grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

You Want Fries with that Trophy? Mais Oui!

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There is a hot new book out that has American moms in a tizzy. I overheard a brief discussion about this book on GMA yesterday morning, while trying to shape my eyebrows. Pamela Druckerman, an American living in Paris, wrote Bringing Up Bébé to help American mothers raise their children the French way. After observing her French counterparts, she felt they excelled over the American moms who tended to spoil their babies. The discussion nearly turned into a cat fight while I was still on my first cup of French roast.

Now, I haven’t read this book nor shall I (unless dog training tips are included). I’ve brought up my kids as best I could. My nest is newly, happily empty. No more rainy Friday nights for me, sitting on the those hard bleachers dreaming of top shelf Mambo Taxis at Mi Cocina. So far, my bébés are productive, independent and happy young adults (knock-on-wood), and I managed to accomplish this child-rearing feat having never visited Versailles and with only two years of high school French, merci beaucoup. 

Madame Nutt

Madame Nutt was my French teacher. We all loved her and the class. When I walked into that classroom everyday, I was no longer boring Talya Tate. I was Brigette. Madame Nutt gave each of us a French name. This would undoubtedly help us master the language and be one with the culture. I adored my name. So French! Brigette Tate. Like Brigette Bardot. Ooo-la-la! It had a certain je ne sais quoi to it, as if my mother may have been a French socialite and my father a handsome Englishman. In my imaginary perfect French existence, they met on holiday in Toulouse, fell madly in love and lived happily ever after. In reality, they were high school sweethearts from Keiser, Arkansas. She was the daughter of a cotton farmer, and he worked his way through college shooting pool. They married, had a baby girl, and thought up the strangest name to ever come out of Mississippi County in 1962 – – – Talya. Beer may have been involved.


Brigette, Georgine and Suzette
Rivercrest H.S. 1978
French Club
“Embrassez-moi je parle français”

French class knocked me down a notch. It was my first ever class that wasn’t easy. It came with homework and included practice labs. For heaven sakes, it wasn’t even taught in English! I learned pronto that I would never speak French. I was not good at it. No matter how much I repeated “Où est la bibliothèque?” wearing those awkward headphones that messed up my feathered wings, I was NOT going to be Brigette, and I would never find the bibliothèque speaking this clumsy language! I knew that I would not receive the French award at the year end assembly. And the thing is, my mother made no assurance to the contrary – no efforts to boost my fragile ego – nor did she march up to the school in protest, demanding each classmate receive at least a participation certificate. Oh Non. It was a fact of life. Some people are better at certain things than others. Some people are just meant to speak Arkansan, with a touch of sarcasm. And that’s ok. This is how we should teach our children. It’s the good old-fashioned way to bring up bébé.

Today, every single kid gets a two foot trophy on the 4-year-old soccer team for simply buying a cheap shirt and bringing snacks. Seriously, can a kid not make it home from the Saturday sunrise soccer game without a berry razzle boo blitz fruit roll-up and an apple juice box? And then afterward, the harried parents are peer-pressured into driving to Ci-Ci’s Pizza for lunch with the entire team afterwards – plus all extended family members. Like it’s a major celebration. Is this really a good thing? Wouldn’t it be better to just take a water bottle from home, eat a turkey sandwich afterward, and read a book? 


Growing up, we ate what was served, and it was never pizza. It was cooked at home and sometimes grown in our garden. We actually liked what was served. Except on liver night – that was our only night to opt out. Today’s kids negotiate, holding their breath until they receive chicken nuggets, french fries and diet Coke. Do we really think diet Coke is a good choice for kids with developing growth plates? My husband nearly killed himself one night running all around Dallas trying to get the exact freaking fast food demanded for a 5th grade sleepover. One kid would only eat hamburgers from Burger King, and one would eat pizza but only cheese and only from Pizza Hut, not Pizza Inn. I’m sure these 5th graders have a closet full of soccer trophies in their dorm rooms.

Being a parent is the hardest job in the world whether you are bringing up bébé in Paris, France or Paris, Arkansas. I’m thankful to have reached this stage of my life without having been reported to child welfare for ignoring my son’s broken foot for an entire week. I really thought it was a sprain. I’m relieved the pressure of learning spelling words is in the rearview mirror. There are way more outside influences and choices. My sister and I learned to take turns watching our favorite shows – they came on at the same time on different channels…. We couldn’t DVR five reality shows a night, pause the program to run in the kitchen to get more potato chips, re-wind if we fell asleep, or watch it later online at school. We had one television, one “clicker” and 4 channels – ABC(8), NBC(5), CBS(3) and PBS(13). When the electricity went out – and it did, ALOT, – we just sat in the dark and flat missed our favorite show. Or went to bed. 

Is it really any wonder these soccer “stars” graduate from college, expecting their 4 bed/4.5bath/3 car garage starter McMansion to come complete with a theatre room and first time homeowner rebate from Uncle Sam? With no money down. It’s the American Dream. And they will need this dream to compensate for the shock of not going off 1st in the NFL draft, or the disappointment in not marrying a supermodel…. or not becoming a supermodel.
I don’t know if I’ll ever travel to France.  I’m a homebody. I prefer to sleep in my bed in my own home. It’s just too much trouble to travel now that everyone is a potential terrorist. And honestly, I have way too many gels and liquids to travel much farther than Little Rock. But I might consider it for a trophy of some sort. Or a blue ribbon. Or to eat real creme brûlée. Bien sur!


Merci,
Brigette Tate

P.S. Becky Parks’ French name was Suzette. I think Norma Stracener’s was Georgine, but no one could confirm. How does one forget her French name???

Musical Pairings:
Patti LaBelle, “Lady Marmalade”  🙂

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Comments

  1. I’ll never forget all of our French class marching around the classroom, singing, “Allons enfants de la patria!”

  2. Talya ou devrais-je dire Brigette votre ecriture est tout simplement merveilleux. Votre source d’inspiration. Fier d’avoir grandi dans keizer avec vous comme un camarade de classe. Aimez votre blog.

  3. I remember French class under Madame Nutt, and she did make it a fun learning experience. And I do remember my French name, it was Raoul (no other reason for picking that name other than it sounded weird).=) I still remember some of the French words I learned in that class from devising a way to memorize french words by relating them to objects or circumstances in my life. Such as, “A la piscine” which means “swimming pool.” I remembered ‘a la piscine’ because our football coaches used to let us strip down to our Fruit of the Looms (pre BVD’s) and jump in the swimming pool in our locker room. This was quite refreshing after hot August football practices. After noticing some of the extra-relieved and super-relaxed smiles on some of the football players-turned-swimmers, Coach James threatened to start passing out rubber bands for us to wear on our ‘parts unknown’ to keep us from…how can I say this?…adding to the water level in the swimming pool…haha…So a la piscine sounds like what some of my fellow teammates were more than likely doing while taking a relaxing dip in the pool…Also, one of the funniest things I remember from high school French class was listening to the recording of this one girl(who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent…uhhh, that would be ME, that is…haha) in my class who was as southern as ‘Butter my butt and call me a Biscuit,” and she added her drawn out multi-syllabified southern accent to her recorded French reading. For example, “Parlez vous Francais?” came across as “ParrrrLAAAAAY…VOOO…FRAWNsaaaaaaaay?!!!”…haha… While listening to her taped recording in class, at times, I couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, that truly WAS the way people spoke French in the South of France.

  4. You girls had a clicker? Sweet!!! My dad had three….my two sisters and I…haha. Thanks again for the sweet read! Gracie’s Mazie

  5. “Clicker”? I thought y’all called/call it “the puncher”. Perhaps we should cancel our fiber optic satellite wireless television and Internet services. We could climb up to the roof or attic and put up the old UHF VHF antenna. Wait, that’s not true. I believe that all of the “free to air” broadcasts are now digital, so perhaps the aluminum clothes rack antenna is obsolete…?

    “Today’s kids negotiate, holding their breath until they receive chicken nuggets, french fries and diet Coke”.

    If kids negotiate, what do parents do? We often avoid the middle school struggle and drive to Burger King, McDonald’s, Sonic, Blockbuster, Game Stop. We know we should limit the Wii, Xbox, PlayStation, laptop, smartphone, iPad/Pod/Tunes/Phone, etc. Why do we allow our kids to play vide games all weekend when it is 75 degrees and sunny in February? Do we as parents make too many excuses for ourselves and plug our ears just enough so that we only hear what is comfortable? Are we so worn out that we somehow always find justification for allowing ourselves and our children to take the easy path that we know if lined with sugar and instant fast fat food on demand? Okay, I will shut up now. 🙂

    Laissez les bons temps rouler!

    JC

  6. I didn’t have the cool hair but hated those earphones too. Agree with you about the favorite teacher part too. Another great one.

  7. Loved French Class ……what a joy it was to put on the headsets and listen to Madame Nutt. It was worth the messing hair. Listening to her was great, but when it came time for class participation….please, please, please…I want messy hair !! Oh and my French name….was Renee or maybe not…I think that was my daughter’s in her French Class. I truly can’t remember. Talya…enjoying every blog…Thanks for making my cup of coffee in the morning more enjoyable..Love Ya, Judy and also I would have a name here too instead of anonymous if I could figure out how to get that to work !! Maybe my French name was Anonymous !! LOL

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