decker, on the middle floor. We had a cordial relationship with the couple who had been living downstairs for the previous 2-3 years. During that time, we’d been tantalized by the aromas of cooking which wafted up through the ventilation system. Whenever the heat or AC came on, we were first hit with the mouthwatering smells of sizzling garlic, Szichuan peppercorns, star anise and the like. Kathy is Vietnamese, and makes fabulous soups (pho), dishes with rice noodles and grilled catfish, fresh rolls… I could go on. Anyhow, one day she called us and said she had made a vast amount of pho, and would we like some?  Next thing we knew, she was at our door bearing two steaming bowls of fabulous soup, along with dishes of Thai basil, lime, bean sprouts and various other condiments.

The next time I made something easily scaled up to a larger quantity, we offered her and her husband a meal. I think it was boeuf bourguignon. She accepted, and a new tradition was born. We each had a baby or toddler at home, and having one night a week of a fabulous, tasty and home-made meal delivered to our door was wonderful. For the person cooking, it was hardly any more effort, and for the one receiving the food, it was a major help. This has been the basis for the whole arrangement.

Q: How did this evolve into the current arrangement where you intentionally plan meals together, share grocery shopping, watch each other’s children and take joint vacations?

AMD:It was all a very gradual process, and I think that has been key to its success. If two sets of friends set off right from the start to have such an integrated arrangement, I think it is highly likely it would fail. For one thing, we were not really friends to begin with. Of course, we got along well, but there was none of the emotional baggage of a friendship—what if I say no to a dish, will I hurt her feelings? What if she feels this is a burden? There was none of that. And as each system worked well, we gradually added more aspects, in a very organic fashion. From an organized you-cook-on-Mondays-I’ll-cook-on-Wednesdays type of arrangement, we gradually became flexible about which day would be whose, depending on our schedules each week. We were both working, juggling many things, and the whole point was for it to be a help, not an additional chore. And then, it morphed into a system in which one of us, upon planning a meal that could easily be doubled, would simply call the other and offer it, even several times a week. It made sense.

Then came the other aspects. I had to run out to do an errand, and the baby was asleep, so I dropped off the monitor with Kathy, who was right downstairs in the same building, and did what I needed to do. While I was out, I was going to stop at a grocery store, so did Kathy need anything? In this way, we started piggybacking the other person’s errands on our own. Once this started, we began a running tab, which lives on my fridge. The funny thing is, money hardly ever crosses hands! Without a conscious effort on our parts, the spending of money has always been quite even. We could probably do without the tab, but we are both very practical and pragmatic, and we believe it’s good to have, even after seven years. Here’s an amusing fact: we’ve gone on vacations together, our two families, and usually kept a bowl in which we drop our initialed receipts during the week. At the end of the vacation, we tally it all up, and see who owes who what. On one of our trips, to Savannah, the difference ended up being $2! And more recently we shared a house in Portugal, and had a similar experience.

Yes, you read that correctly. We’ve gone on vacation together several times. You might wonder why, since we live near each other, but it’s been fantastic for everyone. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we do everything together. When each family had just one child, it meant that the kids each had a playmate, and the parents could relax a bit more. For example, each morning, one parent of the four got up early with the kids. The other three got to sleep in. And during the day, one family could take the other’s child, and in this way one couple could have a day and/or evening together, sans children. Four parents with two children, it was a perfect ratio!

Now we each have a second child, and they are just four months apart. They might as well be twins. They benefit (suffer?) from having four parents each, and our economies of scale have simply grown with us. The older children have sleepovers, and help watch the younger ones, and their own relationship has continued to be essentially that of siblings.

Q: Can you describe how the cooking, grocery and child-care sharing works on a day-to-day basis?

AMD:Well, there’s how it works, and why it works. The why is key: Kathy and I have very similar temperaments. We are planners. We are practical. We know that if something slips the mind of one, it will likely be remembered by the other. We have similar educational backgrounds (in fact, by coincidence, all four of us went to the same college, although the two couples didn’t know each other then). It’s all rather uncanny. But the compatibility is not just between the two of us. Our families are compatible. The two husbands have many interests in common, and some similar personality traits. The two families have nearly identical values when it comes to parenting, spending money, all those areas which are key to harmony. I know that if one of my children does something for which she needs to be disciplined, and she is Next Door (as we each refer to the other household), I can trust that the issue will be handled the way my husband and I would handle it ourselves. (Our oldest children have been known to grumble and say to one of us “That’s exactly what my mom would say!”) And this is the area which I can only attribute to miraculous luck: it was total coincidence that our families ended up being neighbors. And of course, it helps that we all eat everything, and are always happy to try out new things. There are several cultures and backgrounds represented among us—Indian, French, Vietnamese, Filipino, Jewish, Catholic, Buddhist, Hindu, and, more tangentially, Italian and Polish—and we’ve all integrated elements of all of these into our lives. I speak in French to Kathy’s youngest daughter, and she speaks in Vietnamese to mine. It all works out.

As to how it works on a day-to-day basis, Kathy and I joke that we need a direct feed between our brains. We talk several times a day. The kids go in and out of each other’s homes. (We connected our back decks to facilitate this, although we miss the days in our previous home, when no one had to step outside. A couple of winters ago, we literally had to tunnel through the snow to get back and forth, and that’s not easy with trays of soup!) It’s a bit like a sit-com. I’ll float into Next Door in my pajamas with my cup of tea in the morning and vent at Kathy about some random thing (another advantage: a built in outlet for venting, a sounding board for ideas, a source of advice), and while I’m there I’ll pick up the (clean) dishes from the last meal I sent over, and drop off some clothes that my daughter has outgrown, and we’ll plan the next couple of dinners. Kathy will mention she needs to go to Target, and I’ll text her my list. Later in the day, I’ll hear the garage door open, and she’ll drop off the purchases. Once the children are home from school and daycare and my work day has, whether I like it or not, come to an end, we often pool the kids on one side, with one of us keeping an eye on them, the other getting started with dinner prep. Sometimes, especially if a husband is running late for dinner, we’ll feed all four kids on one side, so at least there’s only one home which is a total mess. (Two of the children are now two, so the downstairs usually looks like a tornado hit it by bed time.)

Q: When my husband and I looked for a new home, it took us a year just to agree on what we wanted!  How did the house-hunting go with not one, but two, couples involved?

AMD: Again, a lot of luck. And sticking to what we cared about. We were fortunate to work with a realtor who “got” what we were trying to do. She represented us (each family) on the buyer side, and her partner, both in life and in business, helped us on the seller side, since we each had to sell our condos. All in all, they stood to gain from four transactions! So they were motivated, too. Nonetheless, it was a long process, and we are so grateful that they stuck by us for two years. (They also benefited from a few “commune” meals as we met to discuss offers.) What we were trying to do was unusual, unorthodox, and probably, for many of the agents or owners of the places we looked at, just plain weird. You should have seen their faces when we’d ask if we could build a door between the two units! We live, at least here in the US, in a society which believes that “good fences make good neighbors” and people want to have their own possessions and their own land, and here we were, a jumbled mix of people speaking a jumble of languages, wanting to take down fences and make holes in the wall! It’s not that we don’t believe in clear delineations (for example, we have never mingled any finances, and even when we connected the decks, we made sure to do it in such a way that they could be disconnected again when we sell our units) but we might appear that way to many.

In the end, it took us two years to find what we wanted. Every now and then, our realtors would gently suggest that we consider two houses on the same street, but we just shook our heads. How could we bring meals to each other that way? How could our children wander in and out of each other’s homes that way? In the nick of time, we found our place. I gave birth to my youngest just three weeks after moving in.

Q: How has your partnership with Kathy and her family helped your writing and your other outside endeavors, both creative and professional?

AMD: Wow. I can hardly even begin to answer that. When my book is published, she’s going to be among the first to be acknowledged. Having an extra “me,” essentially, has saved my sanity, my creativity, and probably my career. On the writing front, I’ve been able to attend workshops and events knowing that Kathy and her family could take my children for the gap of time between when I needed to leave the house and when my husband could get home from work. I’ve managed to eke out extra hours of writing time when my youngest was napping in the afternoons by sending my oldest next door for a while, and knowing that I didn’t need to think about making dinner. As I type this, Kathy is picking up both older ones at school so I can have an extra half hour. I’ve had to be on work calls (I freelance as a writer and project manager) early in the morning before the sitter has arrived, and Kathy has been able to take the little one. Similarly, recently, she texted me from Next Door because she was on a phone interview and her daughter woke up crying in her crib. I swooped in and watched her while her mother fielded questions about how she dealt with crises and juggled many projects at once. And of course Kathy and her family have seen me through the ups and downs of writing a book and trying to get it published. Kathy has read and commented on my manuscript.

They’ve also been a tremendous help when I’ve gone away. I am planning a research trip to India for my next book, and I can only really contemplate leaving the kids back home because I know there is a whole additional family to help out. (My husband will be here, but he tends to have to work long hours.) I attended a four day kathak (Indian classical) dance retreat in California in August, and Kathy picked up children after camp, helped with morning drop off, etc.

Q: Has it influenced your children and family?  How?

AMD: Beyond the obvious influence on my own life, I think it has helped our family maintain a certain level of sanity and standards that might have otherwise slipped in a household with two working parents who also have several other activities (my husband, for example, also teaches martial arts while I’m quite involved in Indian dance). The standard of our meals, for example, I think has remained quite high, because when either Kathy or I cook, we are more likely to make something tasty or creative or elaborate, from scratch, than if we had to cook every single day. Similarly, we don’t mind shopping in several different locations to get the best combination of produce and fish and meat because we divvy up the errands, so one of us picks up fresh produce at a farm stand while the other gets the staples at the supermarket. Still just one trip for each of us, with double the rewards.

I think the children have also been influenced tremendously, although they probably don’t realize it now. Most likely, it will dawn on them when they are older how special their childhood was. For example, they have all the advantages of multiple siblings each—built in playmates, pals to team up with, other children who will commiserate about the unfairness of parents—without the down sides. They still each get to have their own room (although they like to do sleepovers), their own toys and books, etc. Culturally, they are also gaining a lot. Just the number of languages in our households is a benefit to them, especially for the younger two who entered the scene when the “commune” was already in full effect. And the variety of foods they encounter at the dinner table is greater than it would have been otherwise, especially for us with the addition of the Vietnamese component. Soups made with oxtail and dried squid are nothing unusual here.

Q: Tell us about your novel, Faint Promise of Rain.

AMD: Throughout these years, in addition to helping to run a dance non-profit, Chhandika, and freelancing, I have written a historical novel, and am now working to get it published while I begin to write another one. (That’s a whole other post!) Set in sixteenth century northern India, Faint Promise of Rain tells the story of Adhira, who is born into a family of Hindu temple dancers on the day of the first rains in five years. Around her, fear of change under a conquering Muslim emperor abounds. Adhira’s father, however, turns a blind eye to the political happenings, and places all his hopes for his sacred tradition in this youngest child of his.

I developed, with a documentary videographer, a trailer for the book, which is at www.faintpromiseofrain.com. The inspiration for the story came from my study of kathak dance, a centuries-old storytelling art form of North India. The start of my dance training coincided with a recent return from Jaisalmer, a truly magical fortress city in the Thar desert of India, and the strong visuals I retained from that trip, along with the dance and a glimpse into its history, along with my inclination to write and my own Indian heritage, all came together and enabled me to write this book.

Q: And just to whet our appetites even more, can you give us an idea of some of the dishes you and Kathy like to cook?

AMD: For the dishes Kathy cooks, the easiest would be for you to hop over to kathynle.com and check out some of her recipes and photos. Be forewarned, however, that you will get hungry! As for me, I don’t make nearly as many Indian dishes as I’d like, but I do a lot of French-inspired cooking, having lived 18 years in France, and like to explore foods from Mediterranean regions. Tonight I am making a salade niçoise, and my recipe, along with a week of summer meals, can be found here. My husband is also a big fan of grilling and BBQ, and will make North Carolina pulled pork, or ribs, or brisket.

**

Thank you, Anjali!  My stomach is growling and I’m contemplating bringing over a vat of French onion soup to my next door neighbor to see where things go.

I know the Olympics are almost a distant memory at this point.  But aside from some of the breathtaking instants like watching Oscar Pistorius soar past finish lines, there’s one moment that keeps coming back to me.  And it’s gotten under my skin.

That is: Kate Middleton walking over to and chatting with the U.S. women’s gymnastics team during the vault finals.

Kate, as always, was clean, polished, poised and relaxed, with a perfect curl to her hair and an effervescent smile.  Gabby, Jordyn, Aly, and Kyla were chalk-smudged and sweaty.  Their jaws were clenched, their brows were still  furrowed with concentration from having watched teammate McKayla work the vault.

What a contrast.  Seeing Kate’s perky curls right next to the gymnasts’ sweaty brows and her cute, just-right-for-the-occasion polo shirt beside their high-tech warm-up suits designed for performance, I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it is that she is an idol and icon.  True, her poise and composure are nothing short of miraculous.  She’s beautiful, was born with just the right chemistry to appeal to a prince and has done an admirable job cultivating her magnetic public persona.  I, too, am fascinated by this.  But other than meeting a man who’s one hell of a catch and  rising to the occasion of being his partner, what has Kate done to *create success?*  What are her awe-inspiring accomplishments?  Does her path to achievement include anything at all like the blood, sweat and tears that Gabby, Jordyn, Aly, Kyla and McKayla have shed?  Does she know what extreme mental and physical exertion feel like?  Has she tasted the cruelty of repeated failure on the way to each small victory, or heated competition in an unforgivingly rigorous discipline when everything she’s ever worked for is at stake?

I admire Kate’s virtues and realize that her position is not at all as easy as she makes it look.  I’ve even bought the occasional issue of People magazine just to stare at and try to comprehend the fathomless peacefulness and joy her photos exude. But in this age of controversy over entitlement, and from the depths of my own struggle to make sense of why some paths seem paved with gold and others seem riddled with barbed wire fences, I just can’t help finding her presence beside the Fabulous Five — though surely intended as a mutual honor, a nod to the superstar status they share — to be all wrong.

Nor can I help wondering what message it sends to all the young women and girls out there formulating their own hopes and dreams.  Could it possibly be telling at least some of them that there’s always a chance they can skip the blood, sweat and tears, the discipline and rigor, and become highly accomplished by virtue of meeting and marrying a princely man?

]]> http://veronicas-nap.com/backstory/princess-kate-the-fabulous-five/feed/ 2 http://veronicas-nap.com/backstory/why-my-kid-eats-veals-brain/ http://veronicas-nap.com/backstory/why-my-kid-eats-veals-brain/#comments Tue, 14 Aug 2012 10:00:14 +0000 Sharon Bially http://veronicas-nap.com/?p=3774

Now that I’ve got your attention…

During my hiatus from the blogosphere over the past few months my family has had all sorts of memorable meals.  From my son’s Bar Mitzvah in June to gatherings at our home with overseas visitors and a trip to both Paris and Croatia, it seems our lives have been all about food.

Throughout it all, I’ve been struck by something that until now, I’ve taken for granted: my kids, it turns out, are extremely open-minded, adventurous eaters.

I’ve always known that they eat…well…everything.  Sushi, raw quail eggs on Udon soup, prawn ravioli with saffron sauce, steak tartare, runny, smelly French cheeses and even live sea urchins that they’ve personally scooped from the ocean floor while fishing with their dad.  This past winter Alex, who’s nine, chose ‘gator at a soul food joint in Harlem and loved it.

It’s something that’s so embedded in our routine that I’ve never really thought twice about it.  That is, until Alex ordered the the tête de veau at a fancy lunch date in Paris last month with an epicurean friend.

Tête de Veau

In case you’re wondering, tête de veau is an entire veal’s head: brain, tongue, cheeks and all.

Not only did Alex order the tête de veau, but he was beside himself with excitement at the prospect of trying it.  And when it was served he devoured it, announcing that his favorite part was the brain.  (I turned down his offer to try some myself.)

I was baffled.  How the heck had my kids had become such fearless foodies?  With Bringing Up Bébé fresh on my mind, along with this blog post by Mari Passananti about successfully applying a dose of French-style discipline to her son’s eating routine to help him become a “good little meal eater,” I began to wonder what, exactly, Jacques and I had done to encourage our kids to be good, open-minded and adventurous little meal eaters themselves while shrugging off typical American kids’ fare like mac ‘n cheese and never falling into the habit of constant snacking — which was one of Mari’s concerns.  Because I’m not aware of having made any particular effort.

Alex devouring it

Bringing Up Bébé devotes an entire chapter to how French children are taught to respect the nearly religious structure of mealtime and to appreciate a wide variety of foods.  In describing her purposeful “French experiment,” Mari talks about how structure à la francaise led her son to have a more balanced diet and more stable moods and turned mealtimes into pleasurable events for her family.

But in my own household the only intentional efforts have been Jacques’ constant drilling of table manners.  (A whole other, not-so-happy story.) Which leaves me to conclude that my kids’ attitude toward food comes simply from imitating ours.

Shaped largely by Jacques’ Franco-Italian upbringing and my own experience living in France for 12 years, this mindset can be roughly summed up as:

1.  Being in the long-engrained habit of eating three balanced meals a day with little if any snacking.  Note that this is not out of discipline, but simply because old habits die hard.

2.  Truly loving good food of all sorts, with good meaning fresh, whole, not processed.

3.  Enjoying cooking.

4.  Seasoning the food we cook with only a very short but yummy list of ingredients, used in various combinations: olive oil, lemon juice, fresh garlic, salt, pepper, Dijon mustard, spices and fresh herbs.

5.  Seasoning our salad with just olive oil and vinegar or lemon juice, or the same plus some Dijon mustard (a French vinaigrette).

While our seasoning choices are also mainly due to personal preference and laziness — again, old habits die hard — I often wonder if they might affect our kids’ tastes.  Ready-made seasonings, marinades, salad dressings, etc. often have a lot of dried garlic and onion powder and even a lot of sugar: tastes that tend to be addictive and make other tastes seem bland.

6.  Enjoying mealtime and the bonding experience of sitting down to eat as a family, which we do every day.

7.  Having guests over often to share meals, and enjoying this, too.

8.  Honestly believing that there’s no reason why kids should prefer things like peanut butter, sugary cereal or Lunchables, which we both think are….well, just gross.  (And because of this, never having offered these things to our kids in the first place.)

9.  Not offering “special case” menus for the kids.  What we serve is what they get!  If that means one night they won’t eat the rice, or the chicken, but will have other parts of the meal, that’s okay.  They’ll live.  So will we.

10.  Not eating fast food or junk food, or keeping junk food in the house.  (Unless Ben & Jerry’s counts!)  Again: Gross!

11.  Ditto with soft drinks.  Ditto: gross.  (I suspect these, too, tend to be addictive and make other things taste bland.)

12.  Drinking only water at meals.  (And of course some wine for the adults.)

13.  Not having food- or eating-related anxieties.

This last point is, I think, the most important.  We Americans tend to have all sorts of hang-ups and conflicts about eating, constantly worrying whether our food is low-cal, low-fat, low-sugar, low-salt, low-cholestoral or lactose free.  We crave junk food but feel guilty about it.  We feel guilty, period. We have allergies and intolerances that frankly, much of the rest of the world has never even heard of, but that make us generally apprehensive.

I’m sure kids pick up on all these tense vibes, developing anxieties and conflicts of their own early on.

Last but not least, a major part of our family’s mindset is:

14.  Enjoying dessert.

Not every day, but at least a couple of times a week.  And I don’t mean low-fat, sugar-free frozen yogurt.  The way we look at it, just like with main courses, it’s better to enjoy the real McCoy (think: butter! cream! sugar! chocolate!) in reasonable quantities than to feel dissatisfied by substitutes which are probably not healthy in the first place and leave you craving more.

I hope this can serve up some food for thought.

Bon appetit!

In preparation for his Bar Mitzvah on June 16, my twelve-year-old son Sam is doing a “Mitzvah Project” with the goal of helping repair the world in some small way.

This act of charity, generosity or simple compassion can range from anything to raising money for the local homeless shelter or volunteering at the town library to collecting and donating clothing for children in developing countries.  It’s a pretty standard step along the path to becoming a Bar or Bat Mitzvah these days.

Looking around at how things are typically done, I’ve been struck by an odd, unsettling paradox: a hefty majority of the projects kids are doing and those touted by the various how-to resources out there come packaged as activities that are so much fun, so cool and so…chic!…that any kid participating could easily forget what the heck the point was in the first place.

For example:

• Making and selling beaded necklaces to raise money for sustainable water pumps in Sub-Saharan African communities.

• Creating a decorative box and placing it in a dance school to collect used leotards to donate to dance students who can’t afford to purchase new ones.

• Assembling hand-made gift baskets of food items to donate to food pantries, shelters, etc.

• Hosting a sleepover party at which each guest brings and leaves an extra pair of pyjamas to donate to children escaping from domestic abuse.

Each and every one of these missions is, without a shadow of a doubt, invaluable, generous, educational and kind.  The mere fact that they get kids thinking in terms of helping others and expose them to some of the myriad ways in which our world indeed needs repairing is priceless.  But I wonder: Don’t all these cute whistles and bells — these frills — like making necklaces, hosting sleepover parties and creating decorative boxes and baskets distract the kids from the very problems their projects focus on?

In many cases, these frills have even become status symbols kids can brag about to their friends.  Kind of like the fancy fundraising benefits attended by adults.

I have nothing against doing anything and everything possible to educate our kids about society’s problems and the steps we can all take toward positive change.  And I know that a spoonful of sugar always helps the medicine go down.  But I can’t help wondering why the spoon has to be heaped so high — and what this does to the meaning.

What about one-on-one projects that bring kids into direct contact with the people they are helping so they can get a taste of poverty, illness, aging or illiteracy for themselves and develop genuine compassion?  Or projects that go on over time rather than coming to an end when the Bar or Bat Mitzvah is over?  How about making a small sacrifice in the form of time, belongings or favorite activities instead of having fun crafting baskets or throwing a party, in order to develop a sense for what loss and struggles are all about?

A family I knows devotes one day a month to helping deliver furniture and supplies to the residents of low-income housing complexes.  Their four kids skip soccer, play dates and whatever else they might have on their calendars and immerse themselves in the lives of families on the opposite end of the social spectrum.   I’ll bet ongoing acts of *repairing the world* (tikkun olam) will become an important part of their lives for good.

As for my own family….*Sigh.*  We’re as guilty as anyone of having good intentions but taking initiatives that are cosmetic at best.  Sam has decided that for his Mitzvah project, he’ll raise money from friends and family to cover the sponsorship of a child in a developing country.  A worthy cause and one that he’s committed to sticking with over the years, with no distracting frills — but no direct contact or involvement either.

One more nap that I wish would end.

On Sunday I wrote a post over at Writer Unboxed called A Look at Writers’ Day Jobs, which concluded by asking readers whether they have day jobs and what they are.

Along with the dozens of people who stopped by to describe their jobs in fields such as teaching, physical therapy and martial-arts school management, three moms talked about their experience staying at home.  I was fascinated to note that two of them them picked up on the language of “jobs” and “work” and wove it into their comments.

Stacy Jensen, mom of young Enzo, said, “I’m CEO of Enzo Corp — that’s mommy code for stay at home mom.  I finally figured out a writing schedule, so I don’t feel like chairman Enzo will fire me.”

Stephanie Alexander  commented, “I now work for my three kids!”

(Both Stacy and Stephanie have kindly agreed to be quoted here.)

Amid all the buzz about the new book Bringing Up Bebé, I’ve been mulling these comments over — especially their use of language implying that the kids are their moms’ employers.  Their boss.

I realize that my post lent itself to this sort of play on words, and that Stacy and Stephanie were more likely having fun with words than literally positioning their kids as “the boss.”  At the same time, though, I think the temptation to use this very play on words reveals a glimmer of truth about the American parenting approach that’s directly linked to the online and on-the-air conversations around Bringing Up Bebé.

In it, author Pamela Druckerman, observes that “French children don’t have tantrums in the park, they don’t shun their vegetables, they don’t forget to say “bonjour” or “au revoir,” and they most certainly don’t throw food.”  (Disclaimer: I haven’t read the book myself yet, and am relying on excerpts from articles and reviews in the Huffington Post and The New York Times.)

Having lived in France for twelve years, including as a mom, and having experienced over two decades and counting of domestic life à la française, I can safely say that Druckerman’s observations are spot on.  But what intrigues me far more than the pointless debate about whether this is “better” or “worse” than the way we do things here in the U.S., is: What’s behind these differences?

The comments from Stacy and Stephanie shed a teeny bit of light into this vast question.  Even in jest, they they give a glimpse of what seems to be a tacit, underlying assumption by many American parents — at least those of us fortunate enough to be having this sort of discussion in the first place: that at some level our role is to serve our children, in part by fitting our lives around theirs once they arrive.

I’ll even venture so far as to say that many of us fear that if we don’t deliver on some vaguely-defined *something* for our children, we’re somehow failing them, our spouses and ourselves.

In France on the other hand, and much of western Europe, rather than serving, parents tend to see their role as ensuring their children’s integration into the family and the broader social structure that’s very much built upon family life.  In this scenario, there’s more of a tendency for parents fit their kids’ lives into their own.  This has a lot to do with why, among other things, French kids entertain themselves readily, don’t shun their vegetables and always say “bonjour” or “au revoir.”

I find it very telling that the French term for children who are well-behaved is “bien-elevés,” which literally means “well-raised.”  In other words, doing a good job raising children is tantamount to bringing them successfully into society’s fold by teaching them how to behave.

(In Italian, the word for “to raise” is “educare,” which translates literally to “to educate,” which happens to be the same word that’s used for teaching children good behavior.)

It’s also interesting that the English verb / phrase “to stay at home with the kids” has a relatively inactive tone as opposed to dynamic and proactive.  As if the role it described were simply one of being there to react to whatever goes on with the kids.  The French expression most typically used to describe staying home is “s’occuper de ses enfants,” meaning, “to take care of ones’ children.”  This strikes me as so much more proactive.  In control.

Perhaps a French mom might have joked that her day job was as her kids’ boss, not vice versa.

Again — I’m not commenting on what’s better or worse, right or wrong.  It’s all far too complex and multi-faceted, and there are two sides to every coin.  I’m just making an observation about a phenomenon I find absolutely fascinating and well worth a moment or two of contemplation.

(Continued from Chapter 20.1 – The New Cinderella; to start book, scroll to “Chapters” in right side bar.) “Monday to Friday,” Shirley repeats. “Ten to four. And every other Saturday morning. I thought you meant tomorrow. Or this afternoon. But a weekly schedule, for what, a year? Two? More? That’s a full-time job!” She contemplates her fingertips for a moment, turning them at different angles as if critiquing her pink manicure, then sighs. “How about this: I take them the Saturday mornings, and weekdays when I get home from the hairdresser at one o’clock, give or take. Except when I have appointments or lunch dates. And except when I’m in Florida helping Stella.”

“Helping her?” Veronica echoes, frowning so hard she can feel the faint lines she’s detected recently on her forehead deepening into wrinkles. Stella has a live-in housekeeper and nanny. She no longer works. A visit from Shirley is one thing, but what help could she possibly need?

Shirley beams, her chest puffing with pride. “It’s not official yet,” she whispers with forbidden delight. “But Stella’s pregnant again.”

“What? She’s having a fourth?” Veronica sputters. She’s ready for that solitary sob now. Engrossed in other things, she’s forgotten lately about the hunger for another baby that clawed at her during her final months in Aix. How delicious it would have felt to indulge in it, carefree.

“Well, you know Stella,” Shirley declares. “And you know how badly she’s wanted a girl. But let her tell you herself.” She nudges her chin in the direction of the phone. “Give her a call.”

“Later.” Veronica rolls her eyes and trudges out of the kitchen. “For now I need to start looking into child care. All day, year round.”

With enough repetition, disappointment eventually shrinks from a steel nail in the heart to a thumbtack pinning up a reminder to just keep going, keep trying, not to look back. So when Veronica flops belly-down onto her bed convulsing with sobs, it’s not out of despair, nor out of envy of her sister, nor even out of fury at her mother, unable—or unwilling—to commit. Caring for kids too young for school really is a full-time job. She sobs, simply, to release the tension that’s built up in her bones during this energetic race down a dozen different streets only to arrive with a screeching halt at a dozen dead ends. She sobs to mourn the myriad possibilities that won’t pan out, to relieve the anguish of uncertainty, and to purge the self-defeating ruminations that ensue so she can pick herself up and continue.

As she works through the library’s child-care list over the next several days, she sobs to buffer the shock. Nanny agencies have a prohibitive upfront fee. Home day-care centers, originally her top choice, are appallingly grim and run-down. At the first one she visits, four children, noses running copiously, sit riveted to the TV in an unheated basement while, upstairs, the woman in charge nurses her own infant. Another reeks of stale, embedded smoke. Dog hair mats the furniture, and two aging golden retrievers scrounge among the children at snack time, licking their faces and lapping up the contents of their plates. The bigger, more organized centers have an unnervingly corporate feel. Their polished corridors smell of Lysol, which just barely overpowers the stench of poop-filled diapers in the trash. Large groups of children stand in line like soldiers to march from one activity to the next on schedules maintained by buzzers that blare like fire alarms. In some centers, the children don name badges or ID bracelets in case they get lost. And the few smaller, homier places that Veronica visits have waiting lists of up to a year.

Face buried in her pillow each evening, she weeps for Maria, for her vivid black eyes radiating as warmly as the Mediterranean sun. In her best imitation of Maria’s Portuguese-twanged accent, she murmurs, “C’est bee-ayng, mon petit chou,” and nearly chokes on her tears. The morning she left Aix, she asked the taxi driver to stop at the pink stucco house at the bottom of the street—the one with the dapper, pine-green shutters that make the living room so cozy-dark at nap time—and to wait while she, Luc, and Céleste knocked on the door. At the news of their departure, Maria shuddered with sorrow, knelt, and pulled the kids into her arms. “Vous revenez bientôt, oui?” she said, imploring them to come back soon. She vowed that there’d always be space for them in her home and a spot for them in her heart and begged Veronica to send news from time to time, to write or to call.

That Veronica never did, and that she’ll never again find a caregiver like Maria, makes her want to kick herself for having taken so much for granted. Dropping the kids off at Maria’s was as painless as having a relative come watch them at home. If she forgot to send them over with a swimsuit or an extra stack of diapers, she could run back home and get them. If they didn’t like the lunch she’d packed, she could swing by with a peanut butter sandwich. And if they got sick, she could drop everything and go pick them up right away. With no billable hours, no clients to impress, and no colleagues raising eyebrows, she was as free as the wind—on her own, yet near her children and available to them at a moment’s notice.

Such delicious flexibility also meant setting her own agenda and planning her days however she liked, and she weeps for the loss of this privilege, too. Yet every privilege has its cost, and this one cost her vitality and self-esteem. At least now she has a chance to pick a different set of trade-offs.

**

NEXT INSTALLMENT, 20.3, COMING IN A WEEK.  MEANWHILE, MORE BACKSTORY BLOG ON THE WAY

Traditional publishers’ decisions about which manuscripts to accept and which ones to pass on can be mystifying to writers.

Sure, there are a few things that seem to tip the balance in favor of “yes,” like loud events, likeable characters and a plot that pulls readers constantly forward, making those pages turn.

Yet vast numbers of well-written books with all those qualities wind up in the “pass” pile every day, leaving authors to second guess themselves and to feel confused, dejected and downright depressed.

In case it can help anyone climb out of that dark place, I thought I’d share a letter I received last week from the 19th Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards committee.  Of the many thousands of submissions it receives, the committee selects just 5 finalists and 1 winner.  Not having been one of them, I’d long since forgotten about my entry (sent in last April) when this feedback arrived from “Judge # 46:”

On a scale of 1 to 5, which 1 meaning “poor” and 5 meaning “excellent,” please evaluate the following:
Plot:  4
Grammar:  5
Character development:  5
Production quality and cover design: 4

Judge’s commentary:
“This is a strong and solid work of commercial fiction focused on one woman’s struggle to accept the seemingly perfect existence she has while pining for a very different, more personally satisfying life.  A conventional storyline has been given a creative and engaging treatment here, with compelling insights into the main character’s motivations and desires.  The contrast in settings, veering from Provence to suburban New Jersey, forms an interesting juxtaposition, and enables the author to flesh out some widely differing characters in a sympathetic way.  Physically the book is appealing, with a pleasant cover and well-designed interior.”

So why didn’t it make it to the “finalists” pile?  Five finalists out of thousands is a tiny number for sure.  Probably a similar ratio to those accepted by traditional publishers.  But beyond that — like with so much in publishing these days — your guess is as good as mine.

Bottom line: If you find yourself in that “no thank you” pile, don’t waste too much time second-guessing yourself.  Onward!

(Continued from Chapter 19.2 – Scavenger Hunt; to start book, scroll to “Chapters” in right side bar.) “My fingers are crossed for you, hon,” says Shirley, phone to her ear. She’s in the living room, deep in conversation, when Veronica, Luc, and Céleste come home. “Can I spread the word?”

A pause. Shirley glances at Veronica and nods. Her hair, freshly sculpted and sprayed into a poofier-than-than-usual cycling helmet shape, glints a metallic shade of ruby. “All right. Gotta go. Hugs and smooches to the boys.”

“Stella?” Veronica asks, unzipping the kids’ coats and hanging them in the front hall closet. Freed, Luc and Céleste sprint into the living room and twirl around.

“Mmm hmm.” Shirley gets up and flicks on a cartoon. “These two look wired.”

“They skipped their nap.”

“Uh-oh. Red alert. Big day?”

“Yeah,” Veronica sighs. “Really big. How’s Stella?”

Shirley draws her chest up and thrusts out her lower back like a peacock about to strut its feathers. “Stella’s doing great! You should give her a call.”

The urge for a good, long cry, which Veronica put on hold in the library, resurges. Stella’s always doing great. She should have known. She rubs her hands together briskly and stares at her mother, who’s staring at the kids as they stare at the TV. “Can we talk?” she asks. “Someplace quieter?”

In the kitchen, Veronica describes the apartment she saw this morning, her trip to the library, and the vacant children’s room position. “I’ve gotta give it a shot,” she says. “But there’s a glitch. And you and Dad, well, you’ve been amazing. You’ve done so much since I got here. I’m just wondering if maybe you can lend a hand with one last thing.”

Shirley contorts her mouth into a frown and draws her chin into the folds of her neck. “Your father told me he offered to help. But he said you turned him down. I figured that meant you’d never go through with this meshuga idea of living on your own. What sort of existence would that be, locked up in some roach-infested rental with the kids when you have a fine husband who misses you to death and can offer you so much more?”

“What do you know about how much he misses me?” Veronica snaps.

“For God’s sake, I hear his voice every morning on the phone! Do you think Luc and Céleste answer by themselves when he calls?”

Veronica turns away. For the past five weeks she’s steeled herself against longing and pity by imagining Didier seated at Le Grillon with a sexy patent lawyer, leaning close to her across the table, touching her arm. That he might in fact spend his days wallowing in grief hasn’t crossed her mind. Now she pictures him, alone in Aix, peering despondently through the steam on the mirror as he shaves each morning, inspecting the stubble on his slackened jaw for new grays. Does he still radiate contentment and slap his knees at Uriel’s jokes when he gathers with his family on Saturday afternoons or does he pick taciturnly at his daf and leave early? She wishes, suddenly, that she could reach out and touch him, stand beside him for a moment to assuage their pain. She’d bury her face in the soft pocket of flesh between his neck and his jaw, inhale the trace scent of oil in his skin mingling with the tangy residue of his Eau Sauvage aftershave and feel his breath in her ear as he murmurs the nickname that used to make her cringe: “Vero.”

Lately, peering into Luc’s date-brown eyes, she’s seen Didier’s. When did Luc start looking so much like his father? His cheeks, though soft with baby fat, have begun to show signs of a prominent sharpening above the jaw. His overgrown, espresso-colored hair hangs practically to his eyes, mimicking the banglike slab Didier constantly pushes back from his forehead. The mere sight of him has also made her wish she could stand beside her husband for a moment and watch their children run into his arms.

But to join him for a moment is impossible, and to return to him for any length of time would require a sacrifice far more depleting than separation. For the impetus to strive for change that she’s discovered over the past few weeks has developed a life of its own. Each new step she takes, albeit frightening, sends a buzz of excitement through her veins, reminding her that, yes, she can do this: she can grow. Ideas fly through her mind night and day like sparks ready to ignite. If she returned to Aix, to the comfort of a livelihood provided by her husband, the sparks would fizzle. She’d slip right back into the older, easier habit of putting initiatives off until tomorrow, every day. Didier would resent her, and she’d resent herself.

“I miss him, too,” she says. “But our problems haven’t disappeared. If I just turn around and go back now, we’ll wind up hating each other. Before you know it, I’ll be here again, banging on your door.”

“So wait,” Shirley shrugs. “There’s no rush.”

“Wait for what? For our problems to evaporate? For something to come along and gloss them over? This isn’t Disneyland!”

“If you lock yourself up in some rental and leave your kids all day so you can go off and—what? Sort books?—you’ll be the new Cinderella!”

“Oh, please. So the job has no fancy pedigree. Big deal. I need it. Even the kids will be happier to see me focused and together, in control of my life, instead of falling apart and faking it at home. They already are. And by the way, I’m not asking for your blessing. Just a hand.”

“This is breaking my heart.” Shirley’s nostrils flare slightly as she regards Veronica for a few long seconds, then throws up her hands. “But what can I say? How much do you need?”

“I’m not asking for money, Mom. I’m getting a job. I’m just wondering if you can watch the kids.”

Shirley roars with laughter as though finally spotting the proof she’s been expecting that this entire conversation is a joke. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course I’ll watch the kids! When?”

Veronica lists the hours of the library job. “Hopefully this one will work out and end of story.”

**

NEXT INSTALLMENT, 20.2, COMING IN A WEEK.  MEANWHILE, MORE BACKSTORY BLOG ON THE WAY

(Continued from Chapter 19.1 – The Stonecutters Gift; to start book, scroll to “Chapters” in right side bar.) Despite socking Veronica in the gut right where it hurts the most, however, this realization also uplifts her. Brenda’s only human, like everybody else. She may have talent, but above all, she knew how to cultivate it through relentless hard work. Veronica’s talent may not match Brenda’s, but if she sets her mind to it, she, too, can surely find a way to do something gratifying that also makes a meaningful contribution to the world beyond her own four walls. If she didn’t believe in her ability to do so, she’d have filed for a divorce long ago, blaming her lack of satisfaction on Didier. Or booked a flight back to Marseille.

A heavy-set, bearded man wearing a smoke-blue cardigan emerges from the office behind the librarian’s desk, breathing heavily as though he’d just climbed a flight of stairs. Veronica has seen him here before, reading to groups of children at story hour.

“Can you tell me where I can find Brenda Gray’s first book? I’m not sure of the title.”

The man adjusts his glasses. “Good choice. It’s even better than the second one, if you ask me. Don’t know why it never made it off the short list.” He turns his head to wheeze into cupped hands and then indicates the book’s location. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” She clears her throat. Blushing furiously and forcing herself to keep looking him straight in the eye, she adds, “By the way, what happened to the job board that used to hang in the lobby?”

He slouches, shakes his head. “Shame, huh? There were a few too many complaints about abuses. You know, people getting hold of the numbers up there and using them for marketing and, well … entertainment. We can’t even post our own openings on the premises now. And those Internet want ads bring in so many résumés. Who has time to go through them all? My own slush pile’s this high.” He holds a hand beside his ear, palm down. “I’ll probably be combing through it till I retire.”

“Are you—is the library hiring?”

He nods and begins thumbing through a return on the desk.

Pulse racing, Veronica draws herself up as straight as she can and lifts her chin, hoping to look confident, competent. Professional. At least she’s still dressed in the wool pants and sweater she chose for this morning’s apartment visit rather than overalls or jeans. “What sorts of openings do you have?”

“Just this one.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. Turning it toward her on the desk, he jabs his index finger into the headline: Project Assistant, Children’s Room. “Vacant since my assistant moved to Florida last month. She’d been with us nearly twenty years.” He wheezes again and then slides a knuckle beneath his glasses to rub an eye.

Veronica leans forward and scans the series of typed bullet points: Plan and lead story hours. Screen books for “Monthly Pick.” Coordinate birthday parties and fund-raising events. Edit newsletter. Assist with orders, inventory, and circulation. Sweat drips down her inner arms. Forget set design. She could easily put her heart into a job like this! Her publishing experience would transfer seamlessly, and, with children everywhere, she’d feel perfectly natural, right at home. She’d be great at reading to them, leading them in sing-alongs, and helping them find misplaced toys. She’s had plenty of training, hands-on. The schedule is manageable, too—ten to four Monday through Friday plus two Saturday mornings a month—and the hourly pay would add up to a little more than what she earned back when she was working in Manhattan. With that, she could squeak by.

“Sounds interesting,” she says, trying to infuse her voice with the same confidence and competence that she hopes her appearance exudes. Yet inside, she’s shaking like a leaf. Suddenly, this dusty librarian is no longer a friendly stranger, but her judge. And the cheery, welcoming children’s room now abounds with potential traps and hurdles: learning curves to climb, responsibilities to assume, and commitments to make. Biting the inside of her lower lip, she reminds herself that, for now, she’s just exploring, and that if she changes her mind or if this man laughs in her face she doesn’t ever have to set foot in the Tenafly Public Library again. “How can I apply?”

“Bring your résumé on in with a cover letter. I’ll add it to the pile.” He shrugs apologetically and then raises his hand to his ear again to indicate his growing slush pile. “But hurry up.”

She thanks him, folds the job description into neat thirds, and slips it inside the diaper bag that doubles as her purse. Voilà. What was so hard about that? Yet as she fumbles to snap shut the only bag she’s carried for the past two years, it occurs to her that she has overlooked a very important detail. This job, however, may just offer a simple way to work it out.

“The position,” she starts, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Being that it’s in the children’s room, could the person who fills it bring their kids to work?”

“I’m afraid not. We do have a list of child-care resources in the area, though. Centers, nanny agencies, home day cares and the likes.” He points his chin toward a table at the front of the room and coughs. “Right over there.”

More lists, Veronica thinks, thanking him again. More numbers to call. There must be an easier solution. In fact, she may have one right at her fingertips. It’s worth a try. Mouth dry, stomach cramping with anxiety and past-due hunger, she returns to Luc and Céleste, busy yanking books down from a shelf.

“Time to go, guys.” She squats to gather the books on the floor into a tidy pile. As she gathers, Luc yanks others down.

“Nooo!” Céleste whines.

Veronica takes a slow, deep breath. Suddenly, she can’t wait to get back to her parents’ house. She’ll plunk the kids in front of a video or let Shirley color with them while she retreats to her room for a good, long cry.

“Princess,” she says, rubbing her nose. “We’re on a scavenger hunt. We need to go because we have lots of things to find.”

“A Power Ranger hunt?” asks Luc.

She laughs through her impending tears. “No, silly, a scavenger hunt. That means that we have to go from one place to the next looking for clues about where to find a hidden prize.”

“What’s the prize?” chimes Céleste.

“Well, that’s the whole thing about scavenger hunts. We won’t know until we find it. But we have to look, or we won’t find a thing.”

“I wanna stay here!” Céleste grumbles, screwing her face up into an angry pout portending a howl. “I wanna read that other book you said.”

“We’ll read it. Just not here. We’ll go buy our own copy. Of that one, and the one we’ve already read.”

“Why?” asks Luc.

“To have for keeps.” Quickly, while the twins are still busy digesting the exciting idea of a new purchase and a trip to the store, Veronica lifts them each into the stroller. She then steers her load swiftly out of the children’s room, out of the library, and back down the handicapped ramp. As a gust of April wind wet with raindrops hits her cheeks, she shouts out, to nobody in particular, “And to show the lady who wrote them that we care.”

**

NEXT INSTALLMENT, BEGINNING OF CHAPTER 20, COMING IN A WEEK.  MEANWHILE, MORE BACKSTORY BLOG ON THE WAY