French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Billon (classic english novels txt) 📕

I pasted The Plan on the fridge, next to the list of French Food Rules. Written down, it seemed more impressive. It also seemed more and more unlikely that this was actually going to work. How could I force my kids to start behaving like this? I’d have to have a strategy, I decided. This too got written up in markers and posted on the fridge:

The Strategy

1. Explain the rules in advance.

2. All rules must be obeyed.

3. Once introduced, stick to the new rules. Absolutely no backing down.

I would start, I decided, with the first three routines together: no more snacks, no eating in the car or the stroller, and eating slowly. This would get us off to a good start. Plus, both the car and the stroller were full of crumbs and spills, so dirty they were embarrassing. I’d give them a thorough cleaning and then announce the news to the girls.

I anticipated that there would be lots of objections. So I also came up with some simple Smart Things to Say when my kids objected (as I knew they inevitably would).

If you eat well at mealtimes, you won’t be hungry in between.

You’re still hungry? I guess you should have eaten more at your last meal.

Or, on a more positive note:

You’re hungry? Great! You’ll really appreciate your next meal. It’s in only … [fill in blank] hours.

I even got Philippe to help me translate “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset!” into French. Primed with these Smart Things to Say, I thought about when to initiate The Plan. It would make sense to start on a Monday: new week, new beginning. Philippe would be out late at work, but I decided it might be better if I handled things myself.

So on Sunday evening, I carefully explained to the girls what was happening. I showed them the rules and routines taped on the fridge. Claire nodded solemnly and stuck her thumb into her mouth. Sophie stamped her foot in protest but then soon lost interest in the abstract discussion.

Still, I told myself, they knew what was coming. But, unfortunately, I didn’t.

When I picked Sophie up from school on Monday afternoon, the first words out of her mouth (as on every school day) were: “I’m hungry!”

Already prepared, I quickly replied:

“Great! I’ve got a nice goûter waiting for you at home. We just have to pick up your sister at day care, run a few errands, and then head home.”

“But I’m huuuuungry!” wailed Sophie.

“I made homemade blueberry muffins. Your favorite! And look how clean the car is! I spent an hour and a half cleaning it today. You wouldn’t believe all of the stuff I found. Look, here’s that plastic fairy you thought you lost,” I carried on, hoping that Sophie would be distracted. Not a chance.

“I’m really hungry!” she whined.

I tried a different tactic. “French people don’t eat in the car, and don’t forget you’re half French,” I said sternly.

“Then I should be able to eat in the car half the time!” snapped Sophie.

With that, I ran out of things to say. But I held firm. Sophie kept whining in protest as we drove to the day care, the grocery store, the dry cleaner, and the post office. Claire, equally used to eating when she got in the car, joined in the chorus.

Deafened and irritated, I drove straight past our last stop (the village bakery) and headed home. This added insult to injury. Claire’s favorite treat was fresh baguette, which I’d normally buy for her every afternoon as we drove home from day care. She even had a preference for bread from one of the three bakeries in town (the bakers, fiercely proud of their recipes and methods, produced very distinctive baguettes). Normally, this treat was the highlight of her afternoon: lining up in the bakery, gravely handing over the money, and clutching the still-warm baguette in her hands. So when she saw the storefront go by, her face crumpled. Her whining had been tailing off, but now it returned and soon escalated into full-force crying.

By the time we got home, she was too overwrought to eat. Sophie gobbled down three muffins and two glasses of milk and left the table with a happy look. But Claire launched into a full-scale tantrum. I knew my daughter: if she got sufficiently hungry, she got too worked up to eat. Despairingly, I tried stuffing tiny pieces of blueberry muffin into her mouth, with no luck.

I felt a bit frantic. This was only the first day of The Plan. As a last resort, I rummaged in the cupboard, found an old baby bottle, heated up some milk, and poured it in. Success: her belly full, Claire calmed down (except for the occasional shuddering hiccup) and consented to sit on my lap while we read a story. After all of the fuss, I was feeling as if I could do with some warm milk myself.

Dinner was the next hurdle. I had prepared something I knew the girls liked for dessert: mousse au chocolat. But I had also prepared things I knew they would not be so happy about. At the market that morning I’d picked up some fresh fish (local sole), squash, and potatoes.

I congratulated myself on a smart move: serving the mashed potatoes first—and letting them make their “volcanoes,” which involved shaping the mashed potatoes into a conical mound, making a hole in top, and popping a dab of butter in, then sitting back and watching it melt. This was as satisfying as I knew it would be, and I even got Claire to take a few mouthfuls of potato (normally something she refused to eat).

But then the fish and the squash came out, and their defenses went up. Claire, still upset from her missed snack, burst into tears. Sophie put down her fork, folded her arms, and scowled. I picked up one fish-laden fork in each hand, determined that they wouldn’t get