Frankly, I came to parenthood reluctantly. I wasn’t ready to
give up my inner (or outer) child and become a calm, rational adult at all times,
especially one who was expected to be a role model of the kind of behavior I wanted
from kids. I wanted to continue having my tantrums as and when required. But
there were some things I was clear on from the start. I have a horror of spoilt
kids – right from Duryodhana in the Mahabharata who’s like the poster boy of
kid-spoilage. I can’t bear the specimens of desi kids I see running amuck in
fastfood restaurants and dashing into you as you carefully stagger to your
table juggling overfull glasses of liquids and ill-balanced dishes full of
stain-prone food, making the two yard course to the table like the hurdles at
the Olympics. I hate seeing a family of 1 or 2 kids eternally accompanied by
the nanny whose unfortunate job it is to keep the wailing baby outside the restaurant
while the parents and left-over, non-weepy kid gorge inside. By and large, I
disapprove of the very rambly routine followed by many desi parents at social
events, where kids stay up all hours while getting crankier and crankier, until
everyone is silently pleading with themselves for the kids and their keepers to
leave. And the countless late-night or age-inappropriate movies where I see
parents filing in with kids – don’t get me started. Really, is watching that
movie so damn important that you have to subject the rest of us to the
incessant popcorn, Pepsi and loo demands of your child, or that you have to
subject a 6 year old to a movie about fratricide (Race)???
On the other hand, I didn’t want a routine so strict that I
would feel stifled by it. I didn’t want to be like a strict parent of a school
classmate whose usual rejoinder to anything that sounded even the least bit fun
was ‘Ye hamare ghar mein not allowed hai’! I didn’t want kids so bound by
routine that their routine would ball-and-chain us either to the house, the
same routine wherever we were, or a set of things central to the routine that
we would be doomed to lug around the world. I wanted kids who were adaptable,
fun, curious, independent and yet well-behaved, well-mannered. Yes, I dreamed
of puppets who had buttons for ‘sleep’, ‘eat’, ‘behave’ and ‘be charming’. Well, that was a good daydream while it lasted!
Over the years, I realized that the advice in the books was
mostly being disregarded by me as I went my way, for my convenience. I figured
that I was really not the most maternal person in the world. In fact, sometime
last year, I told A that I’m a bad mother. And then I started to wonder, if I
think of myself as a bad mother, that means I have certain expectations of my
role as a mother that I’m not fulfilling. What are those?
I wasn’t being an active parent, I was quite happy to let
them play by themselves, use the kitchen utensils as toys or musical
instruments while I got on with cooking or whatever. I was really at peace curled up with a
book while they banged their toys around or raced through the house on their
tricycles. Worse, my life doesn’t revolve around my kids – I have no qualms telling them to pipe down if I’m
on the phone and they want to start a conversation at that moment. I have a
reasonably active social life which involves them staying at home, and frankly
I enjoy working full time, traveling out of the city on work or even just to
get away from home for a break, all by myself. I don’t spend all my time away
from them thinking or worrying about them. While they have a schedule, it's not iron-clad, especially on weekends or holidays. Speaking on the defensive, I do
quite a few things with them, from bedtime stories and sing-alongs to picnics
in the park, cooking together and so on. But my entire being isn’t taken up by
my role as a parent, and that seemed to be the fundamental difference between a
good and bad parent. At some level, the fact that I no longer even felt guilty
about those things made me feel worse about my ability as a parent.
Then, very recently, I came across this book called Bringing
up bebe. It’s an account of an American mom who lives in France and
catalogues the very different approach to parenting that she sees there. As per
the book, French parents first and foremost do not believe in feeling guilty
about every activity they perform that does not revolve around kids – the recognize
that parents continue to be people, first and foremost, and they need other
activities apart from child rearing in their lives. So whether it’s work,
socializing or a break and time away from the kids, there’s no guilt or need to
feel guilt about it. Secondly, their approach to parenting is about integrating
the children into their life and socializing them, rather than create a
separate social milieu built around the children’s convenience and fancies. They
teach their kids to adjust, rather than adjusting themselves to fit the child’s
worldview. They have no problem telling a child to wait for attention, if they’re
busy, rather than springing to attention like a toy soldier. They don’t believe
everything a child says or does is worthy of a response, applause or praise…Third,
they don’t believe in ‘spoiling’ their child – they inculcate manners and
courtesy from the beginning, don’t overload them with toys and what-have-you, do
not make special menus for children but teach them to appreciate good food like
any adult would. Most importantly, they do believe in a healthy sense of
independence, responsibility and freedom. So once the rules are set, there’s plenty
of room for free play, curiosity; the kids are taught to play by themselves and
amuse themselves…
Suddenly, a light switched on in my brain. I thought – all the
parenting books I have so far are from America, by American authors! They have
a very different approach to parenting, and that’s why I have been thinking of
myself as a bad parent. When I looked at the French style of parenting,
suddenly it all clicked into place for me. It was a complete epiphany. It also
made me think a little bit about how we new-gen parents approach the whole
parenting thing – a little too seriously, sometimes, and perhaps a little too
much reliance one external wisdom, at the beginning. It’s become like a project
or a sense of purpose for which we were seeking, and suddenly, in our quest to
excel, we become hyper, start reading parenting books from other cultures, and adopting them blindly.
Anthropologist Meredith Small says, "The cultural milieu, then, is a powerful and barely studied force that molds how we parent." Transplanting those parenting codes to a different cultural mileu, without understanding the cultural context, is like learning a foreign language from the dictionary! That was true of me at least – while I didn’t adopt the parenting style, I certainly
started judging myself by those styles and finding myself lacking.
I’m feeling a lot more at ease with my parenting style - I’ve always been a Francophile, so if my
parenting style is a little French, good for me, non? Now if only I could
emulate Parisian chic, my life would be – as zey say – fantastique!
PS. The new book I’m reading: How Eskimos keep their babies warm – Parenting wisdom from around the world. May as well expand my knowledge
base, eh? Hasta la vista!!
